And let’s just say, it wasn’t as good for me as it was for me.
I’ll back up. Admittedly, lately I’ve been a bit of a disaster. Disasters use fitness videos as coasters and consider the gym steam room “detox.” (Who needs to work out when you can wear 6” heels and strengthen your core with every step?)
But allegedly, several weeks ago, I promised my good friend I would run the Alternatives Race for Youth with him. I believe in this organization, and it seemed so far away I said, “Of course! I’m in! I’ll pack us orange slices!”
Fast forward to last night, a roof deck, and several Dark and Stormies. (First the name of my drink, later the name of my suitor.) Running was the last thing on my mind.
Now, there used to be a time when I could compete without training. I nostalgically refer to these as my Super Hero Years. One time in college my best friend took a beer out of my hand at a party, told me to sober up, and informed me that we’d be running the Boston Marathon in two days. And sure enough, we bussed it to Boston, caught an AC/DC show at the Fleet Center, woke up, and bandit ran the marathon. (Granted they put me in a wheel chair at the end, but still…)
Needless to say, my days in a cape and spandex onesie have passed me by. I set the alarm for 7:00 so I could make it to the start by 8. I immediately started offering excuses as to why I would need to walk it, things like: “I really didn’t get much sleep last night,” and “You know, it’s been months since I last ran,” and finally in a desperate moment,“I was told by a doctor that my bunion has two months to live.”
But then they signaled the start of the race, and it was over. I couldn’t stop myself. In the moment I’m like a dog chasing a squirrel. Only in my case, the squirrel is 70 years old and has a limp. I don’t want to walk this race, I want to win it–and I want to take down everyone in my path.
Unfortunately, it didn’t go down like that. At all. (Let’s just say there were several stretches of assisted power walking.) But I wasn’t worried. I figured I’d just do what I did last year: get close to the finish line, peel off to the side, remove my chip timer and throw it away. After all, everyone knows if it can’t be Googled, it never happened.
But instead, two old ladies passed me in matching sweatsuits and BAM! Next thing I know I’m passing them and sprinting across the finish line, all before I’ve had time to remove my chip.
The finish is a bit of a blur but I vaguely recall the stages of gloat, nausea, and regret.
I’m so gonna get Googled for this.
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