Running...

Believe it or not, I wrote this before I ever ran the Chicago Marathon.  Being the writer-type, I guess I felt I had to run the race on paper before I ran it on pavement.  Anyway, here's how I thought it would go...

            The end of the line wasn’t nearly as close as the beginning and my shirt was already sweat-drenched and heavy.  A single sweat bead caromed off the end of my nose and I watched it drop and break against the already soggy fabric of my light blue shirt as I moved forward.  I couldn’t help but wonder how much liquid a body could do without.  I was certain to test those limits before dragging my body over the finish line.  I felt another bead collecting on my nose and I reached up to wipe it before lowering my arm back into its cadence as I continued to pound the pavement with my $85 Saucony running shoes.  Every stomp that my shoes made on the Chicago blacktop seemed to rock me deeper into the pulse of the race.  The panic of not being able to catch my breath was subsiding and my legs seemed to coach themselves through each stride.  I raised my head slightly and upon seeing the wave of runners spreading thinner over the twenty-six plus mile stretch of race, lowered it again so I could watch my legs work.  As long as you’re not last, nobody will notice how slow you’re running.  The thought made me smile.  I'm mimicking the slackers in high school gym class, the ones who ran in groups so that they could all give no effort and still not be singled out by the teacher.  My smile faded.  This is different, right?  I mean, I can’t be expected to be in the front of the pack at the Chicago Marathon when I hadn’t ever run a race until four months ago.  I perked up again.  Fuck no!

             It was a struggle, but before long I had reasoned the sides of my mouth into a believable grin to raise my confidence (Hey, false confidence is still confidence) high enough to allow my legs to continue moving past the pain and self-doubt so the rest of me could continue to inch forward.  Deeper and deeper into the tempo of my surroundings I fell until I could faintly hear someone announce the five-mile mark.  Five down Corey, twenty-one to go.  I slanted my run slightly so I’d be lined up to grab a drink from the water table just ahead of me.  “You’re doing great,” a woman breathed to herself as I inched passed her.  A smile cracked my lips.  All these people are as nuts as I am.  Wait, no Corey.  These people probably trained… 

            The water table just ahead, I quickly picked who of the fifty or so volunteers I would take my first cup of water from, an important milestone on a course with miles of stones.  About midway through the gauntlet of smiling helpers who lined the edge of the street, I spotted an older gentleman leaning toward the center of the road, bright-eyed and anxious to aid a thirsty runner.  Eh, he’ll do.  I took roughly fifty more steps, reached out my clammy hand and mouthed “Thank you” as I grabbed the paper cup and hastily tipped the cool water into my mouth.  “Doin’ great!” I heard the man yell from over my right shoulder as the water he had just handed me splashed from the cup onto my salty face.  I drank what didn’t spill and enthusiastically crushed the paper cup in my fist, Hulk style, before dunking it down onto blacktop.  Someday, when you get sick of running, you should volunteer to pass out water.  Next year maybe.  I laughed to myself.  Next year…