Just kidding around

This past weekend, I celebrated another milestone of hasbeendom: I attended a fun run as a—gasp—spectator.

Well, I was actually covering the event for the soon-to-be-Pulitzer-winning-publication by which I am currently employed, but still—I woke up early on a Saturday morning to go watch people run when I am, myself, perfectly healthy and capable of completing a 5K.

I even wore jeans. Jeans!

I felt awkwardly insecure in my virgin voyage into the “other” side of the racing experience. It was like stepping into a fitness-themed episode of the Twilight Zone. What was I doing interviewing other people about their races? My world felt terribly off balance.

After the runners took off, I wandered aimlessly around the starting area, unsure of what to do until they got back. Stupidly, I had left my cell phone in the car, so I was unable to engage in my signature uncomfortable-situation-mitigation maneuver—fake texting.

I moseyed over to the post-race snack table, where piles of bananas and granola bars awaited hungry finishers—because come on, wouldn’t you be completely famished after running an WHOLE 5K?

Suddenly feeling a bit parched, I reached out for a Gatorade but instantly retracted my hand as I realized that this was the first road race I’d ever attended where I was not entitled to partake in the complimentary food and beverages.

Just as I was beginning to think there was nothing worthwhile about this race—at least as far as I was concerned—the kids started trickling in.

Only they didn’t really trickle—they full-on sprinted. Every last one of them. Some had probably walked the other 4.95 kilometers, but damn it if they weren’t going to have their 30 seconds of fame over the last 50 yards.

I chuckled as I thought about how awesome it would be if it were acceptable for adults to employ the same racing strategy. I bet I would enter a lot more races if I jogged everything but the homestretch.

In fact, when—scratch that—if I finally attempt my first-ever 10K this summer, I’m going to keep this plan, which I have named the Imbalanced Pacing Strategy, in mind as a go-to alternative if things start to go sour.

I consider it an exaggerated form of negative-split racing, which in my book makes it completely legit.

And hey, maybe I’ll finally have a race finish photo where I look cute and happy.

The Mississippi Mystique

A few weeks ago, as I was heading out the door to go for a run, I discovered that my watch had died. I stared at the blank digital watch face in total disbelief and started smacking my wrist in an attempt to jolt it back to life.

When my efforts proved futile, I was ultimately forced to accept that it had, indeed, passed through the pearly gates of timepiece heaven. I had already spent 20 minutes of my valuable time squeezing into multiple layers of spandex, which meant that canceling my run was not an option. So I laced up my shoes, pulled on my gloves, and set out on the open road—watchless.

It was my best run in recent memory. I felt light and free—liberated from the burdens of mile splits and average pace. It was as if I were running in a vacuum of space where time as we know it does not exist.

I returned feeling refreshed and energized—so energized, in fact, that I hit the ground to hammer out a spontaneous plank series. (Note: I normally hate planks almost as much as I hate running skirts. I mean, come on, a skirt? Really? Do you see dudes running in Polo shirts and pleated shorts? Just saying.)

So I got down on the floor, and just as I was about to go into my first plank of the series, I realized that—duh—I had no way of timing each exercise. I racked my brain for a solution. I knew that if I counted, I would surely count too fast because planks suck and I would try—even if only subconsciously—to get through them as quickly as possible.

I needed to come up with a way to control my counting speed—to ensure that I put just the right amount of space in between numbers. Ah ha! I had it—the old “Mississippi” trick.

I hadn’t counted in Mississippis since about fifth grade—right around the time, incidentally, that I procured my first digital watch. It was a sea foam green Little Mermaid watch with a bubble-shaped face and a blinking mermaid fin—much nicer than the piece-of-crap Timex that had just given out on me.

Anyway, as I swiveled over onto my left arm and started my counting over again at “One Mississippi,” I had a thought. Why Mississippi?

It’s one of those questions that would be perfectly acceptable to bring up in normal, everyday conversation—if you’re under the age of 12. For adults who have jobs, bills, and mortgages to worry about, it’s just not a topic worthy of serious discussion. It’s like bologna or Canadian football or Whoopi Goldberg’s eyebrows—we’re all curious, but nobody has the time or energy to indulge their interest.

I know what you’re thinking. “Who cares? So what if it’s Mississippi and not Tennessee, Nevada or Ohio? Does it really matter?”

Well, I certainly understand your argument, but I must respectfully disagree. I believe the arbitrary designation of Mississippi as the only state widely recognized as a unit of time measurement is consummately unfair based on the following logic:

1.) The oral recitation of a number (i.e. “One”) followed by a four-syllable word (i.e. “Mississippi”) requires an allotment of time roughly equal to one second.

2.) There are exactly 14 states, besides Mississippi, whose names contain four syllables.

3.) Of those 14 states, four were admitted to the Union before Mississppi: Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Massachusetts and Indiana.

4.) Like Mississippi, one of the 14 is also the name of a major river: Colorado.

5.) Finally, due to the rapid succession of “s” sounds in the word “Mississippi,” the exclusive use of this particular state name presents a distinct disadvantage to children (and adults, for that matter) who speak with a lisp.

And so, in an effort to remedy decades of discrimination against all other states that are equally qualified to represent a single second of time, please join me as I begin a counting revolution. Perhaps one day we will live in a world where children count in “Arizonas” and “Oklahomas” when they play games of hide and seek, where mothers with unruly children use “Minnesotas” and “North Dakotas” in their empty-threat countdowns to punishment.

So spread the word—and while you’re at it, remind people that running in a skirt makes them look completely ridiculous.