In high school I was sprinter before I went on to do the whole field section of Track & Field. I was never built to run more than 100 meters. God just didn't put me together like that. He said, "Son, I'm going to give you short stubby arms and legs, and you shouldn't run long distances."
So I didn't. Ever.
Until the Niff someone conned me into running because it would "help me get in football shape". I'm either a sucker or I'm just outright dumb, and maybe even a bit of both.
First it started with a mile race: "It's all downhill!!! You are great at running downhill!!! Come on, you'll do great!!!" I wanted to break 8 minutes, but alas, I finished in exactly 8 minutes. Not sure how I got roped into another race after that. But I did.
"Come on! It's just a 6k!!! You've run longer than that at my Fun Run with my track club!" Stupid me should have thought back to how I was barely moving .01 mph at the end of that 4 mile run and how I felt like dying shortly after. But I didn't.
I signed up for a couples race where I would run a 6k (3.7 miles) and the Niff would run the 5 miler portion of the race. We checked out the elevation on the map beforehand and it didn't look bad at all.
Mental Note: Next time, it's safe to say that driving the route prior to running could be extremely beneficial.
The elevation sheet showed that it barely inclined at all...what kind of CRACK was that person smoking when they drew that? They made it seem like the biggest hill was just an oversized speed bump, when in actuality it was like I was in the damn Alps or the Pyrenees Mountains training with Lance Armstrong. Holy crap, I felt like I was running up the side of Everest. I was barely moving at some points.
Apparently I either am thinking of food or want to die or want to kill someone for their food when I run, because I can't really describe my face in any other way when I run:
Maybe it's because I felt like I was running in mud, and yet these two douche canoes in front of me would stop and rest every 10 seconds, and up until the very very end of the race they were still beating me. Maybe that's why.
Eh, maybe not. I was probably just thinking about demolishing a Big Mac after I finished my Death March.
Even when I was in high school, my last lap or last 20 meters or whatever I was running was almost my fastest. Maybe it's because I don't know how to spread that energy over my entire race evenly, but I keep a pretty good reserve in the tank before unless my pure hell on myself. I sprinted probably the last 1/4 mile, maybe a bit more, I can't tell really. At that point a lot of people are all sluggish and actually slow down as they get to the end but I put it in high gear. I felt like Spartacus, I could hear people cheering over my blaring iPod.
Then again, maybe they were screaming in horror, as they've never seen such a large beast move that fast and they were fearing for their lives, much like in those videos of WHEN GOOD ANIMALS GO BAD and you see an elephant charge into the crowd at the circus.
Now, mind you, the Niff ran almost a mile and a half longer than I did, and here are some notes on her:
- She was barely sweating when she finished.
- She was smiling when she finished.
- She looked like she hadn't even ran yet (that is a compliment).
- She finished barely 2 minutes behind my fat ass.
I will never figure it out. Then again, she's a marathon runner, and I'm just a poor fat schlub trying to shed some extra pounds before the football season. Or at least, that's what I keep telling myself.
