A Poor Life Choice

So, about five months ago I had, quite possibly, the worst idea I have ever had in my life. I’m home for Christmas, life is easy, no worries, just relaxation, I blame this for lulling me into a false sense of security ergo leading to the making of the aforementioned horrid idea.

As I’m sitting at T and M’s I think to myself, “self, wouldn’t it be fun to run the Indianapolis mini marathon this year?” This thought was the catalyst leading to my eventual downfall.

Enter back at school, beginning of the semester, classes are not bad, I have time to train. I find myself needing a source of income, enter job, and exit some training. Enter growing class intensity. Exit more training. Enter flu. Exit all training...

And before I know it, it’s time for the mini.

I wake up to a brisk spring morning, very brisk, very morning (6:00 a.m. and cold). I put on all my special clothes, socks, shoes, etc. and head out. Downtown is a madhouse! I have to get out of my friends car about a half a mile from where I need to be and I begin my epic sojourn.

We get started and are on our merry way. A little over an hour in we hear that someone has won. It was a man from Kenya. I spend the next few miles contemplating the idea that there could be some sort of gene splicing happening there between runners and cheetahs. I plan to blow the story wide open soon. Watch for it.

Now lets jump ahead 9 miles. It’s about now that I’m really over the whole situation. My feet hurt, my knees kill, and my glute muscles are in a permanent state of constriction. Feeling good.

On the plus side I have been smart about staying hydrated, not like the guy we pass laying behind the ambulance, he was dumb about hydration. I mean really, are the two seconds you may have saved not drinking worth it? I think no.


Mile 10: Why do people think this is fun? Do runners ever just go bowling? Ride a rollercoaster? Maybe I should dedicate the rest of my life to helping the poor runners realize what fun actually is. Was that a raindrop?


Mile 11: I hurt, that is it. Actually no, that is not it I am also wet. It is raining, a lot, on my head, rainrainrain. Why did I think this was a good idea? People are saying pain is weakness leaving the body, I firmly believe I have no weakness left only pain and wet. Oh, the sun is coming back.


Mile 12: Eff my life. Entire lower body is stiff. Why the heck did I do this to myself? Will this ever be over? I don’t enjoy being rained on. Glad that’s over. So close. Men on bike ask if I’m okay or if I’d like a ride back. There is no stinking way I’m quitting at this point. I walk on.


Mile 13: I’m almost there! Only .1 miles left! I’m actually going to do this.

As I cross the finish line I feel a strange mix of overwhelming joy and relief, and crippling pain and fatigue. I get my super cool big medal though, go eat some pasta, and head back home. I think I’ve blocked going up the 4 flights of stairs from my memory. A few days later though and I’m feeling okay, still a little sore but not bad.

I think it is safe to say, however, that this was both the beginning and the end of my distance self-propelled forward motion career.