Time to wrap up all this Cure JM/running/fundraising stuff with a whole mess of photos and ::cough, cough:: insightful commentary.
See what I mean? You would expect the next photo to be of me clutching my chest as I yell, “It's the Big One! You hear that Elizabeth? I'm comin' to join ya, honey!”
But first, the non-pandemic news.
As you see in the graphic, I ran my first major 5K in a decent 29 minutes and 8 seconds. This put me squarely in the middle of the pack of people my age (last gasp before the rapid downhill slide) and gender (hmm … yep, still male). Proof you can’t spell “mediocrity” without “me.”
Except for misestimating the location of the finish line three times, my run went down as smoothly as the two free beers the organizers gave us runners afterward. Drinking at 9 a.m. after exercise and almost no breakfast may help explain what happened next …
Hi. My name is Kevin. It’s been nine weeks since I started training to run Saturday’s 5K to raise money to find a cure for juvenile myositis.
My lungs are strong. I might take up smoking.
My thighs are -- hey, stop that! My Love does not want you thinking about my thighs.
My calves are chiseled. Like sculpted butter.
I ask, “Where is Jennifer Garner and her rubber gloves when I am in my hour of need?” Yeah, probably oiling down that Affleck clown.
Today, I’ll drive five hours to Baltimore where I will meet my fate. On the outside, I am going to be the happy-go-lucky-sarcastically-whiny ol’ self you’ve learned to tolerate. Inside, I’m going to be a gooey heap of wet linguine because I’ve been carbo-loading for 19 days. My pee is pure starch. Lumps included.
Actually, I think I’m going to be fine. I’ve have never missed or cut short one of my training runs as much as I’ve wanted to. If I can motivate myself without anyone watching, I’m sure I’ll do even better when pushed by several thousand other runners exuding confidence, adrenaline and rancid B.O.
Here’s some of my tips, observations and thoughts from this whole hellish process:
In an uncontrollable fit of neatness to avoid actual work this past weekend, I cleaned my drawers.
Not those drawers, which are done on Monday with the rest of the family unmentionables, but the filing cabinet drawers in my home office. That reminds me, we’re out of Shout.
After sorting through a desk full of paper that means nothing at all, I found a thick packet filled with colors and textures in paints and crayons and markers and pencils and stickers. It was the kids’ artwork from the days when I was still the center of their world instead of that guy who knows all the parental control codes to the household electronics.
I went through all the papers. The homemade Father’s Day cards, the school art projects, the five-minute masterpieces made on long summer days between snack and cartoon breaks.
I pitched a few things that held no special significance, such as a sheet with randomly placed shark stickers Excitable obviously created and a coloring book butterfly outline polka-dotted with splattered water color from the Li’l Diva.
Then there was this:
Having exhausted all other ways of squeezing nickels out of fliers, American Airlines has apparently come up with an innovative revenue idea: charging passengers extra to have their seats bolted to the floor of the plane.
I developed a love/hate relationship with American when I lived in Dallas years ago. I loved American because you could fly it almost anywhere. (I once asked a long-term transplant to Dallas where the best place was to go on a weekend. He answered quite seriously, "DFW Airport – Departures.") At the same time, I hated the airline because it was essentially your only choice for flying nonstop out of Texas. You never want to play an American lawyer or lobbyist in "Monopoly."
With little alternative, I've accumulated a few hundred thousand frequent flier miles on this airline over the years. Meanwhile, my wife – the globetrotting executive goddess that she is – has long had American's coveted Platinum status, a designation achieved by completing 100 consecutive flights without grabbing an attendant by the collar and screaming, "Six dollars for a box of raisins and a Wet-Nap? Are you people insane?"
I'd like to write a real post for you, but I have to run.
Not figuratively. For reals.
One foot in front of the other, knees up, arms pumping. Ooof. I'm breathing heavy thinking about it. Medic!
You may recall that I've had flirtations with jogging before, usually after unsuccessful bouts of buttoning my pants. Nearly of all of these fitness fits ended with not-so-subtle reminders from my body that running is best left to refrigerators.
However, our real family runner, My Love, had knee surgery a few weeks ago following advice from her doctor that the bottom half of her right leg might randomly fall off. This would require us to change her name to Peg.
As a result, I'm taking her place. I'm also working on an apology letter to the National Asphalt Makers and Layers Association.
I've been adhering to a running schedule that I found online (because everything on the Internet is helpful and true) that gradually lengthens my distance and running time in hope of turning this couch potato (honestly, I'm more of a "desk doughnut") into a 5K competitor. Three times a week, I’ve been slogging around the track at school near our house and, as of today, I can confidently report that [checks pulse] I'm still alive.
Running has definitely increased my stamina. I now only require CPR every other run. It hasn't helped with my memory or math skills, though. I've lost count of my laps several times. Sadly, each time my goal was running three.
Yet somehow this past weekend, I managed 2.25 miles (3.62 kilometers for the metrically inclined or 7920 cubits for those building flood arks). It didn’t feel good but I’d be seriously concerned if it did.
The one thing all my huffing and puffing has produced, aside from yellow stains under the armpits of several T-shirts, is a smile on My Love’s lips. Every time I roll my eyes and groan "I'm going for a run," her entire face lights up the way mine does when party hosts offer me beer. Of course, these days My Love is on a lot of Vicodin.
Whoa. Look at the time. Let me throw some sneakers on my feet, Band-Aids on my nipples and Vaseline between my thighs. I have promises to keep and miles to go before I write.
And obviously, I have some real issues with chafing.
+ + +
Our family is halfway to our fundraising goal of $20,000. Please throw a few tax-deductible dollars our way to help Li’l Diva and other children with juvenile myositis kick this disease’s butt.
Donate to the Uncools’ FirstGiving page at http://tinyurl.com/JM-donate-online.
