A Blistering 5K Race

I ran my first and only 5K race while in high school. I was no runner. In fact, I hated running with a passion. Maybe that’s the reason I find running so abhorrent these many, many decades later.

One year the track team needed help, or I was bored after school—I can’t quite remember which—so I went to track practice. That year I lettered in track even though I never participated in a track meet.

I was a miler pacer. A miler pacer is crucial to any successful track team, in my humble opinion. At practice I would start out and run two laps as fast as possible around the track with our miler, helping him get up to speed. When I pooped out, Mikey the Miler would continue on his merry way while I nearly passed out on the infield grass.

Worked for me.

One night I was minding my own business working from 11pm to 7am on the night crew at a grocery store while one of my bosses searched for volunteers to run in his father-in-law’s 5K race.

“Hey, Kraig, you want to run in a 5K?” Mr. Fleener, my grocery store supervisor, kindly asked one night.

“Why would I want to do something stupid like that?” I replied.

“Well, you’re the youngest person working on the night crew, and the proceeds are to go toward the purchase of a heart machine”, explained Mr. Fleener.

Oops. “Okay, since I guess it’s for a good cause.”

The next Saturday at 8am found me stretching and getting my body ready for battle. I was a skinny dude in high school but woefully slow when it came to motion or movement. I was definitely not a runner, nor have I ever played one on television. I was a no-vertical-in-his-game basketball player and a slow-moving target tight end on the gridiron who thought cross country and track to be the domain of skinny guys with pencil-thin legs flapping their arms in an effort to take off and land somewhere else.

I, my friend, was no flapper.

As I laced up my high-top basketball shoes, I repeat, as I laced up my high-top basketball shoes—good gravy, where were my spotters? You know, the ones responsible for noticing the dork in the high-top basketball shoes who had no business being out on the course. The people who were used to noticing signs and symptoms of exhaustion, dehydration, and stupidity, not to mention a young buck who had just worked an eight-hour overnight shift at the grocery store stocking ice cream in the freezer. Staffers, who might possibly work for the hospital on the receiving end of the charity event, taking a look at me and deciding that if I ran in the outfit I was currently modeling, I might—no, I would—eat up all their profits in band aids, gauze, and aspirin alone.

No. Such. Spotters.

The thought occurred to me that it was never too late to back out of the race: three-legged, relay, potato sack—it made no difference. Changing one’s mind is a God-given right for peace, serenity, and general overall good health.

Too bad yours truly had already been bibbed.

“Bang!”

The 3.10615569-mile race began and in the first mile I was up with the leaders?

Shut the refrigerator door.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, I wasn’t racing six year-olds. I was pumped and thought this 5K thing wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be. Shoot, I’m a miler pacer. Shortly after those thoughts nonchalantly crossed my noggin, I hit the wall.

Every step was a struggle.

Every breath was labored.

Everyone else seemed to be passing me?

I knew I was in trouble when a blonde zipped by me like I was standing still. Come to think of it, I probably was standing still. What I noticed most was her ponytail and that I was certain I never ran that fast when I was ten years old.

Volunteers manned the water stands along the race route. Most runners grabbed a cup of H2O and dumped it on their heads without even breaking stride. I, on the other hand, grabbed every cup of water within reach and chugged it as fast as I could.

The good news was that my running style offered no stride whatsoever, so the agua intake never slowed me down.

Mile marker 1.5 came and went.

To finish or not to finish, that was the question. Not whether I wanted to but whether I was capable of it.

I decided I needed to pace myself if I was going to have any chance of completing this torture for charity.

Mile marker 2.0 appeared in the distance, and it took me quite some time to pass the stationery object.

You didn’t need a stopwatch to time me. No, sir. All that was needed was a calendar.

2.5 and all was not well.

Nearing the finish line with a supportive crowd cheering, I heard, “You can do it. All you need is one foot in front of the other. Finish!”

I looked around and discovered I was the one doing all the yelling.

3.10615569.

I dragged my carcass across the finish line and fell. Hard.

After deciding that being run over by fellow participants would definitely send me to the hospital, I tried standing up but struggled. A kind race volunteer, who would’ve been more helpful as a spotter, grabbed under my arm and helped me to my on-fire feet.

Once safely out of harm’s way, I unlaced my shoe and noticed I was now sporting a bloody sock. That wasn’t good. I peeled off the red and white undergarment and found the remnants of a foot-long blister. I waved to no one in particular while gingerly making my way to the car, as every muscle in my body began to say, “Gee, that was fun. Can we please do it again?”

If ever asked again the answer will always be, “No way 5K.” This miler pacer is retired.