It’s an annual tradition here in West Michigan, and for some reason the weather annually sucks for this annual tradition.  Back in the day I actually was a participant in the Fifth Third 25k run.  I think I ran it three times and finished it twice.  All three times I ran the race the weather was horrible.   Once again it is the day of the race and the weather is horrible.  My question to the race organizers is, can’t we have the race in February when we know the weather is going to be shitty anyways?  I’m sick of having to endure this shitty weather every year on a Saturday in May because a bunch of running enthusiasts insist upon having a road race.  However, in honor of this annual tradition I figured this would be as good of a time as any to detail some of my running exploits and thoughts on those who engage in running as a primary form of exercise.

My first two attempts at the River Bank Run were fairly uneventful and in my mind a success.  I was able to complete the race in under two hours and my best time was a little under 1 hour and 52 minutes.  I’m not sure who I was back then, but especially for my first stab at the race I was dedicated to training.  I was training with a friend of mine who I mentioned in my blog before but he didn’t really appreciate having his actual name in print.  He introduced me to the idea of actually running in a race.  For some reason he got in with a group of people who were so dedicated to running that they basically turned their back on every thing else in their life, causing numerous divorces and really bad apparel choices, particularly with shorts.  Not sure how you could feel comfortable wearing shorts so short that your balls hang out of them.  If running was a religion, their spirituality was derived from pounding the pavement on a regular basis.  Regardless of how over the top this seems, my buddy was all in for a period of time and ran with these people.  Our nickname for them was the gay potatoes, so I’ll refer to my buddy when needed as GP.

Gp had run the Riverbank prior to me and it didn’t go well.  He was kicking ass and taking names for the first half of the race but he forgot one important thing, to hydrate.  Somewhere after the big hill he completely lost it and became delusional, urinating in someone’s yard and acting entirely disoriented.  His behavior attracted medical and police attention.   They asked him if he had an emergency contact person, based upon his running outfit, possibly a boyfriend (not husband, gay marriage wasn’t cool back then) they could get in touch with to pick him up.  In all actuality, GP was actually married and surprisingly his marriage actually held up during his gay potato phase.  However, he was so out of his mind he didn’t know he was married and told the medical personal he didn’t have an emergency contact.  I checked the Sunday paper the next day for his name looking at the times below two hours, nothing, I kept expanding my search until I discovered his name somewhere in the 2:40 range.  He somehow talked the medical personnel into letting him finish and he stumbled and bumbled his way through the last few miles of the race.

Prior to setting my sites on the river bank I ran every once in a while as a way to compensate for my love of chocolate milk shakes.  One hot July morning I decided to go for a run down to the Grand River and back, I was living off Knapp and Diamond.  As I made my way back up Knapp street towards home I realized I may have a situation on my hands.  I had a decision to make, do I run as fast as I can in the hopes I make it home prior to crapping my pants or do I stop running clench my butt cheeks as tight as possible, and waddle home?  The second option seemed to be my best chance of maintaining my dignity and my shorts.  The reality was that either path I chose was going to result in catastrophe.  About an eighth of a mile before I made it home I couldn’t hold it any longer and I crapped my shorts.  The remaining walk home was one of the worst experiences of my life.  However, when my kids crap their pants I have a lot more empathy for them.  After telling Cara what happened she mentioned reverse peristalsis, a medical theory that’s basic premise is that if you have to poop your turd will retreat into your colon until you find a place to take a dump.  Bullshit!

My last attempt at the river bank run saw me alienate gp in one of our training runs.  Not sure what came over me, but during one of our training runs I thought he wasn’t going fast enough so I started running faster and he didn’t keep my pace.  I ran the last couple miles ahead of him.  This pissed him off, and rightfully so, he stopped running with me and I lost my training partner.  I’m not saying that had he stuck it out and trained with me the entire time I would have done better running the race, but it definitely didn’t help my training habits.  For some reason I thought my natural running ability (I have none) and my mediocre dedication to staying in shape would allow me to complete the 15.5 mile race. Boy was I wrong about that.  I made it to Millennium Park and had to take a dump.  As I took care of business in the port a jon people were continually pulling on the door, I hated runners at that point more than ever.  I had it locked and it said occupied so I’m not sure why people continually tried to get in, believe me they didn’t want to join me.  After dropping the kids off at the water less pool I tried to get what momentum I had back but quickly realized there was no way I  was finishing the race.  Ultimately I made it to Fulton steer and went to Nawarra Brothers appliance store and got a ride from one of the people who worked there back to my car.  (I knew the employee prior to soliciting a ride from him)

Looking out the window this morning as I type this blog I am thankful for the fact that I decided not to run the rive bank this year.  Not only did I avoid hours of running and miles of training, I avoided another shitty Saturday morning running in the rain.  Good luck to all of those who had the where with all to train, run, and attempt to complete the race.