Suddenly, I’m six years old. I’m being sent to the principal’s office and being told it’s for my own good.

It’s all been a terrible misunderstanding, I plead. I didn’t MEAN to do. It’ll never happen again. I SWEAR.

But the teacher isn’t swayed, and a couple decades later, neither is my doctor. I’m going to runners’ detention a.k.a. physical therapy. I’ve been sentenced to six sessions, unduly harsh for the crime, if you ask me.

Physical therapy – and yes, I know it’s good for me – is still the place where bad runners go. The ones that shoot spit wads at the ceiling, who cut in line and put mice in the teacher’s desk. More specifically, the ones who wore the wrong shoes, who trained too hard, who didn’t stretch enough, who didn’t strength train enough or too much. The bad boys.

I suppose this makes it official. I’m a running bad boy. I’m James Dean in synthetic, moisture-wicking shorts. I’m Marlon Brando on a treadmill. I’m Sean Penn in “Wounded Runner Walking.”

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go practice my sneer. And when I’m done with that, I’ve got PT.