2008 Cesar E. Chavez 5k - Killing Me Loudly

Initially, up until the end of the race, the 2008 Cesar E. Chavez 5k, I thought this was a pretty fun time. Granted, my left knee has been troubling me. Nothing major, but it has been sending sternly worded letters to my brain about potential strikes or even rebellion. Still, the race felt fast (even though I was slower) and I didn't feel like I overly exerted.

There's a but in here, as you're well aware, and it started with Mr. Rey Navarro, who came in right behind me, and then I projected back and in truth the whole race was a wash.

Before I build up to Mr. Navarro, we'll start at the beginning, go through the middle and when I get to the end, we'll stop.

I thought this might prove an interesting race, since it was sponsored by the Hispanic club, or some such, at UCR. My first clue that all was not as it should be was that this race didn't even have an electronic form until a few days before the race, at which point you had to pay the larger fee. I like living in the Internet Age where I can pay my entrance fee, receive an email confirming it, and file it all away safely in mere moments.

Mailing things is so 20th century.

Still, the race is ten minutes from my house, so that appealed, and mail I did. What they failed to mention, and what almost every other race either advertises or waives, is that there would be a parking fee. As I explained to the student-attendant, I came for the race, I didn't bring any money or credit cards. Why would I? Now, granted, I usually prepare for this contingency, but this fine Saturday, I just hadn't thought $5 ahead, and didn't want to stop at the ATM. The attendant told me I could "park at your own risk", which I did, and nothing bad happened, so there we go.

Now, the race. It was schedule to start at 8:30 at the Bell Tower. This seemed to suggest that the race would start on time, since the Bell Tower is a reasonably accurate time piece in the center of the university's campus, and tolls loudly, with bells as it happens, on the hour and half hour. About fifteen minutes after the half hour had tolled, there was a sudden horn, and we were off. Yeah, no, "Runners to your marks", no guy with a bullhorn, no instructions, just a late air horn that no one was really prepared for except the eight people at the front of the start.

Water stations. The bane of any amateur runner, since there is no real training for how to properly run a water station, hand the water, or really drink it while running. Most runners end up choking on the quarter-cup they managed to not spill as they grabbed it from a station volunteer who was holding it too tightly while looking for his/her boy/girlfriend somewhere in the pack. At the one-mile water station, our dutiful attendants were so prepared they were pouring cups of water as we approached and had managed to stock up exactly two extra cups. Most of the people with me passed without even approaching the station.

None of this really phased me too greatly. I mostly race to keep my training on pace, to incent me to keep going, keep in shape, eat a little better, and be a decent competitor. At my "level" usually everyone around is in the same position. We're runners who have been to a few races, perhaps competed in high school or college, and are now here for the exercise portion of our lives.

Not so Mr. Rey Navarro.

Dressed in sweats, high-tops with tube socks, a sweatshirt tied precariously around his waist and some kind of funny t-shirt, I passed Mr. Navarro just before the last quarter mile. I rounded out the last turn to a straight-away of maybe 200 yards and was settling in to battle it out with a fire fighter Paul Young, when Mr. Navarro decided he actually had a kick, threw himself forward and careened past me. Normally, a non-issue. I've run my race, there's no money on the line here, I'm tired and don't care if someone wants to sprint it in past me. But here's the kicker, or rather, the bumper. Mr. Navarro wasn't exactly in control as he passed me and bumped me. Not severely, but that's hardly the point. At the end of a race, when everyone is tired, and folk are going the distance, they're going for speed, a bump can end in tragedy. Even then, this wouldn't have been a big issue, but Mr. Navarro couldn't even be bothered to call out an "ooops" or a "sorry" in his goal of taking 40th place.

Fueled by anger over the incident, I pressed myself into a full out sprint, caught him right before the finish, then turned around, and pointing an admonishing finger told him, "You need to watch where you're running."

I suppose I should be lucky that Mr. Navarro didn't pull a blackjack, tap my favorite head and reply, "That's the Chicago Way, boy-o!" I'm often reminded that my anger could quickly incite a full-on confrontation that I'm not really looking for or prepared to handle.

And all this wouldn't matter too greatly, except the race results are wrong. I was concerned this would happen since the finish-line chute was being very poorly handled with the runners being held up while one race attendant tried to instruct two others on how to handle the bib tags which tell who came in where and at what time. I know this because I was, at best one-second ahead of Mr. Navarro, not one second behind, and Fireman Paul Young came in behind us, not ahead.

Which leaves me with an "official" set of results of:

Overall - 42nd
Time - 24:31
Division - 11th

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.

Rubber Pants in Our Size

In my youth, World Domination as an Evil Overlord was on my “Things To Do” list.

It’s still there, but it’s slipped down past the century marks, right next to “Run for Pope” and “Teach our Nation’s Children to Read.”

That’s right, I do dream the impossible dream.

I also think I would look smashing in a papal miter.

But that’s just for the chicks. Chicks dig a guy in stole and vestments!

Things inside my head function on a different plane of reality. That’s not to say a higher plane, but it’s also not to say a lower plane or a plain plane. It’s more to the side, or slightly angled. Like a fine Scottish rain.

For example, I have found that when I’m walking, Darth Vader’s Theme Song plays in my head. This could potentially be a throwback to my goal of world domination, but it might just as well be that the cadence of the song matches my normal gait. I don’t generally wear a lot of black, and I haven’t owned a cape since I was in high school . . . I mean college . . . I mean.

D’oh.

The point being, that I don’t really see myself as an asthmatic with a penchant for asphyxiating my victims while talking in a normal, clear and menacing voice. Although, the ability to Force Choke someone, while I’m on a conference call does have its appeal.

Coworker: Ok, so let’s move on to point 3, subpoint A. As you can all see . . .
Me: Boy this is boring.
Coworker: . . . and we need to all be familiar with, achhh, . . . eepp . . .
Me: And that’s lunch!

But aside from phenomenal cosmic powers, there are certain drawbacks to being an Evil Overlord. You have to have a lair and all the best volcanoes are already taken. You have to have a goodie-two-shoes nemesis, who is not only stronger, faster and smarter than you, but also better looking. Theme music and cool costumes aside, there isn’t much else that Evil Overlords have going for them in this section. You also need not one, and not two, but fifteen or twenty diabolical schemes for national, international, global, or universal domination. And if you get picked up for a third season, you’re just doomed to rehash some of those previous plans with typical outcomes.

Of course, I have learned some things over the years about being an Evil Overlord from watching the trials and tribulations of other attempted and established Evil Overlords. For instance:

All of my ventilation shafts will be too small to crawl through.
When my nemesis, captured and completely within my power, asks me, “Since I’m going to die anyway, why not reveal your plan?” I’ll shoot him, in the head, then say, “No thanks.”

I will also never challenge said rival to any form of one-on-one combat. My Army of the Undead will simply fill his body with bullets, change clips and repeat.

I will always have triple-redundancy in my systems, and no single switch will be able to shut down my computer program, death machine, or cosmic ray-gun. Alternately, I will have copies of all spells and incantations

Upon hearing of the downfall of my throne via prophecy, I will never seek out the reckless youth, burn his village and slay his people. Nor will I send death squads out to try to stop his onward march toward my capital city. I will simply abdicate the throne and move my operation, army, bank accounts, weaponry, etc., to a neighboring country.

Then I’ll nuke him on coronation day, and march my Army of the Undead through the streets.

Finally, if my plan for world domination fails due to a clever combination of skills, unlikely alliances, unforeseen forces and most of all luck, I’LL JUST TRY THE PLAN AGAIN. Annoyingly repetitive for the viewers at home, but Edison didn’t build his lightbulb on the first try either. World domination takes dedication to the cause. If you’re just going to say, “Oh well, let’s move on to a new and even more intricate plan with an even higher probability of failure,” then why are you in the game at all? Move over, Bucky, there's a new Evil Overlord in town!

Here are more helpful hints on how to become an Evil Overlord. My own were inspired by this list . . . except for the Darth Vader Theme Song thing. That's all Rob, baby!