November 21: Frisked, Perfectly Winded, Turkey Trot

He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there:  perfectly winded.

This is Scrooge at the end of the novel.  He has gone a little crazy with happiness, dancing around his rooms, not exactly sure what to do.  He is a man who has not really exerted himself in the last, oh, forty or so years.  He walks to work.  He walks home.  He walks over to Bob Cratchit's desk to tell Bob he can't buy any more coal to heat their office.  Scrooge will not be winning any marathons in the near future.

Today, I'm supposed to talk about a worry I have.  Well, there's only one that's preoccupying me at the moment:  the Turkey Trot.  It's a race that I run every Thanksgiving morning.  The first time, I ran the 5K race.  For the past four or so years, I've participated in the 10K.  That's 6.2 miles for those of you still using the English system of measurement.  My worry stems from the fact that I haven't been doing a whole lot or running recently.  In fact, I've been averaging about only four to five miles per week.  Yes, I said "per week." 

I'm worried that I'm not going to be able to do the Turkey Trot.  I haven't really trained enough.  This past summer, I would have been able to run this race no problem.  For three months, June through August, I didn't miss a day of running.  I was in really good shape.  Then I started teaching again.  And my daughter started taking dance lessons again.  Slowly, my practice of running became a preoccupation of running.  Then a hobby.  Now, it's barely a passing thought.

Like Scrooge, I'm out of practice.  The last race I ran was in July, and it was only two-miles long.  I'm totally unprepared for Thanksgiving morning.  I've already paid my registration fee.  $30.  

That includes money for the race and the 2012 Turkey Trot shirt.  There really isn't any turning back, unless I want to lose that $30.

That's my worry.  I have to run a race, and I'm not ready for it.  I am going to be slow.  I will come in dead last.  I may have a low blood sugar reaction in the middle of it.  At the end of those ten kilometers, I will be more than perfectly winded.

Saint Marty will be near death, sucking air hard enough to affect global warming.

Even this guy is going to beat me