Skinny friends encourage me to do stupid things. Like running grueling five mile trail runs in six inches of snow.
Fat friends would talk me into sleeping in, having a pancake breakfast, ordering sausage links at said breakfast. They wouldn't persuade me to enter a race that was destined to humble and embarrass me in front of my peers.
Granted, this was my idea, so I'm partially to blame. And I did escalate the situation by inviting a buddy co-worker to run the race with me. A lithe, rail-thin, in-shape buddy with a stride the length of three of mine.
So when I began having second thoughts last week about my ability to get up at 7:00 on a Saturday morning and drive through a blizzard to make it to the event (let alone finish it), he wouldn't let me live down my promise to do it. Or let me stop for doughnuts on the way.
Thus I found myself in 12 degree weather, face frosted with ice and snot, barreling down a slick snow-packed path trying to keep my feet from slipping out from under me. All the while, my gazelle-like friend bounded effortlessly through the forest leaving my puffing red face in his dust.
He left me behind after the first mile and a half, calves cramping and lungs burning from the cold wintry air. I drifted toward the back of the pack of over 300 or so participants. Here's a quick sampling of a few of the 250 folks who beat me (This is absolutely true, BTW):
1 64 yr old man.
2 50 yr old women.
2 13 yr old boys.
2 16 yr old girls.
I tied with this person:
Finally, I skated through the finish line, hungry, lonely, aching, feeling like I just spent an hour as a Jack London protagonist. Craving dry clothes, warmth, and, strangely, a meatloaf sandwich, I discovered my time:
A thirteen minute mile.
No, your eyes do not decieve you. THIRTEEN MINUTES!?! This was my third grade phys. ed. mile-run time. And I haven't improved since? I'm honestly quite surprised that the clock counted this high and my time didn't register ######### on the final result sheet.
What was even more surprising was the fact that my antelope friend only finished a couple minutes ahead of me. In fact, I wasn't all that far behind the average pace. Given that I was stricken with shin splints, cramped hammies and a large blood blister on my left third little piggy, I was fairly content with actually finishing (I also spent the last two miles having to go twosies, but there were no port-a-potties and the pre-spring deciduous tree line provided little cover).
Fat friends would never allow me to put myself through this.
But excuses aside, the event brought to light a harsh truth that I've been avoiding here the last few months: I'm not getting any younger. I used to be able to pick up and run these types of things with little or no training, relying on my youthful stamina to see me through. That is the case no longer.
In two shorts months I will be participating in a 13.1 mile mini-marathon. Granted there won't be any snowy fallen trees to hurdle or slick, steep hills to ascend, but I need to recognize the need for practice.
And I guess I'll keep those foolish skinny friends of mine.
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