Tale of the running reporter

Two hundred yards from the finish line. That’s how close I came to reaching the end of my ill-advised run in Saturday’s Menard Memorial 5-K run before

vomiting.

Up until that point, things had actually been going pretty good.

First, I rolled out of bed a little after 8 a.m. I’ll admit that’s not a big accomplishment to most folks, but for a reporter it’s like running a 4-minute mile. Despite the unfamiliar hour, I actually didn’t feel half-bad when I awoke — and the sun was shining to boot.

“I can probably pull this thing off,” I said to myself.

It wasn’t an entirely delusional thought. For the past six weeks or so, I’d actually been putting in some legitimate hours on the treadmill, and even been on a couple pretty grueling hikes. So I figured running three miles would be pretty much a piece of cake.

But one bit of doubt was in the back of my mind. I recently spent a week in my hometown of Kenai, during which I hadn’t exactly been a picture of health. While the Peninsula may be “Alaska’s playground” to the rest of the state, to locals it’s our backyard. I won’t get into the specifics of my time back home, but let’s just say that if you’ve got a swimming pool in your back yard, you’re gonna get wet.

A week’s worth of socializing with friends and family had pretty much erased many of the gains I’d made over the past month, and heading into Saturday’s run I hadn’t so much as broken into a trot in about 10 days.

But how hard could it be?

After all, I knew from covering previous 5-K races that there was bound to be a bunch of little kids and old folks who I could leave in my dust.

Near the starting line, I ran into a couple friends who were planning on making the run. Two of the guys have about 20 years on me, while the other, my friend’s son, is an athlete who just graduated from Colony. One of the older guys, Jim, recently got back on a fitness program, while the other, Bob, is more of a fitness guy. The kid, well, he’s a kid. I figured they’d be a good gauge of my own fitness level.

As I’d expected, my friend’s son raced to the front and was never heard from again. But for the first half-mile or so, the three of us “older” guys hung together, even making a bit of small talk as we settled into an easy pace.

As the run started to get more serious, however, Bob started to pull away from Jim and I. Sensing it was time to make my move, I tried to follow, but to no avail. Soon, he was out of sight. I did manage to put a bit of distance between myself and Jim, but as the sweat started to pour I began to realize that I wasn’t exactly setting a blistering pace.

Looking around me, I noticed many of the people I was running with weren’t likely to be in my division. Or, for that matter, my gender division. Instead, some of the pack I was running with included a pair of chatty girls who couldn’t have been any older than 14, a middle school-aged boy running in a pair of jeans and a number of middle-aged folks — men and women — who seemed to be trucking along at a pretty comfortable pace.

I, on the other hand, was beginning to tire. The course — from the corner of Lucille and Spruce, down Spruce to Church then on Church almost to the Parks Highway — was deceptively difficult, with long, rolling hills over the length of the course.

“Hang in there,” I told myself, watching the kid in the jeans pull further ahead.

After about 20 minutes, I was starting to think about faking an injury. Running on hills is quite different from running on a treadmill, and there appeared to be several left to go.

Having never run the course, I had no idea how much farther I had to go, but judging by the amount of sweat pouring off me, I figure it couldn’t be too much more.

As I started up what seemed like my 20th hill, I noticed a group of boisterous-looking folks standing at the top. With just 500 yards left, I figured I’d made it. Summoning my last bit of strength, I made it my goal to run down that kid in the jeans, charging up the hill with all the zeal of a Revolutionary War hero. Although I didn’t catch the kid, I did feel a sense of euphoria as I neared the group of people, who, it turned out, were playing accordion music and urging on the runners.

But they weren’t at the finish line.

As I reached the top of the hill, I realized that my destination was still a good quarter-mile ahead. Having spent my last bit of energy on trying to catch some sixth-grader, I was filled with a sense of dread. I wasn’t going to make it.

Slowing to nearly a walk, I tried my best to gut it out to the finish. That’s when things started getting gross. In slowing down, I’d inadvertently tripped a physiological switch inside my body that told my muscles it was okay to start calming down. Doing this fast can have dire consequences. I’m not sure of the exact scientific term for this phenomenon, but in layman’s terms it’s known as “wanting to throw up.”

That’s about as specific as I need to get. For about 30 seconds — and, I might add, with an accordion player providing a surreal soundtrack — I hung out along the side of the trail and let nature take its course.

In that time, a couple young girls breezed past. As did a couple folks who looked to be my grandparents’ age.

But I wasn’t bitter. In fact, as I regained my focus and headed for the finish line, I had a new respect for everyone — young and old — who had come out to tackle the course. Running five kilometers is not easy, even for a still-youngish guy like myself. To see so many people of all ages out there pushing their limits actually made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself. Rather than look at the kid in jeans, the teenage girls and the old-timers as foes, I saw them as equals. I didn’t feel ashamed to be running alongside them, but proud that I’d made it this far with my fellow competitors.

After crossing the finish line somewhere near the middle of the pack, I wandered around until I found my friends. Bob was in good spirits, having finished first in his age group. His high-schooler sun had done even better, nearly breaking 20 minutes, while Jim came in just a few seconds behind me with a smile on his face.

As we walked back toward the Menard Memorial Arena for the awards ceremony, everyone was in good spirits. I told my story of losing my breakfast and we all shared a good laugh, but nobody was really laughing at me. They understood that to run until you puke isn’t necessarily something to brag about, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of, either. After all, I could have just stayed in bed.

Next year, I’m entering the race with no preconceived notions of where I should finish, or who I should beat. There’s only one guy I’m going to try to finish in front of next year, and that’s this year’s me.

And maybe that kid in the jeans, too. But I’m not counting on it.