Keepin' Me Humble

This is the third year that I've participated in a free training clinic for my city's internationally renowned 12K race (which is part of the professionals' circuit).  It's a 7-week clinic which starts with a mile the first week, and adds an additional mile every week thereafter.  All types show up to train, but the majority of participants are...not in great shape, to say the least.  Or, so it would appear at first glance-- but appearances can be deceiving....  I'm reminded of this every year.  

The clinic begins with a guest speaker.  Usually a nurse, a physical therapist or an elite runner.  I skip these.  They're all the same.  "Drink lots of water", "always warm-up", "stretch well", "watch your heart rate", blah blah blah.  I'm always amazed at how 7 different people can come up with 15 minutes of new material for rookie runners every week.  After these enlightening presentations is the 15-minute warm-up, led by an extremely exuberant aerobics instructor.  I've learned to skip this as well.  It's humiliating.  Pretty much I just show up for the running nowadays, although I come slightly early to do a bit of hopping, bouncing and stretching on my own.  (And while doing so makes me look like a certifiable nerd, I'm never alone in this.)  

This week was the 2-mile course.  I situated myself at the front of the pack (hundreds strong) since most of the clinic consists of walkers and walk/joggers whose paces vary from snail to sloth.  If you get caught behind that group you're done for-- they come mainly for the social aspect and think nothing of stretching their little posses to an impassable 4-wide on the trail.  And I'm embarrassed to say that sometimes I get a little smug standing there at the front-- but fear not, a good dose of humility always awaits me down the road.  

So anyway, the gun went off and I began my leisurely pace.  I like to describe it as a very uncompetitive "loo-ti-doo-ti-doo" speed.  I'm out there to have fun and get a little exercise, not to win my age bracket or anything.  But then something happens.  I start to notice people with white hair gliding past me with ease.  Then, without fail, a pair of joggers who exceed my weight by no less than 100 pounds each will trot past.  Even small children tear by me without so much as a huff and a puff.  

At first I tell myself it doesn't matter.  To each their own!  But by the time the 4th granny has plowed by me I begin to unconsciously pick up my pace.  I start to create little goals for myself.  I select a person who I want to pass, then I set my sights on their behinds until I overtake their position.  Initially this game of cat-and-mouse sends a little thrill through me.  But after I begin to realize that the majority of people I am passing are either octogenarians, morbidly obese, or in strollers, I'm brought down a notch...or two.  In fact, sometimes the people I choose to pass are walking.  Walking!  (Although I console myself with the prospect that perhaps I am lapping these walkers, but I never know for sure.)

Then as I cross the finish line-- panting-- I see all the hard-bodied 20 and 30-somethings lounging around with nary a drop of sweat on their brow, like they've been waiting all day for the rest of us to finish.  I do my best to suck it in and slow my breathing, nodding cooly to the "elite".  But it's no use pretending.  I am what I am; just a lowly recreational runner carrying a bit of extra junk in my trunk.  (I like to think it serves to entertain those who run behind me.)  

And that's how I will spend every Saturday morning until May.  But with each passing week, I move from snotty jogger to very humble, exhausted wretch (week 7 is a killer-- with hills that can make a grown man cry).  But by then nobody cares who's walking, jogging or running, who's old or young, who's flabby or tone.  We all become sufficiently humbled to note the accomplishment of anyone who manages to cross the finish line.  Or am I mistaking humility for nausea?  Either way, nobody cares.