Insert fat joke here.
Let’s just put it this way: I’ve never met a tray of enchiladas that I didn’t like. I am out of shape. As a matter of fact, I really am no shape. My gut resembles an amoeba shaking its flagella through your drinking water.
So when I was approached with the idea of running a five-kilometer race (which is approximately 3.1 miles for those who don’t speak metric), needless to say I was a little scared. I hadn’t even run a mile since the last time I had physical education as a sophomore in high school. That D grade kept me .05 grade points away from earning a 4.0 GPA (thanks a lot Mr. Burt).
Luckily, Rip Photo Editor Erik Aguilar was there as my motivational coach. As a runner and an Iraqi war veteran, he knew how to deal with lethargic recruits. However, I didn’t have to be the Private Pyle to his Sergeant Carter necessarily.
When we got to the Bakersfield Track Club Rio Bravo 5K and 10 Miler, I felt a little out of place. All the thirty-something suburbanites talking about fabric softeners and their dogs’ favorite chew toys were a little bit too “Leave It To Beaver” for my taste. Everyone was pretty nice, however, and recognized by the shape of my love handles that I was a newbie.
I signed up, mooched the money for my entrance fee off of Erik and waited for him to run the 5K by himself before the race even started. He came back in 20 minutes and appeared unscathed and still wearing his sweatshirt. I was simply amazed.
Everyone around me was stretching for the race, so I figured I might as well do so myself. However, I knew no stretches and just simply copied what everyone was doing, earning some strange looks at the same time.
Erik noticed that I had pinned my race number on like a picture frame after an earthquake and had to put it on me right like my mother would probably have to.
Attached to my gut, it resembled the Anheuser-Busch logo on a beer keg.
At the start of the race, I expected there to be a gun, but an enthusiastic ready-set-go was all I got. As I waved goodbye to all the runners who passed me up, I knew that I had a daunting task ahead of me.
The race went across a river, up a hill and back down. I knew that I would have to pace myself, so I kept up a brisk jog until I got to the bottom of the hill.
After saying an expletive followed by the word “no,” I decided to walk all the way up the hill.
At the first station, I grabbed two cups of water, one for throwing in my sweaty face and the other for drinking.
Feeling energized, I picked up the pace of my jog slightly, walking for one paint mark on the ground used to mark the direction racers go and jogging every three.
By the time I made my way to the second station, fatigue began to set in. The packet of gum I had brought to keep my mouth watery had run out. It was going to be a difficult final mile and a half.
After crossing the river again, I considered giving up. I wanted to continue, but my body didn’t. However, a 10-mile racer passing me gave me a boost of confidence. I told myself to go hard or go home, which in reality meant absolutely nothing as Erik was my only ride home.
Toward the last quarter-mile, the finish line in sight, I began to run as fast as I could. I wanted to burn every last ounce of energy left inside of me. As I passed through the cones and the official cut off the bottom of my race number, an overwhelming feeling of accomplishment overcame me. I finished my first and probably only 5K.
I finished the race in 43 minutes, 52 seconds. I didn’t realize how slow this was until the first place winner in the ten-mile race finished five minutes after I did. However, I placed 22nd out of 23 racers, so someone was actually slower than I was.
For finishing third place in my age group, of which there were three, I was given a red Bakersfield Track Club cloth, which I believe is supposed to be a bandanna. That and the sleeveless shirt I raced in make two things I can show my descendants as proof that I actually ran in a race once.