No pain, no gain

Sunday was my last training run before the half-marathon, which is coming up Saturday. I went out to the running trail and did 12 miles, 6 miles out and 6 miles back, with only a couple of quick breaks to use the bathroom, stretch, and ask Jesus to please take me now.

I can sum up the experience with, as Joe Biden would say, one little three-letter word: H-e-l-l. For about the last half-mile I was fighting a leg cramp in my right calf, so I had to do that sort of shuffle run that you see old men do (don’t say it.).

I’m having the ongoing problem with chafing, which has not abated. Somebody told me to try putting baby powder on my legs, and I did. It didn’t help, and when I finished the run I smelled like a sweaty infant. For about the last 20 minutes of the run I experienced an excruciating pain and burning sensation in my thighs, not unlike what Pamela Anderson probably felt on the boat with Tommy Lee.

You may be asking yourself why I am doing this. I ask myself the same question every time I run. Before I began my run Sunday, I told myself that this was going to be unpleasant, and very likely quite painful, but it would all be over in a couple of hours. I gave myself the same pep talk recently just before I took my wife to see the movie “Nights in Rodanthe.” Let me tell you, I’ll take cramps in both legs and burning thighs any day over watching another Richard Gere movie.

Pain is something we cannot avoid in life. I have suffered from migraines for years, which is a pain that can’t be described. I have had innumerable tooth problems, including three root canals. A couple of years ago I pulled a groin muscle while I was playing softball. I watched the whole first half of the Alabama-Georgia game. I sat through the entire presidential debate the other night without changing the channel.

I know pain, my friends.

Women say the pain of childbirth is something that men could never tolerate, and I don’t know if that’s true, but I’ll have to take their word for it. The only pain I experienced related to the birth of my children was seeing the hospital bill afterward. $50 for a warmed blanket? $12 for two Tylenol?

Anyway, I’m prepared to be in a world of hurt for the last few miles Saturday, but if you know that going in, it doesn’t seem to be quite as bad. And as I old-man-shuffle my cramping, burning self across the finish line, I’ll have a look of satisfaction on my face.

That, or I’ll be having a heart attack. Either way, I’ll let you know.