Why Did I Ever Race The Clock?

Day 50 -- Sept. 25, 2012

Today I'm 193.2 pounds of rolling thunder.

It's been a while since I raced the clock. Quite a while in fact.

One of the nice things about being the world's slowest human is never having to punch the clock.

But every once in a while I indulge my vanity and try a little test of speed. And just as often I get a punch to the gut that tells me that I'm not fooling anyone.

Nevertheless I've been running well lately with few if any breaks to walk, so I thought I'd test my mettle with a 3-mile timed run. I have a 3-mile route that is a mixture of stop lights and small hills, so timing is everything if you want to keep momentum going.

I warmed up by jogging up the hill near my house. It's a half-mile stretch that tells me where I'm at for the day. Run all the way up, and it's going to be a good day. Run/walk/run and it's OK. Run and then walk, and you're asking for trouble.

But part of the reason I start on top of the hill is to give myself a rolling start. I know downhills are tougher on ankles, knees and other joints, but so far it hasn't been an issue.

So I jogged to the top of the hill and took it as an omen that it was going to be a good day out on the road. I stopped at the corner to stretch and loosen my muscles, which, by the way, are genetically hard-wired to be tight as piano wire.

It was a mild yet humid day, so sweat came easy as I punched my wrist watch and started down the mile-long descent to the first turn. And even though you say time doesn't matter, just once it would be nice to look down at the half-mile or mile marker and be surprised by the number staring back at you.

There was no surprise at the half-mile mark. The number on my watch was large and getting larger.

I made the mile turn in a time that could as easily have been measured on a sun dial as on a digital wrist watch. Ouch! But I was still running. No walks.

I rounded the corner and began the second mile, which is filled with rolling hills and a single stop light. A long stop light, but the only one along the way. Catch it just right and you can maintain momentum from the hill you're on as you ascend the next one. Miss it, and it's a long wait for green.

I figured I'd be OK if I was only a minute slower in the second mile -- not proud, but OK. So moral victory No. 2 was making the second mile with all its hills without walking and only a minute slower than the downhill mile at the start of the run.

I turned the corner and headed for home. A half-mile downhill followed by a long flat (with two lights) and then a gradual ascent to the finish. I saw a walker in the distance so I pushed to try and catch her. I made the stop light and passed the walker on the flat.

I made the second light with little delay and rolled up the final climb. My time was horrible, but I had gone the distance without a walk or much of a pause. Victory was in the doing and not in the time was my rationalization, and I'm sticking to it.

So the next time you see the world's slowest human out on the streets, give me a wave.

Somewhere Babe Ruth Is Smiling

Day 39, Sept. 15-16, 2012

 

Today I'm 192 pounds of rolling thunder.

Baseball legend has it that in the third game of the 1932 World Series, slugger Babe Ruth was at bat in the fifth inning when he pointed his bat at the center field fence and called his shot. On the next pitch, Ruth hit the ball out of the park in the center field area where he had just pointed.

It's the stuff baseball lore is made of. Part truth. Part fabrication. Part magic.

On Saturday, our younger son took on the role of Ruth in his cross country meet. The lad pointed his bat and told us he was going to run a 27-minute 5K.

This is the same youth that wanted to quit three weeks ago. And the same one who came within a whisker of breaking 30 minutes for the 5K a week earlier.

But a jump of nearly three minutes. Not so fast.

Now historians agree that the legend of Ruth's called shot is politely referred to as ambiguous. While the event is caught on film, it remains unclear if Ruth was pointing at center field, the pitcher or a bunch of hecklers on the opposing team's bench.

The result, however, is indisputable. 

Now granted this was going to be the flattest and fastest course of the year, but to make a two to three-minute jump in one meet's time seemed beyond probable.

The day broke cool and overcast, and the racers toed the line at about 9:30 in the morning. The course loops through the grounds several times so we would be able to see the lad's progress as he tried to keep pace.

By the first loop he had fallen back, but was still in reach of the end of the pack. He had gone out faster than normal trying to stay in the slipstream of the pack. 

By the second loop through, he was still within reach of the last of the pack. I looked over at the timer and the pace was indeed fast. But would it be fast enough?

The leaders streamed over the hill and through the crowds to a downhill finish. The crowds formed a chute that resembled a scene out of the Tour de France. Runners had to snake their way through the maze of humanity to find the finish. 

Runners poured over the finish. We had become accustomed to waiting for our lad to plow through, so when the clock ticked 27 minutes I turned a hopeful eye up the hill to see if by some miracle he was defying logic and living up to his pre-race prediction.

Twenty-seven minutes came and went and I resigned myself to the hope that he would go sub-30, which would be a personal best and worth the price of admission.

At 28 minutes, a fluffy-tuft of hair poked up above the crest of the hill and then a familiar gait of a runner started making its way toward the finish. He paused, holding back the urge to vomit (well, sort of). 

I don't know if it was the crowd yelling, or catching a glance at the timer at the finish line, but the lad rolled down to a 28:15 finish. He had called his shot. He had come within an eyelash of hitting that home run and going under 28 minutes.

What started out as a sucker bet had come very close to becoming a reality.

And while the newspapers and websites will talk about the winners of the varsity races and all the personal bests, this was the stuff of cross country legends. Somewhere, Babe Ruth is smiling.