I Didn't Die. That's an Accomplishment, Isn't It?

I ran in something called the Tour de Pain over the weekend. It was a trilogy of races beginning with a 4-miler on the beach Friday night, followed by a 5k Saturday morning, and finishing with a 1 mile “sprint” Saturday afternoon. Running sucks. You know how you can tell? Your body tells you so constantly while you run. The run on the beach seems romantic until you realize a mile is a really long way. The beach race was two miles straight out and two miles back. The second mile marker is over the horizon from the starting line. During the third mile I thought they must have shut down the mile 3 marker because the one I was staring at had to be the finish line. I had been running for at least ten thousand years since I made the turn at the mile 2 marker, surely I had gone more than a mile. I guess not, because as I passed the marker – marked by Satan himself with a 3 – the mile 4 marker appeared as a tiny blip on the event horizon of the newly repaired Hubble telescope feed I was getting from JSG’s phone. I finished the race fourth from the bottom of my age group, which doesn’t bother me as much as not being able to catch the short fat chick fifty yards in front of me. I was weak; she was strong. If we were in Japan I would have had to kill myself. But if we were in Japan I wouldn’t be able to gorge myself on cheeseburgers. I’d have to live on rice and fish, so I would be in better shape. It’s the corporate farms’ fault. We got home around 10 o’clock and nine and a half hours later I started the 5k in Baymeadows. It was an uneventful race with the upside of me finishing fifth from the bottom in my age group, up from fourth. The 1-miler, run at 4:30 in the afternoon in Jacksonville, in August, on concrete, surrounded by more concrete, was the worst. I thought it would be the best. This was the first race I’ve run since I started racing last sping that actually felt like a race. No points would be given just for finishing. My time would actually be scrutinized. It was great. I hadn’t felt like this since competing in high school. Then the gun sounded and I took off. I’m faster than all of these jackasses – up to about a ¼ mile. I’m like a top fuel dragster. Unfortunately, I’m like a top fuel dragster that has to finish a mile. My lungs finished in about a minute and a half. I ran the last 2/3 of the race on spite, pride, and hatred. I finished the race in an almost respectable 7min15sec. I did rise in my group rankings far enough from the bottom that it was impractical to know how far from the bottom I was. I’m happy to have finished solidly in the middle of the pack, which is the dream of every fat, old, out-of-shape athlete trying not to die.