Bo-Bo Knows I'm No Runner

But I've been playing one for the two months I've been training for my first 5K race. Tonight I ran my second consecutive 30 minutes. Unfortunately, during that time I only traveled 2.4 miles. For those keeping score at home, those are 12.5-minute miles.

Here are a few words that don't come to mind: lightning, flash, zippy... I'll stop there.

The 5K that I'm running is actually 3.5 miles. That means if I keep up at my present pace, I'll finish just under the 45-minute mark. Here's a word for you: blistering. But only in the sense that I've been rocking a hairline blister ever since I hit my first consecutive 20 minutes. I can't help but wonder what possessed me to sign up for this business. I also can't help but wonder why the running nightmares haven't started up. Maybe because my conscious mind is terrorizing the inchoate runner in me just fine, thank you.

My biggest fear isn't the shame of having to walk--the adrenaline will be pumping and I know that I will soar (though I guess coast would be a better word given my pace) right through those 43-45 minutes. My biggest fear is death by trampling. If you think I'm overreacting, you haven't read the literature JP Morgan sent to the registered runners. They ask runners to separate themselves into two groups at the starting line--those who pace between 5 and 6 minutes per mile and those that pace at 7 minutes per mile or slower. If I'm reading this correctly, I'm pacing so slowly that even if a fast runner and a slow runner took turns on the course, they would both beat me to the finish line. Easily.

In this case, it's really not about whether I win or lose, it's about not getting flattened during my first 5K. Following the details about where the slow runners can stick themselves, comes this helpful tip:

"Please note that a slower runner at the front of the race could potentially be injured should they not be able to keep up with the pace of the faster runners."

Should they not be able to keep up? Should? What the hell do you do when you run five and a half minutes slower than the slowest of the slow?

OK, fine. These speed demons are probably too skinny to actually flatten me, but if I get in front of a pack of them--even the 7-minute slow pokes--it seems quite possible my heart might explode.

OK. New goal. An image of me at the start of the race waving every last runner ahead of me. "No, no, after you." Maybe I should factor in some self-preservation chivalry points and aim at finishing in 60 minutes. Yes. That seems doable. And since it's quite likely that all the good people from J.P. Morgan will be packed up and home by the time I cross the finish line, I'm recruiting a cheering section. So if you know the words to "The Final Count Down" or can approximate the sound of synthesized trumpets and feel like serenading me down Charles Street along the Boston Common on Thursday, you'd be welcome.

Da-da laaaa da
Da-da lah dah dah
Da-da laaaa duh da
Da-da lah dah dah dah dah, etc.