A couple of weekends ago, after being shamed into it by my extremely athletic girlfriend, I participated in the annual frostbite half marathon here in Starkville. I’m not going to tell you how I did-let’s just say that I finished. I wasn’t totally unprepared for this. I do get out and run occasionally, and I’m in decent shape, as long as you consider round to be decent. The race organizers mailed out a complete list of participants, so you could see where you placed. They were also kind enough to include the picture that was snapped as you crossed the finish line.
This is sort of like going to a theme park and having your picture taken on the roller coaster just as you reach the first drop. You can look at the photo after the ride is over, see how scared you were and remark to your friends, “Look how much fun I was having.” Anyone looking at my picture would not think I was having fun at all. They would in all likelihood ask the same question that I was asking myself at the moment the picture was taken: “Why on earth did you do this to yourself?”
The race organizers would be better advised to have taken this picture at the start of the event, when my grimace of pain was not quite so obvious. Instead, they ended up with a picture of me that could be used to frighten young children; no wonder they mailed it back to me.
I don’t know when I’ll have the guts to do this sort of thing again, but I will definitely be better prepared next time. Naturally, I’ll train harder, eat better the night before and all that good stuff, but what I really intend to do next time is bring a can of mace. You see, not everyone ran the entire distance. Some people got together in a group and ran it in relays. One such person stepped out of a warm truck at about mile 10, waited for his partner to reach the hand-off point then came tearing past me. As he passed, he called out, “Are we having fun yet?” Yeah, you just wait pal, next time I’ll be ready with my can of mace, and we’ll have some fun then.
I am still having trouble justifying to myself why sensible human beings would want to torture themselves this way. My girlfriend, who has about as much body fat as your average broomstick and runs everyday for (get this) fun, is already gearing up for a full-length marathon in April. She suggested that I might want to participate as well. Why? I can achieve the same effect in the comfort of my own home simply by soaking myself in cold water to simulate sweat, then hiring two or three burly guys to take baseball bats and beat me from the waist down. I could even put a big Ziploc bag over my head so I could experience the thrill of being short of breath while the other abuses are taking place.
We should take a lesson from the history of the marathon. Way back in ancient Greece, a guy called Phidipedes, (his name was actually Stupides, but he was renamed by revisionist historians), ran from Marathon to Athens to bring the news of the Greek victory over the Persians. After running the entire 26.2 miles, he managed to shout out “Nike!” which is Greek for “Oh crap, my heart feels like it’s about to explode!” Whereupon, his heart did actually burst, and he died on the spot. Once again, revisionists twisted history, and we now are led to believe that “Nike” is synonymous with “Victory.” Now the only people who shout “Nike” at the end of marathons are the top 10 finishers, who are hoping to get contracts. The rest of us still repeat Stupides’ original cry.
Honestly, where did the idea for making this a common sporting event come from? Who said, “Look, this Greek dude ran a little over 26 miles and died, I think I’d like to try it”? You never see anyone smiling during these races. It’s only hours or days later, when they can move around without experiencing shooting pains in their lower body, that you hear people talking about how great it was. Maybe it’s like childbirth. Immediately after, you always hear women say things like “Never again,” and occasionally some unprintable things, but as soon as a few months have passed, they start bringing up the subject of having another kid.
Maybe after another week or two, when my toes look like those of a human being again and I can walk around without at least one joint clicking or popping, I’ll do what everyone else does and pretend that it was so much fun to run a distance that normally tires me out to drive. I’ll pull out my picture and after people get over their shock and fright, I’ll point proudly to it and say, “Look how much fun I was having!