I’m running the Peachtree Road Race this year for the 12th time on July 4. Please don’t snicker, it’s kind of rude.
I remember once, many years ago, when I was training for a marathon. A co-worker overheard me telling somebody about one of my training runs and said “You’re doing a marathon? You don’t look like a runner.” What she meant was, “Do you think a guy your size should risk a heart attack?”
But I did run the race, and I finished it standing up, somewhat. Then I went home, collapsed in the bed and hardly moved for 72 hours. If I could have talked my wife into getting me a slop jar, I wouldn’t have even gotten up to go to the bathroom. I lost three toenails and rubbed Vaseline on 75 percent of my body.
Training for the marathon was difficult. There was a guy in my neighborhood who had run several of them, and he offered to help me train. Which was nice. The guy, who I’ll call Al, since that’s his name, helped me a lot, but he was a little odd. He liked to run wearing a tank top and those really tight biker shorts. I tried to never, under any circumstances, look below his waist.
Al and I would do long runs on weekend mornings, and we would often run on the side of the road, and we drew quite a number of curious stares. I really don’t know why anybody found it unusual for two men to be out getting hot and sweaty together on a Sunday morning, with one of them wearing skin-tight, light blue crotch-chokers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Did I mention we were both wearing Band-Aids on our nipples, so they wouldn’t bleed?
Anyway, now I concentrate on shorter races, like the Peachtree, which is just a 10-K. It’s a lot of fun, and I find it comforting that most of the people don’t look like athletes, they look like me – or worse. You see some people wearing Spandex who shouldn’t, and then there are the old men with hair growing crazily on their shoulders. Seriously, can we pass a “no tank top” law for men with hairy shoulders?
I’m not a blazing fast runner, though if I had been over 80 last year, I would have finished in the top 20 in my age group with the time I registered. So this year I lied about my age.
One of the fastest races I ever ran was a 5-k several years ago in Griffin. With about half a mile to go, a runner passed me, and so I turned it into a little personal race, though we were well behind the actual leaders. I would zip ahead, then the other runner would pass me, and we were neck and neck for the longest time. But I’m a pretty determined athlete, so I kicked it in down the stretch and got to the finish line first, and I turned and gave a triumphant “don’t-mess-with-me” look, and that loser could only look at me with envy. Though, I have to admit, she was pretty fast for a 12-year-old.
Now, though, I just run for the enjoyment. I don’t try to win. I couldn’t pass those Kenyans up front if I was on a motorcycle. If I survive the race with all my toenails intact, I consider it a victory.
I remember once, many years ago, when I was training for a marathon. A co-worker overheard me telling somebody about one of my training runs and said “You’re doing a marathon? You don’t look like a runner.” What she meant was, “Do you think a guy your size should risk a heart attack?”
But I did run the race, and I finished it standing up, somewhat. Then I went home, collapsed in the bed and hardly moved for 72 hours. If I could have talked my wife into getting me a slop jar, I wouldn’t have even gotten up to go to the bathroom. I lost three toenails and rubbed Vaseline on 75 percent of my body.
Training for the marathon was difficult. There was a guy in my neighborhood who had run several of them, and he offered to help me train. Which was nice. The guy, who I’ll call Al, since that’s his name, helped me a lot, but he was a little odd. He liked to run wearing a tank top and those really tight biker shorts. I tried to never, under any circumstances, look below his waist.
Al and I would do long runs on weekend mornings, and we would often run on the side of the road, and we drew quite a number of curious stares. I really don’t know why anybody found it unusual for two men to be out getting hot and sweaty together on a Sunday morning, with one of them wearing skin-tight, light blue crotch-chokers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Did I mention we were both wearing Band-Aids on our nipples, so they wouldn’t bleed?
Anyway, now I concentrate on shorter races, like the Peachtree, which is just a 10-K. It’s a lot of fun, and I find it comforting that most of the people don’t look like athletes, they look like me – or worse. You see some people wearing Spandex who shouldn’t, and then there are the old men with hair growing crazily on their shoulders. Seriously, can we pass a “no tank top” law for men with hairy shoulders?
I’m not a blazing fast runner, though if I had been over 80 last year, I would have finished in the top 20 in my age group with the time I registered. So this year I lied about my age.
One of the fastest races I ever ran was a 5-k several years ago in Griffin. With about half a mile to go, a runner passed me, and so I turned it into a little personal race, though we were well behind the actual leaders. I would zip ahead, then the other runner would pass me, and we were neck and neck for the longest time. But I’m a pretty determined athlete, so I kicked it in down the stretch and got to the finish line first, and I turned and gave a triumphant “don’t-mess-with-me” look, and that loser could only look at me with envy. Though, I have to admit, she was pretty fast for a 12-year-old.
Now, though, I just run for the enjoyment. I don’t try to win. I couldn’t pass those Kenyans up front if I was on a motorcycle. If I survive the race with all my toenails intact, I consider it a victory.
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