Last Place Runner

I should’ve started keeping a record of this a few weeks ago, when I first ran for two minutes straight with my training group and I ran so slow that a volunteer thought I was also a volunteer because why else would someone run so slow if not to lend encouragement to the scragglers a the back of the pack.

After the first month, I am still a slow runner. The faster runners are 50 yards ahead of me. The slower runners are so far back that it seems like I’m the one bringing up the rear. The people in my training program are runners of all abilities. The volunteers are there to encourage, to run with us, to make sure we’re not having too much trouble on our solo runs, and to make sure we stay on track the rest of the week.

I run with a volunteer who is many, many months pregnant, and her 3-year-old son. I found that I could stay on pace with the little boy, so now this volunteer stays with me every week. The little boy had a bad cough last night, so he got to ride in the stroller with his dad, who ran way ahead of us. Although I sounded like the kid in the wheelchair on “Malcolm in the Middle,” the volunteer and I were able to talk the whole time I ran. She had to detour at the art museum and find a bathroom (the baby was doing a soft-shoe on her bladder) and she said she knew I could do it without her. I caught up with her on the way back. She was cheering me from way down the path. It’s amazing how much a tiny bit of encouragement can keep you going.

Most of the time, though, I’m on my own. I was nervous at first about running in my neighborhood. I was actually nervous about even saying that I am a runner. It seemed like a lie. It reminded me of the time Earlie bought Crystal the Walkman on Squidbillies. If you’re not familiar, Google it. Every time I got ready to run, I wanted to say, “I can’t be joggin’ and flippin’ tapes and drinkin’ my Sip.” But in the beginning, the running part was super short. Not that it felt that way the first time I had to run two straight minutes on my own.

But when you’re out there, covering your neighborhood on foot day after day, you actually get to see a lot of stuff. I’ve had dogs, of course, want to follow along. I saw a piece of delicious chocolate (in the wrapper!) on the sidewalk (I refrained). On Sunday, all decked out in my official 5K training moisture-wicking performance shirt, I saw three sheriff’s deputies blocking the intersection. I asked one if there was something going on that I should know about. We don’t live in an area where much of anything happens. I mean, the McRib finally hit the McDonald’s down the street this week and that was pretty exciting. But, honestly, I could hear cows mooing over the sound of my own freight-train breathing during my run that morning. The deputy said basically they were standing in the intersection to stop drivers and make sure they were wearing their seat belts. Which I thought was kind of weird for 7:30 on a Sunday morning. “Oh, ok,” I said. “I thought you were going to pull me over for how fast I was going.” Blank stare. “It was a joke,” I called over my shoulder.

During my run tonight, I saw a woman and a toddler on the sidewalk. I greeted them heartily and kept on my way. But the toddler yanked his hand away from his mother, turned around, and took off running after me. The mother apologized to me, but it was the greatest part of my run. Well, that and finishing it.

I had 12 minutes on the training schedule tonight, and then a walk for a total of 30 minutes. Tomorrow I’ll make the jump to 15 minutes. And no run I have ever done since that first two minutes (just 29 days ago — barely longer than it takes a man in London to wake up from a coma and find out there’s a zombie apocalypse) has been as difficult for me as that very first one. Not Sunday, when I tried to make a joke with local law enforcement. Not Monday when I made the leap from 10 minutes to 12. And I’m going to wager that even tomorrow’s 15 minutes will be infinitely easier than the time I ran two solid minutes.

Some day I’ll tell you the story of how I got here. Although, to be honest, sometimes I am still not sure of it myself.