Saturday, November 26, 2011
You may or may not know that I have a natural aversion to running. My husband and I spend good weather days walking our 5-mile block.
This past August, he asked me if I wanted to try jogging it. Feeling up to the dare, I took off, made it 4 minutes and doubled over with a pain in my side and sudden urge to vomit. BUT, I made it 4 minutes longer than I thought I would.
The following day, my competitive streak kicked in and I decided to slow down my pace and make it further than the day before. That progressed day by day until I could make it around our entire block. Not that I'm fast, mind you, as evidenced by the day the 20 Buzzards circled my head just waiting for me to keel over. (Okay, I get it. I'm slow and you're hungry. You don't have to be so rude about it.) Not to mention my almost 40 year old bladder that requires a bathroom break or 2 along the way. Thank goodness for cornfields.
Fast forward to September when I heard about a local 5K for charity being held on Thanksgiving Day. I signed us both up and he began "training" me around our block. Methods that included heckling with the occasional cat call, butt slap and inappropriate suggestion. He's quite effective.
When the weather got too cold to run our block, we went our separate "training" ways. He worked out at the gym and I stuck with my very old but very dependable treadmill at home. He came home with impressive progress reports. His speed, his distance and calories burned. Since the console on "old dependable" went out long ago, I had nothing to report except that I could run through 2 Joyce Meyer sermons without diving off the side and/or throwing up. His philosophy: "Knowledge is Power." My philosophy: "Ignorance is Bliss."
I tried to sound confident, but deep inside I was paranoid that I was going to fail. Then he really freaked me out when he asked me if I had my IPod loaded for the race. I said, "But how will I hear you talk to me?" He said, "Oh, you want me to stay back with you?" (Nice, Chuckles.)
That brings us to Thanksgiving morning. The weather was perfect. Clear, sunny and cool. We stood amidst the hundreds of people waiting to start. Some were dressed like turkeys and one man was dressed from head-to-toe in camouflage. Note to self: Stay behind the creepy hunter.
My husband stood there confidently stretching while I stood praying for a cornfield to relieve myself. The race began. The pack, including my husband, crushed around me and quickly passed.
When it seemed everyone had found their niche, I surveyed my position. I looked behind me to realize that I was the leader of the group of 60 year old walkers. And when I looked in front of me, I was right behind the stay-at-home-mom-power-walking-duo, complete with Lycra jump suits and super cool arm bands that held their IPods. If you followed the chord to my IPod, it would lead you through the neck of my over sized sweatshirt and straight into my sports bra.
And out of nowhere, I heard a little kid say, "Excuse me" and I turned around to see a boy on a scooter trying to pass me....and I started wishing I'd thought to bring a scooter.
I had a choice. I could either panic and give up or just do what I knew I could do and forget everyone else. I didn't have Joyce Meyer, but I had the next best thing: My IPod full of motivating songs like Sexy Back, Ridin Dirty and I'm Sexy and I Know It. Songs that make me forget I'm an almost 40 year old mom and songs that give me hope that I too could wear a Lycra jump suit and even pole dance if given the chance. I found my comfort zone and took off, slowing down only for Bohemian Rhapsody. (I have a killer air-guitar solo in the middle.)
At the halfway point, I caught up to my husband, who said between gasps of breath, "Hey! There you are. I've been waiting for you." (Nice try Chuckles.) I patted his butt and moved on past him. Shortly after that, I passed the kid walking while his dad carried his scooter. (Not so tough without your scooter, huh?) On the final stretch, when I was ready for it to end, the perfectly timed song, My Chick Bad started in my ears. That's the song that makes me wonder if I might look good doing cool choreography on a dance floor.
Anyhoo, it had the desired effect and I sprinted over the finish line....9 minutes before my husband. But this was for charity, people, so let's not make it about who beat who. (I was 9 minutes faster. I was 9 minutes faster. I was 9 minutes faster.)
And for the record, next year, the speed-walking-housewives are going down.