In talking to Ian and Henna a few weeks ago, it was revealed to me that they had been planning to run a 5K supporting Delaware Hospice, but it had been rained out in that weeklong torrential downpour thing we had going on last week. It was rescheduled for the morning of Saturday (2 days ago), which was a notable empty spot on my calendar. So I said, “Hey, I haven’t run a 5K in like 18 months, can I crash in on yo shoznitzel?” (We like to get all ethnic at our parties after a few bottles of Pinot Noir.) They said, “Hells yes, boo!”
I figured it’d be best if I prepared, so last Monday (7 days ago) I threw on my nifty running shoes (New Balance, model 766NY, $79.99) and left the house. I figure I went about a mile, ’cause I ran for 12 minutes or so (pausing only to retie my shoes) and that’s about how long it takes me to run a mile. (My only other 5K experience in May of 2004 had me completing 3.125 miles in 35 minutes and 36 seconds. I’m both fat and slow, which is why I’m very pleased to not be a gazelle.) I made one slight mistake: I had read a lot about the importance of stretching AFTER the workout, so I figured, why bother stretching twice? I’ll just run a ways and then have a nice stretch.
The next day (Tuesday (6 days ago)), I could barely walk. Getting out of bed, my calves were so tight I couldn’t get up and down steps. It was like when I demolished my ankle last January wrestling in snow. (It hurt a lot and crunched like a Solo cup under a car tire.)
Wednesday (5 days ago) was even worse; the tightness hadn’t subsided at all, and whatever leftover endorphins had been helping the pain were long since peed out. I was unhappy, and seriously considering bailing on the whole 5K thing. I mean, c’mon, I had only gone a mile and could barely move! 3+ miles would obviously result in death and tragedy and HW losing the house and expensive car!
On Thursday (4 days ago) the pain was pretty much gone, but in the morning my calves were still tighter than Don Rickles’s bung. In the afternoon things had loosened a bit, so I was feeling a little better about my chances for Saturday morning. A little stretching and a good warm up, I figured, would enable me to at least get through the first mile, and then if I had to I could switch to a leisurely walk, and admire the jiggling bootays of the speedwalkers as they passed.
By Friday (Yes, 3 days ago) I was feeling gravy, so that evening I chatted with Ian about where we was gwine to meet and greet and whatnot (8:30 at the registration jaunpiece).
Saturday (2…screw it), I awoke before my alarm, which was good because I hadn’t set it properly the night before. I got up, hoping to enjoy a couple bowls of cold cereal to carb up for a good run, only to remember that Sarah had finished off the milk Friday night. So I ate cold pizza instead, and cursed.
I drove out early to the race venue (the Riverwalk in Downtown Wilmington), got myself all registered up, and began stretching and jogging lightly to loosen up my various cloits and gloits and muscklez and the like. Ian and Henna arrived at the indicated time, and we stretched together, and then walked over to the starting line, where we admired a very skeevy man’s semi-shaved chest (he apparently enjoyed running sans-shirt, based on his deep and even tan; I guess we should feel lucky he didn’t want to run sans shorts, although he wore them low enough that we all got a great view of his ass-cleavage. I’m not gonna lie, though, the man had pecs of solid gold) and stretched a bit more (I wasn’t playing around with stretching anymore).
They said GO and off we went. Ian set the pace for the first few hundred yards, and then I realized that if I was going to finish, there was no earthly way I could go that fast, so I wished them well, slowed down, and set my mp3 player to “play the mad tunezz whilst I try not to pass out” mode.
By mile 1, my calves were deeply angry with me. “Hey…didn’t we go through this the other day? Are you an idiot? I’m going to seize up and trip you into the river!” was what they would say if they could have talked, but luckily they can’t, ’cause I think the mouths would have skeeved everybody else out. I figured I’d keep running for as long as I possibly could (even though the main pack of people had moved so far ahead of me that I wasn’t even sure I was still on the correct course most of the way), so I kept chugging along.
(BTW: Obviously, I don’t have a problem with the incredibly fit folks, ranging in age from 15-30, that flew away from me at the start, and passed me coming BACK shortly after I got through mile one. I didn’t even get angry at the little kids that did the same before I got even halfway through the second mile. When the 60+ crowd went by me, sweating profusely, not long before I hit the turn, that didn’t irritate me at all. But when the first speedwalker, who started 2 minutes AFTER I did, wiggled by me like I was standing still before I even hit the first mile marker, I wanted to spit on her. Man, did I hate her.
I also should admit that I did get a little bemused when, not longer after I bid Ian and Henna adieu and slowed my pace to something more manageable, the girl in worse shape than I chugged by me and put me in last place. I did, of course, get my vengeance later.)
The turn was around Frawley stadium, so when I got around that and the friendly race marshal told me I was doing great despite the agonizing pains in my chest and right arm, I figured I might as well just go the rest of the way and damn the consequences. So I kept on going, right through mile 2, and then at about 2 1/2 miles, I spotted the girl that had passed me early on. Her pace had slowed, and I knew she was mine. I wasn’t finishing last…not that day! NOT EVER! YEEEEAAAAAHHH!!!!! Adrenaline is a wonderful drug. (Particularly when inject it into you eyeball before a race!)
Plus, “2 Points for Honesty” by Guster came on, which happens to be in exactly the right tempo to run to when you need to pass somebody and gain some ground. I was hindered a bit by a weird sensation in my left shoe; it felt like either the sock had folded over on itself and was pressing oddly against my sole, or the rough skin on the bottom of my foot had split wide open and was bleeding and getting goo all up ins my shoe.
Nevertheless, I caught and passed That Girl, and then found myself at the 3 mile marker, at which point Ian ran back and encouraged me to the finish line. (He might have actually cupped my package to help support its extreme weight and help me finish more easily.) Then I finished (time: 35:31, an improvement of 5 seconds!), spit in the grass a few times, walked around for a while, and sat down to stretch and take my shoes off. The weird thing in my left shoe turned out, luckily, to not be a mass of blood and goo, but just a rather large blister, which hurts EVEN NOW.
After a good stretch, we wandered back over to the registry area to get pretzels and oranges, which is when I stopped and said, “Holy s***, is that a KEG?”
Oh yes. A keg it was.
The race organizers had thoughtfully found someone to donate a quarter-keg of what turned out to be Magic Hat Number 9. It was post-race heaven. And I drank of that sweet nectar.
Then I fell down.
See dogg, I’m impressed. There’s no way I’d get through a 5k at all. I’d get to the first turn. Then I’d turn off. And probably turn into a hospital later. Where they might have to turn on the oxygen for me. Likely leaving me ultimately unable to get turned on. So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, Mr. Fat Guy 5K Runner, your feet may be permanently swollen, but they’re swollen with pride.