How to get owned in a 5K

Are you tired of always crossing the finish line first? Does the thought of winning another gold medal/blue ribbon/gift card/souvenir mug/pair of men’s running socks make you want to light your racing flats on fire and scratch out the Prefontaine quote you so meticulously stenciled above your headboard? Do you need a swift reality check to cool your ego and crush that ridiculous pipe dream of “going pro?” If you answered “yes” to any of the above questions, then you need to lose a race by an embarrassingly large margin—and fast! Based on my own experience racing a 5K in my hometown last weekend, I compiled the following step-by-step guide for running your way to a fantastically disappointing runner-up finish. Now, get out there and lose like a winner!

1. Train exclusively:

• on flat concrete paths
• at low elevation
• in temperatures above 100 degrees (that way, you’ll never go faster than 7-minute mile pace) 

2. Choose a race course that:

• is mainly dirt/gravel
• features lots of hills
• is located in a cool mountain climate

3. To promote maximum muscle tightness, select an event at least 1,000 miles away, book your flight for the night before, and put in a full eight-hour workday before boarding the plane.

4. When selecting your seat assignment, make sure you are surrounded by a half dozen screaming children whose parents are most likely deaf from years of auditory abuse—at least judging from their disinterest in controlling the volume of their unruly spawn.

5. Do not sleep.

6. To increase the chances of a major flight delay, travel as late in the day as possible.

7. Sit on the tarmac for two hours while engineers troubleshoot a “mechanical problem.” Let your paranoid inner voice convince you that this is code for “imminent engine failure,” thus signaling your adrenal gland to release of a healthy dose of cortisol into your blood stream.

8. Avoid using that tiny, despicable excuse for a lavatory by staying as dehydrated as possible.

9. During your layover, find the greasiest, most flavorless chicken sandwich you’ve ever spent $15 on. Eat all of it.

10. Arrive at your destination well after midnight. Do not go to bed until 2 a.m.

11. Toss and turn for five hours. Wake up unrefreshed and unprepared to compete.

12. Arrive at the race site 15 minutes before the scheduled start, allowing yourself just enough time to register, do three ominously laborious warm-up strides, and seriously regret your decision to show up.

13. Gasp and heave pathetically as you strain to keep up with the teenage girl who is kicking your ass.

14. Ignore the resulting chest pains.

15. Lumber across the finish line nearly 45 seconds after the first-place finisher. Wave awkwardly when the race emcee announces you as a “former star.”

Mission accomplished.

Run for the money

A couple of weeks ago, I was half-heartedly listening to a recap of college football scores while giving my toenails their last coat of polish before fall. I say “half-heartedly” because the level of artistry that goes into masking the grotesqueness of my feet requires a high degree of concentration.

When they started talking about ridiculous blowouts, my ears perked up and my foot flinched. In an instant, my impeccable paint job was ruined by an errant streak of Midnight Sapphire on my big toe. Why? Because there is one part of college football that has always fascinated me: money games.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this phenomenon, the simplest and least tasteful explanation can be delivered in a single word—prostitution.

Early in the season, powerhouse schools like to schedule an easy game or two to dust off the cobwebs, build confidence and impress their home crowds with a dominating win. To do this, they seek out smaller, lesser-known teams and pay them to get their asses kicked.

Small colleges usually have small athletic budgets, which makes this sort of deal extremely lucrative for them. Most don’t think twice about pimping out their football teams for 3, 4, even $500,000—or more. Then they put the players on a nice charter plane—compliments the opposing team, of course—and pray that they all come back alive and with the majority of their limbs (and cognitive function) intact.

The result? Scores like “North Carolina-62, Elon-0,” “Florida State-55, Savannah State-0,” and “TCU-56, Grambling State-0.”

In some cases, it’s almost sad. I feel for the guys on the losing side of the scoreboard. I don’t care where you play—if you’re a college athlete, you are a competitive person. And competitive people hate losing.

If it were up to them personally, I’m sure there are some morally grounded players out there who would refuse to lose for cash. Back in my days as a legit athlete, I probably would have agreed with them. But now that I’m just a lowly has-been, I would be willing to bend my ethical standards under the right conditions.

So that got me to thinking—what if they developed a similar system in the world of competitive distance running? I mean, think about it: when people watch world-class distance runners race other world-class distance runners, there is really no way of grasping just how fast they are moving. It doesn’t help that they all look like they’re out on a leisurely joggy-jog when, in fact, they are splitting sub-60s.

But if you threw in a race where world-class distance runners raced middle-of-the-road distance runners—former Big Sky Conference Championship bronze medalists, for example—the audience would be able to see just how good these Olympians really are.

Take Kara Goucher, for example—America’s Sweetheart of distance running. High school cross-country runners idolize her. They probably cheered her on during last month’s Olympic marathon. She finished just a hair over 2:26—a time that most men, even really good ones, could only dream of achieving—which was good for 11^th place.

Except that in America’s eyes, 11^th place is not good. It’s not good at all. In fact, you probably already forgot that Kara Goucher even participated in the Olympic marathon.

Here in the good ol’ U.S. of A., we like winners—the bigger and more embarrassing the margin of victory, the better. The way I see it, there is only one way for Kara to avenge that 11^th place disaster (besides winning gold in Rio, which probably won’t happen if Ethiopia still exists in 2016): winning a race by a laughably obscene margin.

That’s where I (or some other washed-up has-been) would come in. I could be the Grambling State to her TCU. I could sort of, but not really, compete with her and make her look really, really good. I could get her fans all fired up and give her a solid foundation of confidence for the rest of the season. All I would ask for in return would be a small* percentage of her race winnings.

So Kara, once you realize how incredibly genius this idea is, drop me a line. My inbox—and your comeback—awaits.

*Less than a majority** share.

**Between 1 and 49 percent.  

Fool's gold

There’s nothing worse than running an entire race believing you are in the lead, only to find out upon crossing the finish line that you not only did not win, but in fact had your ass handed to you by a margin of more than two minutes.

OK, so maybe there are worse things. Like passing a kidney stone or being the photographer at the Jessica Simpson nude pregnancy shoot.

But trust me, it really, really sucks to be fooled into thinking you won something that you actually lost, as I discovered this past Saturday during my second attempt at the local St. Patty’s Day race.

You might recall that last year, I out-kicked a 15-year-old girl for a hard-fought-but-slightly-embarrassing 5K victory. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments, but what can I say? I’m a slave to my hypercompetitive nature.

This year, I decided to attempt the newly added 7-mile distance. Why? F@*% if I know. I generally run 4 to 6 miles a day, so I was in no way prepared to race 7. But what great moments in history were borne of preparedness? Do you think Lewis and Clark practiced traversing the entire American west before they set out on their famous expedition?

When I got to the starting line, I took a position approximately four rows back. My lack of confidence prompted me to go out very conservatively—like behind-a-dude-in-a-plastic rainbow-cape-conservatively. (On a side note, this spirited gentleman was dressed as the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, which in my opinion is pretty much the most rad St. Patrick’s Day race costume ever.)

So while I was busy weaving through leprechauns and giant shamrocks, apparently there was some badass runner lady at the front of the pack who was working up an impossible lead over me and every other normal human female in the race field.

I finally got to the point where all of the runners in my immediate vicinity were men. Squinting my eyes, I could barely make out a few fast-moving figures in the distance. Naturally, I assumed that they, too, were men.

But you know what they say: when you assume, you end up losing races without even knowing it.

By the time I had made my way to the front of the man-pack, the leaders were so far away that I couldn’t even see them anymore. I came up on a couple of guys who were holding a decent pace. I hung behind them for a few minutes, testing the waters to see if they would accept me into their group. I felt like that weird shy kid on the playground who slowly edges his way into the sand box, hoping the other kids won’t notice. Before long, I felt comfortable enough to run right in the middle of these guys, unashamed of my labored breathing and intermittent grunting.

Around mile 5, my legs started to feel a little heavy. I knew that based on my training, I had reached my limit. I also knew that no matter how much I wanted to fall off pace, I couldn’t let myself falter because (a) if I let these guys go, I would have to suffer alone for the final two miles and (b) I was winning!

My breathing and grunting grew louder and more annoying. One of the guys in the group—probably tired of being distracted by my pathetic sounds of weakness—put on a surge. I watched the round sweat mark on his back get smaller and smaller as he moved farther and farther ahead. I knew I couldn’t let that sweat mark disappear. If I did, the next thing I knew rainbow cape guy would go flying by me, and that simply could NOT happen.

The sweat mark became my target. I gradually picked up my pace and moved closer to that moist, translucent splotch. With about a half-mile to go, I had made up most of the distance. As I listened to myself gasp for air, I wondered if it was acceptable for me to try this hard in a St. Patty’s Day fun run. Little did I know, there was someone sipping water at the finish line who had tried much harder than I did. Like two-and-a-half-minutes harder.

The finish came into sight just as I was beginning to experience some worrisome chest pains. I tried to quiet my breathing for the sake of dignity. Thank God I did not have the energy to do one of these as I crossed the line:

Photo courtesy of koadmunkee/Flickr

I smiled at the crowd as I stumbled down the finish chute. Some dude came up to me to collect my timing chip, and as I handed it over, I heard him say, “Great job! Second woman!”

Whoa, whoa, whoa, I thought. Did he just say “second woman?” Is he mental?

I limped through the crowd, desperately trying to find someone I knew and trusted—someone who could clear up the confusion and reassure me that this gentleman was obviously mistaken. No such luck. Instead, I heard snippets of conversations that confirmed my worst fear: I had lost without even knowing it.

Thankfully, all finishers over the age of 21 were entitled to a free beer. I whipped out my ID and gratefully accepted a cup of the best post-race recovery drink in the world (which also happens to be the best post-disappointment recovery drink in the world). Within minutes, I had forgotten the whole ordeal. The main thing was that I had successfully finished a 7-mile race without barfing or breaking something. Plus, I added this awesome beer mug to my sweet collection of fun-run swag: