For the first time in my life, I have decided to train for the
Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. I’ve registered for the 5K for 9 straight
years now. I say “registered” because there were a couple of years in my 20’s
when I recall being too hung over to actually show up for the race. I told
myself I was Sleeping In For the Cure. I'm sure they made great strides in cancer research with my entry fee.
Although I’ve shown up to the race most years, my training
has primarily consisted of running between the couch and the pantry to grab a
handful of Annie’s bunny grahams while watching a Chopped marathon. Watching
the Food Network gives me one hell of an appetite. This leads to a race day
performance that is, let’s just say, not representative of my potential.
With the goal of athletic redemption, I devised a
training schedule that includes legitimate outdoor running of distances greater
than the distance to my local Sunday brunch hangout. Mondays are now “Mile
Mondays,” Wednesdays are “Wilderness Wednesdays,” and Fridays are “5K Fridays.”
I can’t make things too complicated or I won’t be able to remember what I’m
supposed to do. My first “Mile Monday” went pretty well. I clocked a time of less
than 10 minutes, which felt like quite a victory.
My first "Wilderness Wednesday" was not such a roaring
success. The intent behind Wilderness Wednesdays was to do a trail run. It
seemed like a great way to enjoy nature and subsequently not feel like I’m
running. I failed to take into consideration how much of our local wilderness
is located on the side of a God forsaken mountain.
We decided to kick off Wilderness Wednesdays at Mt. Tabor
Park. Maybe my point of view is slightly tainted after running up the face of a
mountain for 20 miserable minutes, but that park sucks. The scenery includes
way too many reservoirs and people (not the natural experience I had in mind),
and did I mention the 20 minutes of running straight uphill? I wanted to die.
Five minutes into the run, I was gasping for breath and insisted
that I could not go on. Mario was not sympathetic. He told me I’m just out of
shape -- OUT OF SHAPE, HE SAID! I work out six days a week, but he accuses me
of being out of shape just because I find it difficult to run up the face of a
cliff. I can only think of one legitimate reason when one would ever need to be
proficient at running up the face of a cliff, and that’s in the event of a
tsunami. Considering that I don’t live on the coast, I don’t think I need to emphasize
tsunami preparedness, MARIO.
Ten minutes into the hell run, I got dizzy. I started seeing
spots. When I complained about this, Mario was like, “Those are flies, Jen.
We’re outside.” I flailed my arms around in front of me and hit a few of the
flies. Damn it. He was right. The flies made my situation even more dire (if
you can imagine that) because now I had to breathe strictly out of my nose to
avoid eating a fly. Again, Mario showed no sympathy for my fat, out-of-shape,
pescetarian ass.
Just as I was on the precipice of death, we reached the top.
Then we got to run down, which was a real treat for my 33 year old, fat, out-of-shape
knees. At the bottom, Mario told me what a great job I’d done, which was a
total lie. There’s nothing worse than someone cheering you on in an athletic
endeavor when you know you’re doing horribly. It’s like getting a 3rd
place ribbon when there were only three competitors. That has happened to me,
so I know exactly how stupid and demoralizing it is.
I can tell you right now that the first “5K Friday” is going
to take place on a high school track in the middle of the city, where there are
no reservoirs, flies, or mountains. Also, Mario might not be invited. He can go
train with his college track friends, who I’m sure are every bit as good at
running up mountains as he is and love to eat flies. (Except Leanne -- she’s
cool.)
