My Mid-Life Crisis Just Had a Re-Run (Literally)
By Casey Moreland (Who currently has the physical structural integrity of a wet Triscuit)
I have once again proven that the human brain is capable of a level of self-delusion normally reserved for people who think they can “beat the house” in Vegas. For the second time recently—and the third time if you count the race I ran 40 years ago when my knees were made of actual cartilage instead of what I suspect is now a mixture of gravel and spite—I ran the Statesman Cap10K.
My bride and I decided to “prepare” by getting a hotel near the starting line. I use the term “near” in the same sense that Earth is “near” the Sun: close enough to feel the heat, but far enough away to cause significant atmospheric distress. It was a half-mile walk. In Austin humidity, a half-mile walk is essentially an underwater excursion without the benefit of a scuba tank. By the time we reached our starting corral, we had already lost three pounds of water weight and gained the distinct sheen of a rotisserie chicken.
We were positioned well behind the Kenyans. In fact, we were so far back that by the time we actually crossed the start line, the Kenyans had already finished the race, showered, and were likely halfway through a sensible brunch in another time zone.
The starting area was a “sea of different smells” populated by thousands of people who apparently believe that “social distancing” was a brief, experimental art phase from the early 2020s. We finally lurched forward, an event I would describe as “running” only if you are the kind of person who describes a tectonic plate shift as a “sprint.”
The obstacles were numerous. To my left, a participant in a tutu. To my right, a gentleman who had pinned his race bib directly over his nipples. I am no medical doctor, but I have a firm professional opinion that by Mile 4, that man’s torso was going to look like it had been through a wood chipper.
My personal race strategy was sophisticated:
1. Walk.
2. Gasp for air like a goldfish that accidentally leaped onto a shag carpet.
3. Jog for twelve seconds.
4. Deeply regret the 10:00 PM chips and queso from the night before.
5. Pick a person in a pink tutu and vow to overtake them, only to realize the tutu-wearer is actually moving at the speed of sound.
At Mile 1, my bride—who I am reasonably sure still loves me, though the evidence is thinning—simply vanished. She checked out, left me in the dust, and disappeared into the Austin haze. I eventually passed the medic tent and realized I wasn’t going to die immediately, so I accelerated from “Sloth on a Sunday” to “Geriatric Turtle.”
I finally crossed the finish line and began a “beeline” for the beer tent. People use the term “beeline” to mean a straight path, which proves that nobody has ever actually looked at a bee. Bees fly like they’ve just finished a four-hour happy hour. My path was exactly like that.
The real tragedy? No Athletic Brewing this year! We’ve looked forward to that NA beer for years. It’s the best way to feel like you’re celebrating without the “I need to lie down in this gutter” caloric intake. We settled for a different NA brand and began the trek back to the hotel.
You know that scene in horror movies where the hallway just keeps getting longer and longer while the music gets weirder? That is the walk back to the hotel after a 10K. I spent most of it trying to rinse 6.2 miles of Austin grime and “character” off my soul.
I told my wife this is the last time. I was firm. I was resolute. I was convincing. But, given that I have the memory of a fruit fly and a recurring lapse in judgment every April, I’ll probably see you at the starting line next year. Look for me. I’ll be the one gasping behind the tutu.
Quick Stats for the Curious:
Temperature: A humid 74°F (which feels like 102°F when you’re moving).
Total Grime Level: High.
Nipple Status: Intact (unlike the guy in the apron)
Queso Regret: 10/10.
