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.

I wanna go fast!

When I stepped outside the other day, I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with chilly spring air. It smelled like rain and mist and soggy dead grass. And that’s when I knew, without a doubt, that track season was upon us.

These kinds of days—the ones with still, foggy air and puddle-dotted sidewalks—were always my favorite for track workouts. I found the damp, cool air soothing to my throat, lungs and muscles.

When I set out on my run, I immediately felt a familiar spring in my step. At that point, I was no longer in control of my route. My legs took over, knowing exactly where they wanted to go.

I arrived at the high school track feeling fresh and ready to, in the words of Ricky Bobby, go fast. Without even thinking, I rolled into my pre-workout warm-up routine. It had been months since I’d last done my usual series of kicks, skips and leg-swings, but I was surprised at how easily it all came back.

I felt great. I knew it was going to be a banner day. I almost wished I had a coach or a friend or even a live studio audience to witness what was about to go down. I did a quick survey of the track facility and its immediate surroundings. There were a couple of groundskeepers working about 600 yards away from the stadium. I figured that since I could see them, they could probably see me. I decided that counted as an audience.

After doing a couple of strides, I made my way to the starting line. I was smiling, and I even thought about whistling the chorus melody from “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” Then I remembered that I never learned how to whistle, and I made a mental note to search for an instructional video on YouTube later that day.

I still hadn’t gotten a new watch, and I had a feeling the oral counting method would prove ineffective in a track interval scenario. But I didn’t care—I was doing this work out, with or without a working timepiece.

I slowly approached the line, shaking out my arms and legs to rid them of any lingering kinks. I leaned forward into the starting position, and boom! I launched into a full-on sprint, marveling at the quickness of my feet and the power of my stride. The first 200-meter interval was smooth and almost effortless. I actually felt like an 800 runner again—I wondered whether my training hiatus had affected my speed at all. Perhaps I was just some sort of athletic super human.

Then I tried to do another one. This 200, though, was not so smooth, not so effortless. This 200 hurt—bad. From the twinge in my calf to the tightness in my lungs, my body screamed at me, as if to say, “What the crap? I thought we were done with running fast. You are a liar and a scoundrel!”

I was just about to protest about the scoundrel part when I felt a sharp pain slightly above the back of my knee. I slowed to a more manageable pace. Suddenly, my brain was inundated with hypothetical crisis scenarios.

I imagined limping into the high school and asking various teenagers with bewildered looks on their faces for directions to the school nurse’s office. I saw myself hobble into her little examination room, where she gasped and exclaimed, in a thick Minnesota accent, “Omigash! Did you just come from Coach Brown’s P.E. class? I thought you guys were just learning how to juggle beanbags this week.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head, expelling from my mind all images of myself as an injured, pathetic failure. No, I would not give up. I was going to finish this thing.

During my last few intervals, I was glad the guys on the mini tractors were too caught up in their work to notice me. I was also glad I had no way of knowing just how slow I was running—thank goodness for Wal-Mart and its cheap, unreliable merchandise. The feeling of invincibility I’d started out with had long since faded into stubborn determination. The last few hundred meters were anything but pretty, but I finished them.

As I jogged home, the intensity of my spontaneous little trip down memory lane started to settle on my bones. I noticed pain in places that hadn’t felt it in awhile—shins, arches, hamstrings. I felt like a true has-been, risking my health to prove to myself—and anyone else who happened to be hanging around (i.e. totally uninterested park maintenance personnel)—that I’ve still got it.

Then I realized that wasn’t the case at all. I had nothing to prove. I just missed the feeling that I had briefly experienced during my first interval—that inimitable sensation of quickness, weightlessness and power. I knew that sooner or later, I’d be back at the track for more.

Well, maybe after a few hot baths and a trip to the chiropractor.