“Hi, sssorry, butwwwould you mind doing a sssurvey?” I asked thirty or so spandex-clad runners this morning. My mouth was numb. I couldn’t control the slurring. I sounded like I’d just left the dentist’s office, trying to make sense with Novocained chipmunk cheeks. I wandered around with my clipboard for two hours, asking questions like, “Have yourrrraced thisssrun before?”
I should’ve worn a ski mask—I’m sure I would’ve been a crowd favorite. In my two sweatshirts, both hoods up, I felt like the little boy from A Christmas Story who’s bundled in so much winter padding he can’t put his arms down. (Sidenote: that scene is hilarious—the poor kid falls over in the snow and, despite his desperate rolling around, he can't get back up. Bet he was warm, though.) Imagine my shock at finding a handful of runners in t-shirts and Nike shorts. A fairly insane choice—the draft must’ve been something fierce.
When people told me they were running the 10K, I’d congratulate them with, “Nicccce” or “Wow, that’sss hardcore!” In high school, my friend and I went on a totally unnecessary let’s-get-in-shape kick. It lasted maybe two weeks. We’d run around a park track for thirty minutes after drill team practice, and by run, I mean jog for two minutes and walk for eight; repeat. It didn’t take long before we decided on a better plan: to sit on a park bench and watch people run while we ate sno cones. Needless to say, I doubt I’ll ever run in a 5 or 10K fundraising event. I admire people who do, though. Props to those who ran in the brutally cold weather this morning—consider me impressed.
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