I used to be a streaker. No, not the kind who felt compelled to share the contours of their body, sans shirt and shorts, with a large contingency of unsuspecting onlookers. I mean the other type of streaker (whose sanity should be even more questioned) who feels compelled to see how many consecutive running days they can place in their shoes.

Of course this occurs despite days where their own temperature has been hovering around the 103-degree mark, their stomach feels like it's riding 30- foot waves at Waiema and their equilibrium resembles the wobbling motion of a gyroscope slowing down. Nothing like a quick jaunt around the neighborhood at that juncture to confirm you're a member of the running-afflicted.

What I needed when I was a running addict run amok was the assistance of a group of reformed streakers to whom I could humbly confess that, "I am Bob and I am a run-aholic." I anticipate I'd have been greeted with, "Hi Bob. How many days in a row you got going?"

In that setting I'd be amongst my brethren who had traveled the road of running codependence. Those who ignored minor inconveniences like broken limbs, pneumonia and double root canal to get their daily dose of perspiration. Those who shook off nature's blows and braved 12-foot snowdrifts and ice storms to keep their streak of running days alive. Those who were convinced that darkness would quickly overcome the land if 24 hours passed without their feet moving rapidly in a forward direction. Those who put miles around airport parking lots during layovers, rose before late owls went to bed and gained a familiarity with the decor of many a gas station restroom which often served as their locker room on the road.

Eventually I found the middle of the running trail. A compromise on compulsion. I'd like to say I honed into a philosophy of "The sun will come up tomorrow" and consciously recognized I could survive missing a day from running. Nope. Didn't happen that way. I was still many miles away from approaching things in such a logical fashion.

The ceremonial burial of my streak occurred when I adorned myself in running clothes and attempted to briefly lie down on my basement floor as I summoned the energy to get outside. It had been one of those long days when there hadn't been an opportunity to run until well into the evening. My intent was to momentarily rest on the floor and then go for a run to avoid turning into a giant orthotic if the stroke of midnight arrived before I'd put some miles under my shorts.

But I was engulfed by sleep and my internal alarm clock must have malfunctioned. I awoke on the floor at 1:03 a.m. I immediately broke out in a cold sweat and hives overtook my body upon realizing that on the prior date I'd not sustained an elevated heart rate for an adequate period of time. My God! I'd missed a day of running!

After grabbing a paper bag to fight off my hyperventilation I rationalized that it was prior to midnight on the West Coast and I was therefore within the newly-self-created guidelines of technically getting a run in on the prior date. So what if that date only existed 3,000 miles away? The streak was still on a respirator and had the capacity of being revived! Alas, I concluded that would be stretching things a tad much. Even for me. I slipped out of my Gore-Tex pants, slid off my running shoes and removed my Supplex nylon running hat while I bowed my head to observe a moment of silence. The streak had officially bit the dust. Roadkill.

Then something life-altering occurred. I recognized that I was still breathing. And the TV still worked. And the refrigerator still hummed and the wind still blew outside and the stars had not fallen from the sky. Life was actually moving on despite the fact I'd missed a run. Comforted with this discovery, I did the only sensible thing. I had a bowl of cereal and went to bed.

During my run the next afternoon, I realized that missing one day hadn't removed all semblance of conditioning from my body. It did not appear, in the technical jargon, that my muscles' oxidative enzyme activity had decreased nor had my capillaries taken a hike elsewhere. Miracle of miracles. I hadn't transformed into an out-of-shape blob overnight. My streak had been prodded by a compulsive daily sweat addiction. I had finally learned that a day of rest from running was survivable. Now if I could only kick my 12-year consecutive-day streak of having dessert as my dinner appetizer, well then I'd be all set.

Excerpted by permission from I Run, Therefore I Am-Nuts! by Bob Schwartz. Copyright (c) 2001 by Human Kinetics Publishers, Inc. Available at bookstores, Amazon.com, humankinetics.com or 1-800- 747-4457.