Running on empty

I did something kind of dumb the other day – I went ahead and registered to run a half-marathon.

Since the race is only about 5 weeks away, I suppose it’s time to ratchet up my training. By “ratchet up”, I mean start.

I have one of those training schedules I printed off the Internet and it calls for an 8-mile run this weekend. I can do that. Depending on your definition of “running.”

Why do I do this sort of thing? I don’t know. I’m one of those people who needs motivation to exercise. Since I eat like a feral hog, if I didn’t exercise they’d put a picture of Snoopy on my side and fly me over sporting events.

Also, my cholesterol tends to get higher than the Dow Jones Industrial Average. The last time I had blood work done, the nurse called me and said, “Whoo, boy, you got a lot of things wrong with you.” So I decided right then and there to exercise more. And to not ever get blood work done again.

The last time I trained for a long race, it didn’t go so well. It was about three or four years ago, and I saw a notice in a local gym that there was a running group getting together a few nights a week to train for the Chicago Marathon. I didn’t want to run the Chicago Marathon, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt me to go run with this group and improve my overall physical fitness.

So I get there, and I’m the only man in the group. I remember telling my wife later that I was running with a bunch of younger women, and she just said, “Don’t pull a muscle.” This is what happens when you hit 40. You lose your air of danger.

We were going to do about a three-mile run, and I thought, great. I’ll have to jog really slowly so I won’t embarrass these girls. Then we got started, and they ran off and left me like I was hitting on them in the singles bar. That was embarrassing enough, but then about halfway through one of them doubled back to come check on me and see if I was OK! I explained to her that I had an old Vietnam War injury that was flaring up, but I’d be all right.

I finally got to where I could sort of keep up with them, but then I missed a couple of weeks, and joined them one Saturday for a long run on the Silver Comet Trail, which is west of Atlanta. It’s a long, flat trail, perfect for biking and running, and the girls were going to do a 15-mile run. Well, I knew I wasn’t in shape enough for that, so I figured I’d just go about 10, and wait for them to finish.

On that trail, you run out to a certain point, and then you turn around and run back. I got to about the 5-mile point, and I thought, hey, I feel pretty good. No need to turn around. I can’t get these girls outdo me. I’ll do a little bit more. Hit the 6-mile mark, and figured, what the heck? I can do this. So I ran all the way to the 7.5-mile mark and turned around, meaning I was going to do the whole 15 miles. The male ego is a wonderful, yet terrible, thing.

With about five miles to go, I realized I had made a huge mistake. It’s probably the same feeling Paul McCartney had the first time he heard himself singing The Girl Is Mine with Michael Jackson on the radio. I was in trouble.

My legs felt as if they had been encased in concrete. My head hurt, my stomach hurt, my pride hurt. And, there was no way out. There are no places to stop along the trail, nowhere to go for help. You just have to get back to where you started from. The last two miles, I would drag myself for about 100 yards, stop, then do it again. I looked like Jack Nicholson toward the end of "The Shining".

The girls gave me looks of pity mixed with impatience when I limped back to the parking lot. One of them suggested perhaps we should ride up in separate cars the next time. I assured them there would be no “next time.”

So, wish me luck these next five weeks. I don’t even have a running group to embarrass me this time. But I’m perfectly capable of doing that all by myself.