Run, Forrest, Run…

This past Saturday, Sept. 26, found me lined up at the starting line of the Susan G. Komen Race For The Cure in Grandville, Mi. This capped off weeks of attempted training and feverish conversations with myself, trying to convince myself that I am a runner. No, ladies and gentlemen, I am not a runner. I am a runner “wannabe”. I am someone who is in love with the idea of running. My intellect and psyche tell my body “let’s go, nothing to it”. My body gives my intellect and psyche the finger, then tries to head for the next nap.

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I am a runner

It’s the tail end of August. I’ve been trying to watch my weight, eat right, exercise all summer. It’s not working. Part of the exercise program has involved running when I can. I started this earlier in the summer, and have accomplished varying distances. On my very first run, I made it two blocks before my body felt like lead and I couldn’t breathe. But, over the summer I managed to work up to running a mile fairly easily, then varying distances beyond the mile. Once two miles. Once a mile and a half. Once I ran then walked a good chunk of the way then ran a little and walked a LOT more. There was even a time…and only one time…when I made it 3.5 miles. I guess Jupiter aligned with Mars just right that day, because I could not duplicate it again. I went from 3.5 miles one day to 3.5 blocks the next, with a lot of crawling and wheezing and convincing myself that being in shape is WAAAAY overrated. Then comes the email from my mom, saying she entered the walking part of the Race For The Cure and that I should run it. Well, of course!! Count me in, because I’m a runner. *nervous cough* After all, it’s only 5k; what’s that, 3.11 miles? Pffft!! Ha! No sweat. Plus I have another month to train. I manage to get 3 more runs in over that month. This doesn’t look good.

Race day play by play

6:30am: I went to bed excited for the event. Now I grab the alarm clock and fling it violently against the wall.
6:50am: I shame myself into following through with my commitment. I paid money for this, and I promised I’d be there. I scramble into my clothes, throw on a hat and head out.
7:10am: I am at the race site. It’s 50 degrees outside, raining. It feels like nuclear winter. I don’t do cold. I hate Michigan. I hate commitments.
7:20am: I’ve found my mom and niece; mom somehow has been able to decipher what I’m saying through the shivering and chattering of teeth as we talk. I’m sure I had to have been adopted. *mental note: change my email address to unlisted. Cancel my phone.
7:30am: I’m horrified to find out that the race doesn’t take off until 8:30. I could have slept until 8:15!! I don’t do early.
7:40am: I am waking up and actually getting psyched for the race. I feel pretty good, aside from the cold. I can do this. I am a runner.
8:30am: The starting gun fires on a cold, early Saturday. I am hoping to finish by Monday morning.
8:40am: It’s gotta be almost over! It feels like a half hour already. I push on further, pump my legs, gasp for air. I check my watch: it’s 8:43.
8:45am: The sound of the traffic and the runners around me has melted away. All I hear in my ears is my heart pounding. This hill is killing me! Oh,wait, it’s a speed bump. I push on. I will finish, I’m not stopping. I run for 30…40…more minutes, then look at my watch. It’s 8:49.
8:50am: The sound of my heart pounding in my ears is gone. Now the entire world just sounds like rushing water.
8:51am: Hopefully no one saw me drooling. My face grimaces like I just had a limb severed. *I am a runner*
8:53am: This is the longest 5-1/2 hour race I’ve ever experienced.
8:55am: I am hallucinating. Abraham Lincoln in a tux and tophat just handed me a glass of water. I scream out “don’t go to Ford’s Theater!!” as I run by. I remember a cop who was nearby scribbling something on his notepad
8:57am: I cough up my spleen. Do I need the spleen to be able to play banjo? I should have that looked at.
8:58am: I can see the finish line through the fog. Why is Yogi Bear and my deceased grandfather skipping hand in hand on the sidelines beside me?
9:00am: I cross the finish line. 3.11 miles in 30 minutes. Do I still get credit for being on my hands and knees as I go over the finish line? Luckily drool won’t stain the shoes of those around me.

Looks like I’ll pull through!

I survived. I lost the use of my legs from Saturday to Sunday, and I’m still waiting on Obama’s health care reform to kick in so I can have myself looked at (what does a spleen do anyway?) All I can hear in my left ear is the sound of everyone’s running feet from the race, and I’ve stopped producing saliva. Other than that, it was a new personal best run time for me on Saturday, and I came away knowing one thing for certain: *I am not a runner* Double cheeseburger and large Coke, anyone?

Banjo Paul
“Wunse, I coodn’t even spel bango pikker…now I are one!”
www.banjosrule.com (main site)
www.mybanjolife.com (blog)