Tommy TwoStep - I Am Not A Runner

June 30, 2007:

I made it! One hour later. Above: Amanda, my nephew Tyler, and I cool
down with some water and orange Gatorade after I finished the 10k race.

I am not a runner.

Cross this off my list of things to do before I die. Running in a 10K marathon. Fits snuggly in with tandem skydiving as the closest I’ve ever felt to dieing in my life. Hell, I’m not a conditioned runner let alone a marathon runner. I mean, I enjoy going for a short jog after lifting weights to break a nice cardio sweat you know, but 6.2 miles? I don’t think so.

I am not a runner.

It’s Friday, June 29^th, the day before the Ellwood City Ledger 10k race and I am sitting at home on my computer researching anything and everything on how to eat for, prepare for, and run in a marathon. I think I was even on the Running a Marathon for Dummies website looking for tips on how not to look like an idiot in one of these things. After extensive research into what was about to ruin my life, I went and got some goodies at a local grocery store. Pasta for dinner, wheat toast and peanut butter for a late night snack, bananas for breakfast and lots and lots of Gatorade because... well, just for the hell of it.

I am not a runner.

I wake up at 6:00am [Note: On a Saturday!!!], throw on some gear that I usually would reserve for a pick-up game of basketball and head down Ewing Park to pre-register, stretch out and meet up with my two buddies who talked me into this hellacious workout. While down where the race begins I notice something – I am the only idiot out here without running shoes on! Young children running the race had them on. Grandma’s who finished the race in two hours had them on. Me? I had my Nike basketball kicks on...

I am not a runner.

I had no goals, just to finish the race and run the entire time. Others talked about their times and strategies. Mine was to not embarrass myself. I’ll admit it, I felt pretty good jumping around and loosening up before the starting gun. Joking around with my buddies. I felt I could do this, then all of the sudden chaos slowly started to mount as the close to two hundred runners packed in at the starting line. On your mark. Get set. BANG!

I am not a runner.

First mile wasn’t anything new to me. I’m cruisin’. I’m trained to run a mile. I drink beer on the weekends and can run a mile. What lied after that initial mile is what made me nervous. I find myself running in a pack of older men and my one good friend, Joe Vitullo. We get to the one-mile marker and the track official yells out to the group of runners Seven Minutes and Ten Seconds. Then I hear Joe say, “Uh oh, that is kinda fast for me.” *GULP*. Joe ran cross-country in high school and track and he thinks our pace is fast? I am trouble.

I am not a runner.

Jump to mile four and I find myself trudging along, gladly accepting cups of water onlookers were offering the racers, and having long lost my buddies I am slowly beginning to hit the wall. I make the four-mile marker around 32 minutes [Note: by this time the race winner had already completed the 6.2 mile race and probably was having a Gatorade and banana and getting interviewed by the local newspaper] [Additional Note: Fuck Him]

I am not a runner.

By this time most runners have widened distances between themselves and others in front and behind and I was no exception. This DID NOT work well for the psyche. You had no one to push you, no one to run with, beside, behind, just to keep a pace. These are the lonely times I felt like breaking down and walking for a few minutes. No Eric. I am going to run this fucking thing. I was not going to walk. Walking is for sissies. A welcomed site was two girls I knew from high school watching the race from in front of their parent’s house and spraying runners down with a garden hose. It brought a smile to my seemingly whimpering face to hear them scream out “Look at Eric!" and "C’mon Eric!” I smiled, replied “Where’d all my friends go?” knowing I was way behind my friends who had began running with me, and I took a nice spray from their garden hose. The smile, the short period of laughter, something must have awoken my broken down body, because at that point a felt a second wind. I started running with meaning again. I am going to finish this fucking thing.

I am not a runner.

Because that lasted long. My second wind turned into more of a second breeze. I have no energy left, but the good news is ONE MILE LEFT. My five-mile split comes in at 41 minutes. My split times have gone seven, eight, eight, nine, and nine again. I am falling apart. One more cup of water. One more mile. One amazing story to tell. Approaching the last quarter-mile I find myself running with an older guy and manage to sputter out “We ain’t gonna make fifty [minutes] are we?” He responds, “Hang in there buddy. You can make it.” I can make it? I will make it. I had told myself I was going to sprint the last 100 yards of race before the race began. No time to back down now. “Last straightaway -- I’m sprinting.” I reply to the older guy and take off. Turn the last corner and in my lackadaisical and lightheaded posture I sprint for the finish line.

I am not a runner.

Pass one. Pass two. Pass three runners in my last, desperate sprint. I feel the crowd, who lined the block before the finish line, roar behind me. “Look at him go!” “Go. Go. Go!” I am head over heels. I can’t stop running now. No, seriously, I can’t stop running. My whole body is limp and I can’t feel most of my bottom legs. I blast through the finish line. I did it. Where am I? My feet hurt. I’m thirsty.

Distance? 6.2 Miles. Time? 51:21. Place? 104th.

I am not a runner.