In first-ever race, running like a fish out of water

Even though my birth certificate suggests I am firmly into geezerhood, I'm in pretty decent shape. I bicycle at least 50 miles a week, work a job that demands a lot of footwork, and I'm an outdoors type. As I write this, I'm in training for a hike I'll be taking along a section of the Appalachian Trail in a few months.

But while bicycling and hiking are right in my ballpark, I do not run. 

There are very compelling reasons for this. I used to run, but a series of ankle injuries some years ago put a crimp in that. I blew out one ankle a couple of times while in my 20s, and it still has a lot less mobility than the other. And a couple of years ago, I broke a bone in my good ankle. That's enough; running is definitely out.

Running is rough on the human body anyway. Even with good equipment (read: shoes), running on a hard surface puts incredible stress on feet, knees, hips, and back. Not to mention ankles. In fact, the up-and-down motion of running plays games with gravity. While this is less of an issue for a guy, trust me on this: Gravity is not your friend.

But there I was recently, misgivings and all, preparing to run in a local 5k race. 

My hiking buddy Derek originally floated the idea by me. He's nearly a decade younger than I am, and he used to do a lot of running. It would be a welcome break from our training routine (hike six miles on a local trail with packs on), he said. What he didn't mention was that a run would work out a whole different set of muscles. But it sounded like fun, and yeah, a nice break.

The well-named Floppin' Flounder run is one of the regular events for the Charleston Running Club, of which Derek used to be a member. This race is held on Sullivan's Island, and the route passes along the front of Fort Moultrie (former hangout of an army officer named Edgar Allan Poe and earlier, the site of a decisive battle where the South Carolina colonists cut the opposing British forces into cat food). The Floppin' Flounder Run usually had the island's most famous resident, Governor Mark Sanford, as one of the runners, but this lost out to the Appalachian Trail. Or something. Anyway, the Luv Guv wasn't in the race this time.

The running thing is pretty scientific these days. You're issued your runner's packet, with the ID number that you pin to your shirt (I was #1080), and this number has some sort of microchip embedded in a tear-off strip along the bottom. When you cross the finish line that strip is torn off and thrown into a bucket with the others. I assume they can tell if you cheated by bumming a ride through part of the route, like that lady did some years ago in the Boston Marathon. For some reason I was a little leery of the microchip, and wondered if a tinfoil beanie would be better headgear for competitive running than, say, the bandanna or ball cap that most runners wear.

I already mentioned that I don't run. So of course I don't own a pair of running shoes. Derek had an extra pair that fit well, were extremely light, and required some reverse engineering to figure out how to lace them up. So, like first-time attendees of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, I was a true virgin. I was THE Floppin' Flounder this time, a real fish out of water.

But I'm crazy enough to try anyway.

I'm there at the starting line with about 200 other runners, ranging from kids to folks in their 70s. All togged out in their running duds -- myself in a Floppin' Flounder souvenir T-shirt. Cell phone (never travel without it) and mp3 player on my belt. Spent the minute or two before the race stretching, getting a last drink of water, and selecting a good starting song for the run. Charles Mingus' "Hog Callin' Blues," from his truly deranged "Oh Yeah" album. Mingus on piano and singing (I told you this is deranged) and Rahsaan Roland Kirk blowing multiple saxes. With a good beat to run on. I was ready.

I had no illusions. I never trained for running. It's a whole different animal for me. My game plan was to start by running as far as I felt I could, then walk. Easy enough for me to handle, right? A 5k race breaks down to a tick over three miles, or half our usual training distance for hiking. Nothing to it.

So I overestimated things a bit.

A few blocks down, Rahsaan Roland Kirk was going into his last solo, and I realized the outside of my calf muscles were on fire. And me without my usual bottle of water banging against my hip; I was traveling light for this run. No way to put the fire out except to gear down

OK, this meant starting the walking portion of the program a little earlier than planned. I think I can live with that.

As my calves showed signs of recovery at about the midway point, I broke into a run mostly to shave a few seconds off my time even though I certainly wasn't keeping score by then. And I ran on the final leg of the trip, passed a handful of folks, and shaved a few more seconds off.

Derek, meanwhile, had already finished. He'd checked in at about 24 minutes, which was better than he expected. He had time to grab some water, go to his car, towel off, find a video camera, get into position, and film my final approach. 

So on some scurrilous website somewhere, probably Facepalm, there is a video that shows me on my finishing kick (that's what runners call it), passing a few, then passing one final huffing-and-puffing female runner who looked as new to the whole thing as I. The camera caught me being a gentleman, stopping short of the finish line so she could cross first. She looked like she'd earned it.

About a third of the race was done on the run. That's one mile total, and I walked the other two miles. Really, about what I expected.

In all, I pretty much accomplished what I set out to do: Have a nice workout. Try a little running. See how far I can actually run. Work some other muscle groups that I might need for hiking. Not totally embarrass myself. Finish the race without needing Search and Rescue to find me.

In truth I approached this run the same way I would a hike through the wilds. When you're chased by a bear, you don't need to outrun the bear. All that is necessary is to outrun one of your hiking buddies. 

I accomplished all that, and I feel good about it.

As I write the first draft of this Hub (at my stand-up work station) the day after the run, my calves feel much better. My quads are a little stiff, but it's my groin muscles that still give me trouble. All of this is too far away from my heart to kill me, so no worries.

But I'm having to rethink the whole idea of running. It makes more sense than it did. Last mountain hike I went on, which I documented in a previous Hub or two, some of those same muscle groups were hurting. The groin, definitely. I used my calves and hamstrings extensively on the climb, and the quads on the descent.

Bad ankles or not, maybe there really is something to this running thing, even if I looked and felt like a flopping flounder at the finish line.