You know how when you sign up to do these fabulously concocted ideas, like paint a bathroom at 11 o'clock at night or rescue a super hairy, fence-jumping, laundry room-eating gazelle/pup or run a mostly uphill 5k with the most wicked side-ache ever unmedically recorded...
You know how ALL these ideas sound super great in the beginning?
Then... the dog pees on your brand new rug.
Oh. You do? Enter YOU empathizing with me...
So there I was, half mile into the race, enjoying the flop-plop-puuuff (left, right, exhale) rhythm I'd established when, rather suddenly, amid a pack of wildly unshaven 20-somethings (mostly men), I sensed the creeping tinge of a sucker punch. Three flop-plop-puffs later the radiating heat boiling from my volcanic rib cage began melting the pavement into gooey, asphalty road pudding. It was so hot, that the wildly unshaven pack of mostly men had to stop for water because they'd suddenly been transported via Swamp-Rabbit Trail to the Sahara (where, incidentally, there aren't any swamps or rabbits).
Slowing down to a flllllop-plllllop-yelp, I tried breathing, stretching and finally bartering with the rabid side-eater.
Me to Side Ache: Listen, I reeeeally want to do this race, Man. Can we just agree to simmer down for the next 20 minutes...then, you can have free reign to terrorize to your heart's (or ribcage's) content? Whadda say? I'll even let you saddle-up with Puke Throat for a little bit when we're done. Deal?
Side Ache to Me: Heh, heh, heh...you'll never catch me now!
Me thinking aloud: Funny, that's exactly what Kovi says to me when he's gotten away with something. What the...
At Mile 2 I was sure my guts we're flailing behind me like an intestinal kite tail. It was windy that day, so hopefully they looked pretty.
Squinting and praying, I limppity-plopped along trying not to focus on the pain but on the scenery instead. Oooh look, a dude pushing a baby-laden stroller just passed me. Hey wait, so did that guy with the dark glasses and cane. What! Three-toed sloth... even you?
Options: A- curl into very tight, very fetal ball, curse and wait for someone to come find me, preferably after dark so as to camouflage my shame . B- keep limppity-plopping along because eventually I'll either die or finish the stupid race- which, in both scenarios is an end to my suffering.
So I opted for B with A flavor... scoot along while cursing.
The shirts just ahead read things like ACHIEVE and JUST DO IT. One More Step and I Eat Marathons For Breakfast. RUN!
Ok Self...do what the shirts tell you. Then, out of no where a rogue Hanes jogged into view. It was an Avenged Sevenfold tour tee and it read:
Nightmare.
Precisely.
The woman is precariously balanced on a street light screaming to the runners, "Just one more block! Do you hear the music? Just one more block!"
I do! I DO hear the music! YAY! MUSIC! "It's the FINAL" Limppity, lippity..."Countdown!"
1/4 mile later and cursing the street light lady's poor sense of measurement, I crossed the finish line. The fire from my side ache had melted my most of competitors AND the time clock, which sucks because now I'll have to run another 5k.
In Liberty. In two weeks.
Whoooooooa. The FINAL Countdown. Do do do dooo.
* A special thanks to all my sponsors... Kovi, Ever, Big Daddy, bag of mostly eaten Chex Mix- thanks guys. I probably would have opted for A had it not been for you. And to Kate and Josh...the real runners, thanks for the inspiration. Looking forward to many more 5ks, minus the evil little side aches. :)
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