I inexplicably signed up to run a 5K this past Saturday morning in downtown Fort Lauderdale. No, they didn’t have All-You-Can-Eat Wings at the finish line, nor did they make me chase a cheeseburger wagon the entire course. I’m trying to get back into shape is all – back off! (Dieting makes me grumpy.)
I‘ve run three 5Ks before (not on the same day), but they were all the same route and I knew that route well. This one was up, down and around, which made the run even more challenging.
Besides actually having to run it, here are a few things I hate about running a 5K:
Parents that run with their 6-year-old kids
Look, I’m not destroying little Ethan’s self-confidence with my devastating 12-1 curveball in little league. So don’t bring little Zachary out to the 5K just to run by me, which in turn shames me into adjusting my route to run through Dunkin Donuts.
Free t-shirt not in my size
Americans are the fattest people in the world. Can we start adjusting our t-shirt ratios a little better? Thanks for the t-shirt, though. My 12-year-old niece will enjoy wearing it before she outgrows it.
Getting in line late
After I got my runner’s number, electronic tag and baby t-shirt, I realized I needed to put stuff back in my truck if I wanted to keep it. By the time I got back to the starting line, the national anthem was being sung and runners were taking their marks. So my fat ass starts speed-stretching, which is always a good idea. The gun goes off – and I have one hamstring all bendy and warm, meanwhile, the other hammy is tighter than a virgin’s daughter. I ended up running in a 30-yard circle for 20 minutes like a car with a flat.
Fat bastards that run faster than me
That’s just not cool. I like to say stuff to them when they pass me like, “Wouldn’t stapling your stomach be easier?” or “I hear the third triple-bypass is a charm!” They usually don’t respond ,though, because the words come out of my gasping-for-air mouth like this, “Kkkcchhhaaa hhaffffff, bllaaaaaahhhhh, phlaaaaaghhhh.” But they can read my facial expressions. They know.
Sweating a bra image into my shirt
My father once asked me, from his deathbed, “Dave, what happened? Did your chest have an avalanche?” Then I crimped his air-hose while everyone laughed. Why does sweat have to wick into my shirt above my belly? Don’t answer that, Mr. Wizard. It was rhetorical.
The sneak-up-on-you finish line
Normally, when you are running a 5k like this, you kind of reserve some energy for the final sprint. So here I am, getting passed by children, statues and hospital patients in gurneys, while I’m preserving some energy for that last kick – and I turn the corner to find the finish line just 20 yards away. Twenty yards!?! Come on! Give me a longer straightaway than that to get a head of steam going. I finished with energy left in my tank – that should never happen! Luckily, walking 20 more yards to my car burned it all off.
I have to admit, when I got there, I really thought I had a good chance of coming in last (I didn’t – take that, one-legged dog). And actually, my finishing time of 43:50 sounds bad at first. But since it’s running a 5K, you have to convert it through the metric system – so 33:18 is pretty darn respectable!