This past weekend, I ran ten miles. If I had a microphone, this is when I would hold it out at arms length, drop it to the stage, and walk off with my arms raised, Chris Rock style.
Okay, maybe "ran" is a strong word. It would even be a stretch to say that what I do is jogging, but "oldmanshuffle" isn't a verb. Still... ten miles!!! As far as I'm concerned, I'm officially an athlete.
It wasn't easy, either. Wonder Woman* joined me for the first 3.3 miles. Along with being good for her, Im sure she thought this would be a supportive gesture, waking up early on a cold Saturday morning to go jogging with her husband.
You'd think that having company on my runs would be a good thing. It is. You'd think that having the woman I love as that company would be even better. It was not. You heard it here first: I hate jogging with my wife. First of all, she goes too fast. Second of all, she doesn't understand that it can take me a few miles to get settled in. Everything feels wrong at first - my calves tighten up or my knees ache, so I'm extra careful. Sometimes I stop to stretch, or walk a bit. This is a very SENSIBLE thing to do. I'm setting out to run 26.2 miles. I gotta pace myself, and I gotta be smart. But nothing in the look she gave me said "sensible" or "smart". No, that look said "pussy."
Think I'm exaggeurating? Being needlessly vulgar for a cheap laugh? I'm not. The only thing that makes Wonder Woman happier than a chance to call me a pussy is a diamond ring. If I don't eat as much her in a restaurant? "Pussy." If I think it's too cold outside? "Pussy." I know she was thinking it. She didn't explicitly call me a pussy this time because that's probably her way of supporting Leukemia and Lymphoma research.
Then to make it worse, as I head off for the last 6.7 miles, she tells me she's going to go get bagels. Because the best motivation to get someone to run a bunch is to tell them they have much more cozy and delicious options available. Well, you won't stop me that easily, temptress!!!
I chugged onwards. 2/3rds of the way through, I felt suprisingly good. I'd really found a good rhythm, and my legs had settled in for the long haul. Sure, people were passing me left and right, but I'm okay with that - I'm not trying to finish fast, I'm just trying to finish.
Then the marching band showed up. I'm not kidding. A middle school marching band came on to the path. I'm sure that sounds bizarre, and it was: I figured I was having some kind of low-blood-sugar induced hallucination. Apparently there was some event around inspiring people to get in shape, and the band had come out to support. That was nice of them. And thank goodness it was a middle school marching band, because otherwise I may not have been faster than them.
Even still, that band was with me for a while. It took me about 30 minutes to get out of earshot, and nothing says "your wife may have a point with that whole 'pussy' thing" quite like a gaggle of pre-teens who manage to stay in your rear-view mirror while wearing full-dress uniforms and playing wind instruments.
The incident inspired me to do some math. According to the training calculator on Runners World, at my current pace, it will take me 6 hours, 51 minutes and 40 seconds to complete my marathon. Add an hour for lunch and that would be a full work day of oldmanshuffling! What the hell am I going to do for that long of a time? Mp3 players will run out of batteries. I could talk to people, but I'd need to injure them first to make sure they don't leave me behind, and then I'd probably get sick of them after an hour or two anyway, especially if they were constantly complaining about the injury I had caused them.
My family has been talking about coming down to watch me. I can just see it now: they're all gathered around a campfire. Some of them are finishing off their hot cocoa and s'mores, and others are already tucking into their sleeping bags for the night as I shuffle into the firelight, horrifically sunburned. I had to find them via a GPS, as the roadside markers were taken down hours ago. After a few minutes of hearty congratulations, there's a silence. I can hear the fire crackling. A pine cone bursts, and Wonder Woman adds:
"I told you guys he was a pussy."
This week's new members of the “Ah Crap, I Guess I Really Have To Go Through With This” Club (listed in chronological order):
- Cami and Justin Erickson
- Eric "Rhubarb" Peltzer
- Laura and Diallo Powell
- Sara Hall
And now, for a cumulative tally of my journey (brought to you by Tallyzoo.com):
- Blisters: 1
- Chafed Unmentionables: Holding steady at 3. Whoever came up with Body Glide is my hero.
- Total Miles: 64
*For those of you not familiar with my previous online adventures, my wife is a legal professional who has requested her name not be used anywhere where I might also be discussing my nards. Something about a "professional reputation." For comparison, by professional reputation could charitably be described as "surly."
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