On Your Marks . . .

Actually, I never got to hear the above phrase.

I've been running for years. Sometimes toward things, sometimes away from them, sometimes just aimlessly meandering with no real goal in mind or sight. But usually, at the begining of a race-type event, I hear more than just the signal horn.

Not that it matters. In a 5k (3.11 miles) or a 10k (6.2 miles) you don't exactly need starting blocks to get going. For the Riverside Raincross 5k Race/Walk, about 500 people participated. The first instructions we were given by race officials was as follows:

"Runners to the front. Walkers to the back. Anyone with a stroller also needs to be in the back."

Immediately, all the walkers and stroller-runners found someone who's pace was several minutes faster than their own, and got in front of them. I noticed many had opted to wear mirrors so as to maintain their slower-paced lead and increase the frustration by an order of magnitude. There were even a few who had binocular watchers relaying information so that they could bunch together and cause large log-jam type occurances.

Modern technology rocks.

This is why I bring a large stick to beat people out of my path. I call it my Beater Stick. Beater and I have run many races together. Recently, I replaced the old bent nails with new, rusty bent nails for that extra potential dose of tetnus.

Once Beater and I had cleared a fairly good path, we set out at a pace that, for me, defied mortal strength. I cleaned the first mile far, far too fast with a 7:37. I felt good though, and I knew the route from the map, so I wasn't overly concerned. So what if I was running a whole two minutes faster than my trained negative split pace!

That was when we hit the hills.

I say hills because that's what I was told. A series of two, gentley slopping hills, that were followed by nice downgrades and level runs.

May all race-course setters die a horrible and painful death in the Hell of the Upside Down Sinner.

There were not two hills. There was one Mt. Everest sized mountain, replete with large, iced boulders, angry native hunter-gather types, and treacherous water-station volunteers. The Israeli government was also on hand, looking for something a little more difficult for their Mossad candidates.

I couldn't quite maintain pace after the second hill. I caught a half-dozen poisoned arrows in the back. This is something that Indiana Jones won't teach you. Natives, whose entire livelihood and existence is dependant on their abilities with projectile weaponry tend to be fairly good shots.

At the last half mile, I forewent the water station and life-saving antidote, and instead tried to rev up my world-famous thousand-yard kick. I managed something close to a snail's sprint, and managed to catch the guy who had been in slowly drawing nearer during the race.

The result isn't important. The fact that I stared him down like Clint Eastwood's older, meaner brother doesn't really matter. Nor the fact that the trail of flames I left behind me singed him as she crossed the finish line tenths of a second behind me.

No, to runners, the running of the race is what's important, not who beats whom.

No, the resounding theme for any runner must come from Ecclesiastes (9:11), "The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but it sure helps."

For those who are interested, I placed 60th overall and 5th in my age group with a time of 24:14.