He shook his head and sighed, and
silently vowed to himself that he would never bathe in jell-o again. He had
heard that it was an old folk remedy for helping with sore muscles after
running, but instead it just left him sticky and slimy in addition to still
being sore. This last run had been so intense that he had almost pooped his
pants—don’t believe it doesn’t happen, because it sometimes does. Lately he had
gotten a new gadget that tracked his running speed, and his passion for running
had lately turned into an obsession. He watched the small meter as he ran
ticking endlessly, tracking him, measuring him, challenging his pride. He felt
like he had never run harder before, and he felt like he had never been more
sore.
Today, he decided whimsically to
run as fast as he could. That is, he decided to run a half-marathon as fast as
he could, showing up all of his other runner friends. No longer would they mock
and torment him for not being able to run as far as a girl. He had tried once,
tried and failed. Not that his spirit failed, but his blasted ankle which gave
out at mile 19. She had run farther, and the idea tormented him day and night.
By doing the half as fast as possible, he would regain some of that manhood
that had been lost.
He started out reasonably, full of
spirit and energy. The day was overcast with low-hanging clouds that stared sullenly
at the runner. The path was like an old friend that he hadn’t visited in ages,
and he fondly remembered the slight twists in the track, the gentle rises and
falls in elevation, and even the types of trees that lined the path. The first
half was tough but manageable, and he looked up with satisfaction after every
glance at the meter at his side to see that he was well on target. He ran out
to the first point still on land overlooking Utah Lake and admired its expanse,
felt the blood coursing exultantly through his veins and the endorphins yelling
loud congratulations in his mind.
But then, slowly, he turned home,
still 6.5 whole miles left to face. He slowly became conscient of a nagging
pull at his stomach, a small tweak in his ankle. Still, he pushed himself
forward, frowning at, then glaring at, then cursing at the tracker that was
slowly and inevitable inching its way up. The course seemed cold and
unfriendly, not an enemy necessarily but an uncaring, neutral entity that
slowing was sapping away at this strength. The once vibrant body now required
constant goading from his mind, and even his mind was fatiguing.
He stumbled home, his target mile
pace shot by 20 seconds, his mind frustrated, and his body aching. He wasn’t
sure if he wanted to puke, poop, or both. He lay on the grass, miserable and
tried to curl up into a ball, but his body would have none of it. He was angry.
He hardly felt redeemed. The endorphins had seemed to have changed into
soldiers of doom that stabbed and ate at his poor muscles. Gradually, a
headache dawned on him and lasted the rest of the night, effectively preventing
him from accomplishing anything more than sitting on the front porch and
watching random documentaries on saving the American school system or the
love-hate relationship between George Lucas and Star Wars fans. The jello hadn’t
worked, the ice pack to calm his raging muscles had long become lukewarm, and
his stomach still hadn’t settled.
Two days later, his body was back,
craving it all again—the speed, the sense of freedom, the feeling of
accomplishment. But this time without the Jell-o.
By James Juchau and Jenessa Baird
No comments:
Post a Comment