I haven't thrown up due to being sick in a couple years, yet I puke more than once -- as the result of a healthy activity -- each fall.

Most people wouldn't take part in a sport which presents a good chance you'll throw up everything you have eaten. Yet there I am, part of my school's cross country team, doing what most people think is impossible every day, through the puke and all.

The first time this happened was in eighth grade. My excitement about running in my first meet left my system around one mile. With it came toaster strudel and enough stomach acid to power all the car batteries in Luxembourg. It came up in bucketfuls through my mouth, and went out my nose. In case you're curious, yes, that hurts.

Poor Coach Stevens. He was standing by the mile mark getting split times when it all went down -- or up, depending on how you look at it.

"It's OK, just take it easy and finsih strong," he told me while yellow bile dripped down my face and jersey. All I could think of was half a mile more, just a half-mile more.

Fast-forward to the following Monday. I was in Coach Antel's class and, as usual, he was telling us about the last weekend's meet. He referred to my digestive pyrotechnics as a "technicolor yawn." I learned quite a few ways to refer to throwing up that year.

A few weeks later we ran at the Holly Invitational. This was our school's first appearance there, and my body decided to leave its mark. The other runners may have felt sorry for me, throwing up and still having to run; but I felt sorry for them, having to keep running after watching the insides of someone's stomach come up as if it were natural as lightning. Really, hurling isn't natural.

The Holly incident pales in comparison to what happened at Riverside Park. For some reason unbeknownst to me now, but hindsight is 20/20, I ate an apple a couple hours before I ran. Big mistake.

Apples are great going down: juicy, crunchy, with big, delicious slices. They came back up that way as well. I crossed the line, went through the chute, and there it came. What made this the best incident of my freshman year is that one chunk took on a life of its own and choked me. I hope something rotten happened to that apple.

Apple cinnamon Nutri-Grain granola bars were the bane of my existence my sophomore year. They passed through my throat twice three separate times.

Benzie Central was the first recipient of this all-natural gift. I had run well until the finish line. Consider this line: it disguises itself as something so magnificent you yearn for it. But actually it's a devil. If you haven't already thrown up somewhere else on the course, it will happen there. The people who work the chute do not get paid enough, considering they don't get paid.

The finish line again taunted me at Bath. The chute was once again where I lost it. During this episode I stepped in puke from the girl in front of me. Not only did I have bile, which was cinnamon fresh, on my face and jersey, I had two people's puke on my shoes.

A cross country runner's spikes do not get enough credit for what they are put through. They trek in the most diverse and difficult terrains in any weather, then get shoved in a box until next season. I'd like to salute my spikes and thank them for all I've put them through; they deserve a hooray. Hooray!

My body and Carson City must have been fierce rivals in another life, because something terrible always happens at that meet. It was particularly horrific my sophomore year.

First, ignoring experience, I decided to eat the granola bar. Then I got cut off by the girl in front of me, causing me to fall and get spiked. Finally, at three miles, my stomach went into that all-contents-must-go wholesale phase and I knew the race was over. Vomit spewed from my mouth like a volcano, and through my nose, which at least cleared my sinuses. The pain was so hot it almost dropped me dead in my tracks.

You're supposed to sprint the last 200 meters of a cross country race. This was my slowest sprint of the year.

My junior year shed a whole new light on the art of puking. Now my body wanted to make this happen violently. They teach us in school that violence is wrong. I can attest that hurling violently is wrong too.

At Brewer Park I came over the hill at three miles and was practically brought to my knees in agony. Palms on the ground, head down, throwing up, getting passed by runners just wanting to be done. What a great first race of the season.

It happened again at our second meet, again near the three-mile mark. This time I gave my teammates the pleasure of sharing my experience by having the episode happen beside our tent. Later I learned someone got still-frame pictures of the ordeal. That didn't seem like a Kodak moment to me, but I'm sure they are interesting to see.

At Fremont I was already gagging at the two-mile mark, and I'm sure jumping hay bales didn't help. That shook up everything like a blender, then my stomach had a trampoline party. It would seem like I crashed the party, but that's what it gets for not inviting me.

Running while puking is one of the hardest things a person can do in life. It takes skill, dedication and quite a bit of practice to do it right. Coaches Antel and Stevens, along with my parents and teammates, will be there to help me through it, or to laugh at me, whichever works best.

"The easiest solution would be to stop running," said my doctor. That would be the obvious choice, but apparently my body doesn't prefer to do things the easy way.

Why start now?

Becca Putans will enter her senior year at Wyoming Kelloggsville High School this fall. MR