That I will run it again this year causes me to wonder whether I am capable of making rational decisions. My wife has not suggested in her usual gentle way that I not run it (like she does for other of my proposed endeavors), and wives generally know much better than husbands when it comes to such things. No, they always know. How do they do that?
She has not said anything about this race, perhaps because she knows it is for a good cause. The proceeds, which include my $32 entry fee, go to the North Carolina Children's Hospital in Chapel Hill. They do good work. Very good work. The Krispy Kreme Challenge, as it turns out, is the largest private contributor to the hospital. This race is for the kids, I tell myself.
But it's not really for the kids. I mean, it's not about the kids. It's about the challenge. Make that challenges. In last year's race there were plenty. For one, my brother-in-law (the guy who married my wife's sister -- she, too, allowed him to run), quickly set a pace I was not comfortable with. Minutes before the race, I silently ridiculed him for wearing a lab coat (something his fellow engineers from N.C. State were wearing), but the logo on the back -- was that some kind of planet -- served as my beacon. Through occasional breaks in the sea of my fellow idiots, I could see it. I tried my best to keep up, guided by the planet-like image, and I eventually caught up with him.
We made great time getting to the Krispy Kreme, better than I thought we would when I went through my pre-race plan (yes, I had a plan: run a nine minute mile getting there, eat in about fourteen minutes, and run the same pace back. Oh, and don't throw up). With this extra time, I had the chance to reflect. Twenty years before, my college friends and I frequented this same store on many a night. Reveling in the freedoms that living away from home for the first time affords, we sat beneath the "Hot Fresh Now" sign and enjoyed our doughnuts. Life, full of promises of the great things to come, was good.
That joy was interrupted one night when a man ran up to us in a panic and asked, "Have any of you seen anyone run by here with some wicker chairs?" We had not, and he went on, and we returned to our doughnuts.
Fast forward twenty years, and I was at the same sign. My college friends were replaced by my family. How sweet of them to come in my hour of stupidity. The stranger in a panic wasn't there. Instead there were lots of strangers in a panic. They were everywhere, all faced with the same obstacle then facing me: one dozen doughnuts.
For those not familiar with the logistics of the race, runners do not have to enter the store and order their dozen. That would present a whole new challenge, as, with my luck, I would end up behind Mr. Undecided. "Let's see, I want two glazed, one powdered sugar, one jelly filled, and, um, how many is that so far? Let's see, how about an apple cinnamon. No, wait, put that one back . . . ." Thankfully, they are all set out in boxes on tables outside the store, ready for the taking.
In each box there are a dozen doughnuts. THE dozen, and they have to be eaten. The first one was easy. So was the second. Seeing there were still many more ahead, though, I adopted a trick I had seen online. That's where all the great research is done, right? I smashed numbers three and four together before eating them. I rolled number five into a doughnut hole and down it went.
Then I felt it. No, not any gastronomic distress. It was the glaze. I could feel it in my eyes. And there were still seven left in the box.
To be honest, I don't really remember eating the rest, but I somehow did.
We presented our empty boxes to the course marshalls, then began our trip back. During the first block my legs felt fresh, almost tingly. I thought that this sugar high would carry me through.
The tingling stopped. My legs turned to concrete.
I remember three things about the return run. First, I recall thinking that if I stopped, or even just walked, I would never be able to start running again. I wouldn't make it in time if that happened. Second, I remember the condo owner who stood on his balcony overlooking the race. He held up a sign and was trying to lead a cheer. One side of the sign read "Puke." The other side read "Vomit." So he cheered: "Puke . . . Vomit . . . Puke . . . Vomit . . ." You get the point. Third, I remember St. Mary's Street.
For those unfamiliar with Raleigh, this street has a ninety degree incline. That runners have to ascend this after ingesting thousands of calories is just mean. Runners actually fell backward. Had I turned around, I am sure I would have seen them rolling and rolling, plummeting toward their ultimate demise like those people who fell from the boat in the movie Titanic. In the days after the race I checked my Garmin's data to see the exact elevation of this climb, and it showed only a modest ascent. I concluded that my Garmin was broken.
Then came the finish. A relatively straight shot down Hillsborough Street, except for the roundabout. Wait, a roundabout? Was I in England? It made sense. My brother-in-law, Ewan, was born in England, and he was here with me. Were we on holiday? I've heard of ultra-marathoners who lose their minds, and I wondered whether this had happened to me. Of little comfort were the guys lining the street to my right who were wearing white labcoats. Were they coming to take me away?
No, they were only Ewan's teammates. They finished early.
My mind was still in tact after all. My legs were another story, but they did carry me across the finish line with a time of 56:16. I had more than three minutes to spare. Forty-year-old lawyer 1, Krispy Kreme Challenge 0.
I did it. And this weekend, for some bizarre reason, I will do it again. Or, at least, attempt it again. When I start to wonder why, I need not think for long. This race is a metaphor for life. We all have passions of some sort, activities we wish we could do nothing but. For me, I love to run. Like most people, I also love to eat. And we are all in a race against the clock. Time waits for no man, and we try to find as much enjoyment as we can before our time is up. That's why I will run this weekend.
Who am I kidding. It's about the doughnuts, pure and simple.