Alright, buckle up, folks, because apparently, I’ve done something incredibly foolish. It all started innocently enough. Last year, I witnessed my beloved spouse, the one I’ve managed to cohabitate with for more than two decades (give or take a few years where I might have briefly considered moving into the garage), complete her SEVENTH “capital 10 K” race. Now, I myself had once participated in this very same athletic endeavor. Let me emphasize the word “once.” This momentous occasion occurred roughly 38 years prior, back when my knees didn’t sound like a rusty screen door in a hurricane and my idea of a strenuous workout was reaching for the remote.
So, naturally, in a moment of what I can only assume was temporary insanity brought on by witnessing actual physical exertion, I blurted out, “I’ll run it with you next year!” Yes, you read that right. Me. Run. A 10K. It’s amazing how time flies when you’re busy avoiding exercise. Suddenly, it was December, 8 months later, and the horrifying reality of this commitment loomed a mere four months away.
Now, you might assume that I had been diligently training for this event, perhaps rising before dawn to engage in vigorous cardiovascular activity. You might picture me gracefully gliding through scenic routes, my lungs expanding with the pure, invigorating air. HA! The truth is, my training regimen consisted primarily of lifting various snack foods to my mouth and occasionally getting up to let the dog out so that she could deposit her presents for us.
Realizing the monumental error of my ways, I finally kicked things into “high gear,” which in my case meant a series of increasingly desperate and pathetic attempts at jogging. Each step was accompanied by a colorful internal monologue, the central theme of which was, “You utter moron, why did you agree to this?!” My neighbors, I’m sure, were highly entertained by the spectacle of a middle-aged (middle ha ha) man wheezing his way down the street like a broken vacuum cleaner.
However (and here’s the part where I try to sound slightly less pathetic), I did have one small advantage. You see, my pre-race suffering took place at an elevation of 5400 feet-plus in Colorado. This meant that every agonizing, oxygen-deprived step was, in theory, making me tougher. Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself as I gasped for air and contemplated faking a sudden onset of the plague.
Well, against all odds, including my own profound lack of enthusiasm, I actually crossed the finish line today. Yes, I may have been approximately 26 minutes slower than my youthful, spry 22-year-old self (who, let’s be honest, probably wasn’t setting any world records either). But the important thing is, I RAN IT. I survived. My lungs are still vaguely functional. And my knees only sound like two rusty screen doors in a Category 5 hurricane now.
So, here’s to next year. Although, if anyone sees me even thinking about signing up, please feel free to tackle me. For my own good. Seriously.
