Eye of the Heidegger

6.2 miles in 57:41.9

Despite brisk autumnal weather, an early dying iPod, and the sufferings of a 6 A.M. wake-up call, I finished said Turkey Trot in under an hour. This placed me somewhere between old age pensioners, nascently enhanced prosthetic amputees, and other troubled participants (autistic or other, which from the above picture could easily characterize my expression).

Leave it to me to invoke Heidegger's question of being in order to construct a pun that connects to Survivor's Eye of the Tiger, but in all honesty, the experience of running six miles (a pittance to many fitter beings), was somewhat life-affirming.

Mile One: They packed us in, and it was insufferably cold and windy until the race began. There was pump-up music playing, which only made me feel really lame as a person, and there were volunteers cheering us on, which made the whole endeavor seem like it was designed for people with low expectations.

My friends and I didn't reach the starting point until six minutes after the race began. Thankfully, we had chips attached to our shoes to ensure that the accurate times were tabulated and the glory of finishing 700 out of 1500 would be noted in the annals of pseudo-marathon history forever.

Mile Two: Heading down Post Oak by the famous Williams Tower (tallest building west of Chicago), I feel the urge to pee because I overhydrated in expectation of being underhydrated and to assuage my disdain for drinking while running, which leads me to cramps. How much can one person whine about running? You have no idea. As I finish the second mile, the leader passes me on the end of his fourth mile. He definitely finished twenty-five minutes ahead of me and may have been one of the people who turned around and ran it again. Jerkass.

Mile Three: I find that I could just as easily pitch my gloves and hat in the trash than carry them now that I'm all warmed up. This is a big moment for me. Those gloves were like $7. I also realize that I am basically stuck three miles away from the finish, so there is no point in short-cutting and flagging down a cab anymore.

Mile Four: The sensation to pee becomes overwhelming. I pull off of the course to where I thought there were Port-a-Potties lined up for our use. Not so much. Turns out they were for a building under construction and were locked. I piss all over the side of the locked john. In karmic retribution, my iPod dies, I begin humming a medley of Justin Timberlake and Strauss' Four Last Songs.

Mile Five: I hit my stride. The roads have thinned out, instead of clumps of runners, there are streams (I was going to describe all this in Mile Four, but the peeing anecdote coupled with the clumps and streams seemed a bit much). I began to feel like a G.

Mile Six: I actually did the last mile in about eight minutes, which was about ninety seconds ahead of my pace. At this point, they started cheering us on again and with the finish line in sight as well as kolaches, muffins, bananas, water, and the finality of the embarrassment in being outrun by my friends, I put the afterburners on. My mom who walked the 5 K version of this event was standing by the finish line to cheer me as I finished. I felt ridiculous...ridiculously buff and powerful.

The Extra Mile: In the company of friends, family, and the occasional dancing turkey, I basked in the mid-morning sun, content and spry, relieved, alive in the knowing of all full wellness that I would never ever repeat such a ridiculous endeavor again.