I may be the only person in North America who based his choice of college and postgraduate studies not on academic reputation, but, instead, on the popularity of running in a particular city.

My matriculation was based on towns' levels of perspiration. I placed more importance on the ratio of 10K races to weeks in the year than on the school's student/faculty ratio. I gave more significance to running reputation than scholastic standing, and more import to the availability of all-comer track meets than academic majors. I placed less weight on courses of study and more on the courses of scenic running.

Thus I completed college in Boulder, Col., then moved on to Eugene, Ore. -- both U.S. running meccas. Places where you could see a world-class runner just as easily at the grocery store as on broadcasts of the Olympics. If Canaan was the land of milk and honey, these towns were the lands of sport drinks and energy bars.

But it wasn't just the elite runners cruising around with speed, endurance and sinewy muscles. The inhabitants of these cities prided themselves on their fitness, and there was hardly an out-of-shape soul to be found.

Before I moved to Boulder, I took pride in the fact that while out on my daily run, no other runner had ever passed me. (Admittedly, I had to change direction a few times over the years and occasionally resembled a human gyroscope, but my quirky streak was intact.)

By the end of my first week in Boulder I'd developed whiplash from watching gazelle-like athletes whiz by me on a routine basis. The streak was history, and I had to learn to run wearing a neck brace for a week.

I initially blamed it on the altitude adjustment, next on diminished sleep, and then hypochondria kicked in until I was medically cleared for both anemia and mononucleosis. I was forced to succumb to the fact that swift racehorses now surrounded me; I felt like a slow Shetland pony. It seemed as if I'd slid from racing near the front of the pack to the middle of the pack, and that if I didn't keep training I'd quickly be chasing the caboose.

I was actually getting a little faster but just didn't seem to be gaining on anybody. The bar of competition had been raised and I found myself hanging on by the fraying laces of my running shoes.

Looking at race standings lost some of its allure, as I had to scan farther and farther down from the top to locate my name. I thus worked on convincing myself that running was an individual challenge, rewards were intrinsic, competition was with oneself and improvement measured on a personal ruler.

Moving to Eugene didn't exactly improve my finishing place, as I'd simply moved to the sister city for the land of cheetahs. I was resigned to the fact that the closest I'd come to collecting hardware was visiting the nearby ACO store, not from accumulating trophies from local races. Those would be going to the more fleet of foot.

Again I told myself that it didn't matter, that my times were improving even if I didn't have a bullet next to my name on the hit parade of race standings. Just enjoy the camaraderie, the fun of the races, the great performances of other runners.

Well, when it came time to leave Eugene I decided that change was in order. Enough of accumulating those little ribbons they give out to race participants who don't finish in the medals loop. My ribbon drawer was filled with every conceivable color and was officially complete.

The next visit on my running/living itinerary wasn't going to find me racing the Speedy Gonzalezes in Gainesville or Boston. My next move wasn't even going to be calculated on job availability, weather or cost of living. It was going to be based strictly on the running competition. And the fact was I didn't want any. My theme song was:

Home, home on the map, Where the turtles shuffle and crawl. Where people don't have speed, On cake and soda they feed. And no one exercises at all.

Don't lead me to where the rabbits dash; just show me where laggards dawdle. I'd rather be known as the speedy fish in the small, sluggish pond. I needed to locate the unfittest city in America. Where donut consumption per mouth was highest. Where "going to the track" meant going to watch NASCAR or greyhound racing. Where people knew less about anaerobic glycolysis and more about the best all-you-can eat buffets.

Show me the town where, if there were any runners, they were looking to cut the run short, go a little slower, take another day off, refuel with cheese puffs and corn dogs. Where they cared less about artery-plaque buildup and had never experienced lactic-acid buildup.

I didn't care if my trophy room became well stocked simply because I was the only entrant in my age bracket. Pride shmide! I'd had enough of the moral victories. Bring me a conscienceless win, but a triumph nonetheless.

I did my research. I found the place where junk-food joints far outnumbered the health clubs and sporting-goods stores; where obesity rates were off the charts, where there were no yoga studios or vegetarian restaurants, where bike paths were nonexistent. A town of smokers, TV addicts and full-fat ice cream aficionados. City of Lard, here I come!

But then I researched a little further and found the town had no running stores. There was no local running club and only one race per year. I could be the fittest among the unfit, but if there weren't many races to win, then what was the point?

If no one even knew, if no one would bask in complete admiration at my colossal achievements, if no one would give two hoots about my trophy room -- well, forget it.

I'd continue to go where the runners go, where trail paths are well worn and weekly speed sessions exist. But I decided to put in my calendar that one race date I uncovered in the land of the slothful and inactive. I was determined to travel there and just maybe come back with a trophy to show my running mates.

And even if friends were more bemused than amused by my achievement, I figured at least l might become the annual kingpin in the City of Lard -- and proud of it.

But when race day arrived there, I looked around my hotel lobby and was flabbergasted to see sleek runners in racing shoes, stretching their hamstrings and hydrating their bodies. My God, there were other desperate trophy-seeking souls like me who would stop at no cost, fly across the country, drive over mountains and streams -- all to get to a race where they just may break that finish line first.

I figured I could at least take some strange comfort that I wasn't as crazy as I'd thought. I had company. For whatever that was worth.

I'd still trade it for a nice little trophy.

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. MR