I'm signing up for a 5k walk-run.
I used to be in pretty good shape. I don't think I'm
terribly out of shape, either. I sort of ran a few weeks ago when I had a
bronchial infection. Last summer my daughter and I tried doing some
training, and we got up to walk-running about four miles. We'd have gone
further if I didn't have to stop and pee from drinking so much water.
My friend Sally and I walk six to eight miles every time
we're in Boston, and this is no problem because we've already earmarked where every
public toilet is in the city. Every one. Every single one.
For today, though, I've mapped myself a route; it's the
large circular block around my house.
This entire route is exactly .5 miles.
It's a good route, too: 1/10th mile relatively flat, then
2/10th mile slow but steady upgrade, another
1/10th mile of exactly flat surface, followed by 2/10th mile
straight down, the last of which is an extreme upgrade for
about fifty yards.
Normal people would probably walk the upgrades, jog the
straight-aways, and possibly jog the downgrade.
I am not a normal person, however.
I decide that I am going to try and jog the whole
thing.
It starts out well enough.
The streets are quiet, and I set my sights on the stop sign at the top
of the hill 2/10th of a mile ahead.
I have to remind myself to slow down.
I tend to get exercise-induced asthma, and though I don't mind the
extreme red face so much, the wheezing sounds from my lungs scare the
neighbors. I make it to the stop sign,
walk the straight-away, then haul-ass run down the hill. I turn up the steep incline, stop at my
driveway where I have strategically hidden water and tissues to blow my
pollen-infested nose, then get back on track.
This second time around the circuit, I only make it halfway
up the hill jogging, about 1/10th mile, and have to walk the other
1/10th mile up, across the straight zone, then I run run run run run
down the hill. I stop for water and a
tissue break, then go out again. I am determined
to run-walk this 5k rather than walk-run it.
My third time around, I walk halfway up the hill then jog
the second part of it, jog across the straight area a little bit, and still run
my tush down the bigger hill. I stop for
the usual routine: Water, snots, continue.
The fourth time around, the jogging is getting less like
jogging and more like walking sort of at a little bit of a faster pace. I walk walk walk across the straight areas,
and I run run run down the hill.
When I come up the steep part toward the driveway. I see the mailman park his truck on my
street. He opens his truck door but
doesn't get out yet as he is still sorting the neighborhood mail. I don't want to give him a heart attack, so I
say hello and wave as I go by.
The fifth time around, I figure I should just walk. I walk the first straight-away. I walk up the 2/10th mile
upgrade. I walk the strait-away at the
top, and …. Ohhhhhh, doggie!!!!!!
I love most dogs.
Okay, I love many dogs. Some dogs
I do not like. Dogs that look like
hamsters? Nope. Do not like those. Not a tiny-dog fru-fru fan. This one is a Siberian Husky with the most
beautiful eyes and a fluffy white and silver and black coat.
"May I say hello to your dog?" I ask the man
holding the leash. I always ask in case
the dog isn't friendly or the owner is a lunatic.
"Sure, but I can't guarantee he won't jump up on
you."
With these words, the dog jumps up on me and plants a big
slobbery kiss on my cheek. In truth, he
probably wants the salt I've sweated out during this debacle. I wipe the slobber while looking down, way
down, way way way down the hill.
Come on. I can do this. I can totally do this.
But my legs have turned to Jell-O. I can't believe it! All the times I walked from one end of Boston
to the other, and I cannot do this? I
can do this, and inside my head some dumb-ass agrees with me, and I run down
the hill.
After stopping for water and the by-now complimentary
nose-blow, I decide to push that last .5 mile.
I run and I run and I run right into the mailman.
"I don't know why I do this," I say through short,
raspy breaths. "I'm too old!"
He smiles. "No
you're not! Keep it up. You're doing fine."
I laugh, thank him, start walking.
This time my legs will not let me run. I have to walk. I tell myself that I will walk the whole
way. I am "cooling down." This is a fine plan until I get to the big hill
and see a couple of the prep school boys on their way to the train.
Well, no young preppies are going to go faster than I am
simply because they want to make it to the commuter rail. I run that last bit then crawl to my
driveway. I'm done; I'm spent. I am not going to make it more than 1.5 miles
this time.
All this would be reason to celebrate except …
… Except that I cannot move my legs the following
morning. My calves are upset with me, my
thighs are not speaking to me, and my butt cheek muscles have gone on
strike. I am walking like my spine has
malfunctioned, a fact not lost on at least one of the two women I am meeting to
work on our presentation for next week.
Getting into a chair? Easy. Getting back up again? Not so much.
It hurts terribly to move, and I simply want to stand still for the rest
of the day and evening.
The good part about all of this is that I am now back on the
exercise track. No point going through
all that to blow it now.
The even better news is that I do not have to train at
all. I am not going to run-walk the 5k,
and I'm probably not going to walk-run it.
I suspect I am just going for the "walk" part of it.
The best part? The
very last leg of the 5k is downhill, so maybe I can run a little bit to make
sure I don't come in dead-last and have a "loser" sign stamped across
my sweaty forehead.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to hobble to the couch
to sit down and try to figure out if the off-road part of the 5k has
port-a-potties. Otherwise I have to
re-plan that part of the training, as well.
