Ever since Michiyo suggested two months ago that we run in the local 5k, I've been training by running 3 laps on a 1.1 mile track twice per week. My strategy has been that, by posting my times for 3.3 miles instead of 5k, which is only 3.1 miles, my time on race day will seem much improved and I’ll get a nice ego boost which will provide motivation to continue running.
I've never been a runner, even though in high school I showed enough ability to gain an invitation from the coach to join the Cross Country team. I was flattered by his recognition of me but I was not convinced it was my 'thing' so, before I committed to joining the team, I tried running on my own to see if I liked it. However, I gave up after the second day when I developed aches in my side and ended up walking the entire course. Being good at something doesn't always mean that you’re going to enjoy doing it. So, I didn't join the team. I didn't even respond to the coach's letter. I said, 'Screw this running crap', and I stuck with my previously chosen sport of smoking pot. I gave up the pot after high school since the community college I was attending didn't seem to have a team. Over the years since then I've tried many times to pick up running again but never really took to it. I spent my childhood on my bicycle and the scenery while I’m running just passes by too slowly. Give me my bike and a hill to go down; I'm just not a runner.
This time, however, it was different. I'd never set a running 'goal' before and at 54 years old and securely and confidently into my mid-life-crisis, having 'The Redondo Beach 4th Of July 5k Village Runner' as something to work toward gave me motivation. I mean, why not? I feel good, I'm in fair shape, and goddammit I'm going to show those assholes something. The finer details, such as who exactly it is I'm calling an asshole, can be sorted out later when I have achieved the elevated status of '5k Run Darn Good Run Time Holder’ (I had no delusions about winning, but 'Darn Good Run Time Holder’ seemed like an attainable accomplishment.)
So, Boom! It was decided. We would run the 5k on the 4th of July in Redondo Beach and we would train on the 1.1 mile course near our house.
Training went pretty much as expected. Early on, I couldn't even run an entire 3 laps without breathing myself to death. But with each workout I improved and by the third or fourth attempt I was running the entire 3 laps without stopping. I timed every run. Sometimes my time improved, and sometimes I learned that mid-life brings not only a crisis, but also a pain in one's left knee bad enough to cause one to question whether or not being a '5k Run Darn Good Run Time Holder' is really all that it's cracked up to be.
But I soldiered on. And I kept improving. Friends lent their encouragement when I posted my times online. I was lopping 30 and 40 seconds off my time with each run. And my timing was good; about 3 weeks before race time I turned in my best time at 25:44 for 3.3 miles. I was headed for certain glory and I was really going to show those assholes something! The title of '5k Run Darn Good Run Time Holder' was mine to claim.
And then everything began to fall apart.
Two weeks before race day, while running, I developed pain in my right calf like I'd never felt before. Cramps? Pulled something? I don’t know, but I was unable to walk after 2 laps. I cut my run short that day, but I was back at it 4 days later. That was when my left knee started screaming at me to slow down. I ended up walking almost the entire run. A few days later, just over a week before race time and my date with glory, I stabbed the crap out of the side of my left foot with a piece of stainless steel baling wire. Bleeding like a stuck pig, I postponed any runs for the next few days. That's ok. I can still do yoga. I'll do the best with what I have left and it'll be alright. My glory shall be! Then, three days before race time, I was assigned a job that required me to crouch down on one knee, hold for 30 seconds, then stand, move 20 feet, and crouch for another 30 seconds. I had to do this about 200 times in 105 degree heat. My thighs were so sore the next two days I could barely walk. I was beginning to question the likelihood that I'd be able to show those assholes anything, let alone something.
Three days later it is Saturday, July 4th. Race day. I haven’t run in almost two weeks. My wire-stabbed foot has improved. My over-crouched thighs are almost back to normal. According to the race instructions I received a month ago, the race will begin at 8:30 am.
The alarm goes off. Adrenaline, or maybe it's a full bladder, prevents us from taking full advantage of our 7-minutes of snooze and we are both up before 7AM. If we leave by 7:30, we'll have plenty of time to find parking in Redondo and walk to the starting line. I need to remember to bring two things: the registration, and my new knee brace. Easy. 7:20 rolls around and a brilliant thought invades my brain: instead of the Toyota, why not bring the Tahoe with our bikes in the back?! That way, if we have to park far away, we can ride bikes and still make the 8:30 starting gun. Michiyo approves. I throw my bike into the Tahoe but Michiyo's tires are low and won't take air for some reason. My brilliant idea is nixed. But I still have my bike. I can drop her off and park and ride myself, if necessary. Michiyo jumps into the Tahoe wearing yoga pants and her fluorescent orange running shirt. We leave at 7:40, a little late but we'll be alright. 5 minutes down the road I realize I forgot the paperwork. I emit my first 'Fuck!' of the morning, hang a U-turn and fly at a dangerously low altitude back to the house. I run inside, grab the two pages, and jump back in the Tahoe. Now it’s 7:50. We’re at least 15 minutes away and cutting it way too close. If we have to park far away, we'll miss the start.
We are both frustrated. I’m driving too fast, watching for cops, and Michiyo is poring over the paperwork to find out if we even needed it in the first place, presumably mining for evidence which will support her long-held theory that I’m an idiot. She, in fact, does find out that the paperwork isn’t necessary and that we just wasted 10 minutes of our precious time driving in circles. But her prospecting also turns up another little gem. A golden, bright, shiny nugget right there at the top of the first page that all but proves her theory outright. She turns in my direction and tells me, ‘It says here the race starts at 8:00!’
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I've never been a runner, even though in high school I showed enough ability to gain an invitation from the coach to join the Cross Country team. I was flattered by his recognition of me but I was not convinced it was my 'thing' so, before I committed to joining the team, I tried running on my own to see if I liked it. However, I gave up after the second day when I developed aches in my side and ended up walking the entire course. Being good at something doesn't always mean that you’re going to enjoy doing it. So, I didn't join the team. I didn't even respond to the coach's letter. I said, 'Screw this running crap', and I stuck with my previously chosen sport of smoking pot. I gave up the pot after high school since the community college I was attending didn't seem to have a team. Over the years since then I've tried many times to pick up running again but never really took to it. I spent my childhood on my bicycle and the scenery while I’m running just passes by too slowly. Give me my bike and a hill to go down; I'm just not a runner.
This time, however, it was different. I'd never set a running 'goal' before and at 54 years old and securely and confidently into my mid-life-crisis, having 'The Redondo Beach 4th Of July 5k Village Runner' as something to work toward gave me motivation. I mean, why not? I feel good, I'm in fair shape, and goddammit I'm going to show those assholes something. The finer details, such as who exactly it is I'm calling an asshole, can be sorted out later when I have achieved the elevated status of '5k Run Darn Good Run Time Holder’ (I had no delusions about winning, but 'Darn Good Run Time Holder’ seemed like an attainable accomplishment.)
So, Boom! It was decided. We would run the 5k on the 4th of July in Redondo Beach and we would train on the 1.1 mile course near our house.
Training went pretty much as expected. Early on, I couldn't even run an entire 3 laps without breathing myself to death. But with each workout I improved and by the third or fourth attempt I was running the entire 3 laps without stopping. I timed every run. Sometimes my time improved, and sometimes I learned that mid-life brings not only a crisis, but also a pain in one's left knee bad enough to cause one to question whether or not being a '5k Run Darn Good Run Time Holder' is really all that it's cracked up to be.
But I soldiered on. And I kept improving. Friends lent their encouragement when I posted my times online. I was lopping 30 and 40 seconds off my time with each run. And my timing was good; about 3 weeks before race time I turned in my best time at 25:44 for 3.3 miles. I was headed for certain glory and I was really going to show those assholes something! The title of '5k Run Darn Good Run Time Holder' was mine to claim.
And then everything began to fall apart.
Two weeks before race day, while running, I developed pain in my right calf like I'd never felt before. Cramps? Pulled something? I don’t know, but I was unable to walk after 2 laps. I cut my run short that day, but I was back at it 4 days later. That was when my left knee started screaming at me to slow down. I ended up walking almost the entire run. A few days later, just over a week before race time and my date with glory, I stabbed the crap out of the side of my left foot with a piece of stainless steel baling wire. Bleeding like a stuck pig, I postponed any runs for the next few days. That's ok. I can still do yoga. I'll do the best with what I have left and it'll be alright. My glory shall be! Then, three days before race time, I was assigned a job that required me to crouch down on one knee, hold for 30 seconds, then stand, move 20 feet, and crouch for another 30 seconds. I had to do this about 200 times in 105 degree heat. My thighs were so sore the next two days I could barely walk. I was beginning to question the likelihood that I'd be able to show those assholes anything, let alone something.
Three days later it is Saturday, July 4th. Race day. I haven’t run in almost two weeks. My wire-stabbed foot has improved. My over-crouched thighs are almost back to normal. According to the race instructions I received a month ago, the race will begin at 8:30 am.
The alarm goes off. Adrenaline, or maybe it's a full bladder, prevents us from taking full advantage of our 7-minutes of snooze and we are both up before 7AM. If we leave by 7:30, we'll have plenty of time to find parking in Redondo and walk to the starting line. I need to remember to bring two things: the registration, and my new knee brace. Easy. 7:20 rolls around and a brilliant thought invades my brain: instead of the Toyota, why not bring the Tahoe with our bikes in the back?! That way, if we have to park far away, we can ride bikes and still make the 8:30 starting gun. Michiyo approves. I throw my bike into the Tahoe but Michiyo's tires are low and won't take air for some reason. My brilliant idea is nixed. But I still have my bike. I can drop her off and park and ride myself, if necessary. Michiyo jumps into the Tahoe wearing yoga pants and her fluorescent orange running shirt. We leave at 7:40, a little late but we'll be alright. 5 minutes down the road I realize I forgot the paperwork. I emit my first 'Fuck!' of the morning, hang a U-turn and fly at a dangerously low altitude back to the house. I run inside, grab the two pages, and jump back in the Tahoe. Now it’s 7:50. We’re at least 15 minutes away and cutting it way too close. If we have to park far away, we'll miss the start.
We are both frustrated. I’m driving too fast, watching for cops, and Michiyo is poring over the paperwork to find out if we even needed it in the first place, presumably mining for evidence which will support her long-held theory that I’m an idiot. She, in fact, does find out that the paperwork isn’t necessary and that we just wasted 10 minutes of our precious time driving in circles. But her prospecting also turns up another little gem. A golden, bright, shiny nugget right there at the top of the first page that all but proves her theory outright. She turns in my direction and tells me, ‘It says here the race starts at 8:00!’
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Oftentimes when I utter the word ‘Fuck’ I do so with a corresponding vocal strain that belies the frustration I’m feeling at whichever inanimate object won’t behave in the manner in which I’m intending. Like when I’m pounding a nail and it bends over instead of going in straight. At times my ‘Fucks’ are accompanied by an increase in volume that communicates to those in the vicinity, often the dog, the anger I’m feeling at whichever inanimate object is really pissing me off. Like when I bend a nail, pull it out to replace it, and then I bend the replacement. And then sometimes my ‘Fucks’ reach a boiling point similar to the steam inside a pressure cooker. Those ‘Fucks’ have both more volume and more travel time and sound more like ‘FUUUUUUUUCK!!!!’ and are sometimes accompanied by an inanimate object flying toward a wall. Like when I bend two nails in a row and then crush my thumb with the hammer. At that point, the nail, the board, and the hammer are all likely to take flying lessons, and the dog will trot toward the safety of the house.
This ‘fuck’, however, had none of those qualities. There was no vocal strain, nothing went flying (other than the Tahoe we were driving), there wasn’t even an increase in volume. There was just deflation. A black hole. A voidful void devoid of nonvoidness. And with it, a total lack of any defense that may have argued in favor of disproving Michiyo's theory that I’m an idiot. All I could manage was to exhale a defeated little guilty whimper of a ‘Fuck’. In the month since I’d read the instructions, the start time had somehow morphed in my mid-life head from 8:00 to 8:30 and I never thought to re-read them for confirmation. There was now no way we would make it on time. I won’t get the chance to show those assholes. I’m the asshole.
This ‘fuck’, however, had none of those qualities. There was no vocal strain, nothing went flying (other than the Tahoe we were driving), there wasn’t even an increase in volume. There was just deflation. A black hole. A voidful void devoid of nonvoidness. And with it, a total lack of any defense that may have argued in favor of disproving Michiyo's theory that I’m an idiot. All I could manage was to exhale a defeated little guilty whimper of a ‘Fuck’. In the month since I’d read the instructions, the start time had somehow morphed in my mid-life head from 8:00 to 8:30 and I never thought to re-read them for confirmation. There was now no way we would make it on time. I won’t get the chance to show those assholes. I’m the asshole.
But...
What if the race starts a few minutes late? I won’t make it but I could at least drop Michiyo off on time. She worked hard, too, and doesn't deserve to be victimized by the proof of her own theory. I flex the gas and drive like, of course, an idiot. I turn left through red arrows. Screw it. Those things are stupider than I am. I roll through stop signs on Palos Verdes Drive and onward toward Redondo Beach. We make it there in 10 minutes. It’s a few minutes after 8 and there’s a huge crowd waiting for the starting gun. They are starting late. Michiyo jumps out and runs to get her number. I drive off into the residential neighborhood to find parking. There’s nothing. Hanging a U-turn on two wheels, I fly back to the main street and around the block. My phone rings. It’s Michiyo. ‘They just started!’ I tell her not to wait for me and I hang up. Now there’s parking but I’m too far away. I round another corner and fly. Another corner. Ha! Parking! Let’s see how close I can get! Three blocks down the parking is filled up. Another U-turn; my stunt driving improves with the practice. I park at the grey house with the fence, jump on my bike, and burn toward the starting line.
I arrive 10 minutes after the gun. The bike racks are full of bikes. The small tree over to one side will have to suffice. I lean my bike against the trunk, reach for the lock, and then realize the key is on the Toyota key chain. We drove the Tahoe. When senility replaces the mid-life crisis, it does so with a loud crack and a bang. But there’s no time for frustration or any more ‘Fucks'. There is only a deflated ‘Of course’ emanating from the voidful void. I take the chance, leave my bike unlocked, and run to get my number. Strangers are milling about all over the place. I glance back at the bike I have owned for 25 years. This could be the last time I ever see it.
The girls handing out numbers look at me like I just arrived from Pluto. One of them asks, ‘Are you running?’, but her tone says, 'What kind of an asshole...?' ‘I thought it started at 8:30.’ They require no paperwork, of course, just my name. I pin my number, 1122, to the front of my shirt and, holding my phone in one hand and my car keys in the other, I run toward the starting line. My thighs are already burned out from the mad bike dash. A young lady, a race employee, shouts out, ‘Are you running?’ ‘Yes.’ She points her finger at something on the ground and says, ‘Cross over this!’ I swerve to the left and do as I’m told, triggering the clock to record my start time.
And I’m off. There isn’t another runner in sight. I’m so far behind I can’t even see them. Bystanders are puzzled by the lone late idiot running past, wondering, ‘Who’s this asshole?’ A quarter of a mile in, the course turns left. I’m all alone. One block later it turns right and there they are. Half a block up there’s a ridiculous mob walking shoulder-to-shoulder, clogging the right side of the street. The left lane is wide open and I could easily pass them over there but orange cones are dividing the street, it’s my first race, and I don’t know if there’s some rule against running over there. So I run straight through the crowd. I cut left, swerve right. I smash into arms, elbows, shoulders. ‘Scuse me’, ‘sorry,’ ’scuse me.’ After a few of those the niceties get old. Everyone is saying, ‘What an asshole,’ but not out loud. I charge through as delicately as I can, which is not very. Dodging like this can’t be good on my knees. Or my run time. My title of '5k Run Darn Good Run Time Holder' is in jeopardy. Suddenly the crowd starts cheering. Then I see why. On the empty left side of the road, the two lead runners are passing us going the other way. I’m one quarter in and they’re already three quarters toward the finish line. Good thing I didn’t run over there or I would have caused an accident.
I keep on, swerving, dodging, clipping elbows, hopping baby strollers. The crowd begins to thin as I leave the walkers behind and begin passing the slower runners. At the halfway turnaround my left knee starts in. Uh oh. It is then I realize I’d forgotten my knee brace. Yet another voidful, ‘Of course.’ The pain in my ego is as bad as the one in my knee. I shut it all out. I have to finish this. Up ahead I spot a fluorescent orange running shirt. Michiyo! She is surprised as I pass her but there’s no time for small talk. I have a purpose.
I continue passing runners. My left knee is starting to holler. ‘You asshole! You forgot the knee brace?’ I ignore it. Then my right knee joins the left in protest. Both knees are now in pain. This never happens. The disaster won’t end! I refuse to give in but my pace slows down. Three quarters through and I’m no longer passing people. Then my hips start in with, ‘What are we getting out of this?’ It’s now a battle between my 54-year-old body and my 54-year-old mid-life crisis. My glory is greatly diminished by my morning mental collapse but, if I can just keep running, maybe I can still emerge as a ‘5k Run Not Too Bad Of A Run Time Holder’. I refuse to quit and I push through the pain. I turn the corner. One block up is the last turn before the finish. There are 6 of us now in a loose group, running at the same pace. My knees and hips are barely supporting me, begging me to stop. We turn the corner together and there it is. The Finish Line! 150 yards to go. I limp towards it.
Suddenly, some guy about my age passes in front of me. Like he’s competing or something! What??!! Who the hell is this... guy? He apparently is not aware that I was personally invited by the coach to join the Everett High School Cross Country team! And I realize, after all my failures on this day, there’s still one person who I can show. 100 yards to go. I gotta show this guy!
Then…
And this is the miracle of adrenaline…
Instantly, like I took some magic pill... all the pain is gone. All of it! It has vanished into the voidful void. I am fresh. The hips quit screaming and are now urging, ‘Let’s go!’ The legs follow with, ‘C'mon! Go Go Go!’ The knees come on board with, ‘Let’s do this! Let's show this asshole!!’
My body becomes a well-oiled machine. I turn it on and I kick it into a gear I haven’t seen since high school. No knee pain, no hip pain, I’m not even breathing hard! It’s amazing! To their surprise, I bolt out of the group of 6 and fly by the guy who passed me only yards before when I was limping. I glance over as I pass him and, with proud indignation, I say to him, ‘Cross country! Personal invitation!’ But I don't say it out loud. I cross the finish line a good 20 yards ahead of him as a photographer records my victory.
I pick up my race T-shirt, check on my bike, it's still there, unlocked by the tree, and I wait for Michiyo. A few minutes later, I receive a text with my race time: 27:15. A full 90 seconds worse than my best practice time but, not too bad, considering. I am a ‘5k Run Not Too Bad Of A Run Time, Considering’ holder. Included in the text is additional information. I placed 58th out of 145 guys in my age group and 661st overall out of 2510. I’m in the top one-third, just out of the top 25% of all runners. For my first race ever, and after just 15 practice runs and a disastrous morning, I guess I’m ok with that. Michiyo and I indulge in some free snacks and then pack up the bike and drive to Del Mar to see Dana Carvey in concert. By show time the adrenaline has worn off and the pain in my knees has returned with a vengeance, but I have never laughed so hard in my life. Maybe I’m an idiot, but I sure showed that one guy. If I can stick with running, I’ll show the rest of those assholes next time.
I arrive 10 minutes after the gun. The bike racks are full of bikes. The small tree over to one side will have to suffice. I lean my bike against the trunk, reach for the lock, and then realize the key is on the Toyota key chain. We drove the Tahoe. When senility replaces the mid-life crisis, it does so with a loud crack and a bang. But there’s no time for frustration or any more ‘Fucks'. There is only a deflated ‘Of course’ emanating from the voidful void. I take the chance, leave my bike unlocked, and run to get my number. Strangers are milling about all over the place. I glance back at the bike I have owned for 25 years. This could be the last time I ever see it.
The girls handing out numbers look at me like I just arrived from Pluto. One of them asks, ‘Are you running?’, but her tone says, 'What kind of an asshole...?' ‘I thought it started at 8:30.’ They require no paperwork, of course, just my name. I pin my number, 1122, to the front of my shirt and, holding my phone in one hand and my car keys in the other, I run toward the starting line. My thighs are already burned out from the mad bike dash. A young lady, a race employee, shouts out, ‘Are you running?’ ‘Yes.’ She points her finger at something on the ground and says, ‘Cross over this!’ I swerve to the left and do as I’m told, triggering the clock to record my start time.
And I’m off. There isn’t another runner in sight. I’m so far behind I can’t even see them. Bystanders are puzzled by the lone late idiot running past, wondering, ‘Who’s this asshole?’ A quarter of a mile in, the course turns left. I’m all alone. One block later it turns right and there they are. Half a block up there’s a ridiculous mob walking shoulder-to-shoulder, clogging the right side of the street. The left lane is wide open and I could easily pass them over there but orange cones are dividing the street, it’s my first race, and I don’t know if there’s some rule against running over there. So I run straight through the crowd. I cut left, swerve right. I smash into arms, elbows, shoulders. ‘Scuse me’, ‘sorry,’ ’scuse me.’ After a few of those the niceties get old. Everyone is saying, ‘What an asshole,’ but not out loud. I charge through as delicately as I can, which is not very. Dodging like this can’t be good on my knees. Or my run time. My title of '5k Run Darn Good Run Time Holder' is in jeopardy. Suddenly the crowd starts cheering. Then I see why. On the empty left side of the road, the two lead runners are passing us going the other way. I’m one quarter in and they’re already three quarters toward the finish line. Good thing I didn’t run over there or I would have caused an accident.
I keep on, swerving, dodging, clipping elbows, hopping baby strollers. The crowd begins to thin as I leave the walkers behind and begin passing the slower runners. At the halfway turnaround my left knee starts in. Uh oh. It is then I realize I’d forgotten my knee brace. Yet another voidful, ‘Of course.’ The pain in my ego is as bad as the one in my knee. I shut it all out. I have to finish this. Up ahead I spot a fluorescent orange running shirt. Michiyo! She is surprised as I pass her but there’s no time for small talk. I have a purpose.
I continue passing runners. My left knee is starting to holler. ‘You asshole! You forgot the knee brace?’ I ignore it. Then my right knee joins the left in protest. Both knees are now in pain. This never happens. The disaster won’t end! I refuse to give in but my pace slows down. Three quarters through and I’m no longer passing people. Then my hips start in with, ‘What are we getting out of this?’ It’s now a battle between my 54-year-old body and my 54-year-old mid-life crisis. My glory is greatly diminished by my morning mental collapse but, if I can just keep running, maybe I can still emerge as a ‘5k Run Not Too Bad Of A Run Time Holder’. I refuse to quit and I push through the pain. I turn the corner. One block up is the last turn before the finish. There are 6 of us now in a loose group, running at the same pace. My knees and hips are barely supporting me, begging me to stop. We turn the corner together and there it is. The Finish Line! 150 yards to go. I limp towards it.
Suddenly, some guy about my age passes in front of me. Like he’s competing or something! What??!! Who the hell is this... guy? He apparently is not aware that I was personally invited by the coach to join the Everett High School Cross Country team! And I realize, after all my failures on this day, there’s still one person who I can show. 100 yards to go. I gotta show this guy!
Then…
And this is the miracle of adrenaline…
Instantly, like I took some magic pill... all the pain is gone. All of it! It has vanished into the voidful void. I am fresh. The hips quit screaming and are now urging, ‘Let’s go!’ The legs follow with, ‘C'mon! Go Go Go!’ The knees come on board with, ‘Let’s do this! Let's show this asshole!!’
My body becomes a well-oiled machine. I turn it on and I kick it into a gear I haven’t seen since high school. No knee pain, no hip pain, I’m not even breathing hard! It’s amazing! To their surprise, I bolt out of the group of 6 and fly by the guy who passed me only yards before when I was limping. I glance over as I pass him and, with proud indignation, I say to him, ‘Cross country! Personal invitation!’ But I don't say it out loud. I cross the finish line a good 20 yards ahead of him as a photographer records my victory.
I pick up my race T-shirt, check on my bike, it's still there, unlocked by the tree, and I wait for Michiyo. A few minutes later, I receive a text with my race time: 27:15. A full 90 seconds worse than my best practice time but, not too bad, considering. I am a ‘5k Run Not Too Bad Of A Run Time, Considering’ holder. Included in the text is additional information. I placed 58th out of 145 guys in my age group and 661st overall out of 2510. I’m in the top one-third, just out of the top 25% of all runners. For my first race ever, and after just 15 practice runs and a disastrous morning, I guess I’m ok with that. Michiyo and I indulge in some free snacks and then pack up the bike and drive to Del Mar to see Dana Carvey in concert. By show time the adrenaline has worn off and the pain in my knees has returned with a vengeance, but I have never laughed so hard in my life. Maybe I’m an idiot, but I sure showed that one guy. If I can stick with running, I’ll show the rest of those assholes next time.
