Running for my Life

At my age, the question wasn’t whether I could run a 15K.

It was whether I could go 90 minutes without taking a whiz.

I succeeded on both accounts Saturday, completing my first Tulsa Run with dry drawers and sore legs.

It was a fun and frustrating journey.

My music quit on me a half an hour in. So with nothing to keep my mind occupied, I let the event, itself, be the distraction.

I listened to bands playing. I avoided the roadkill and drain covers. I looked up at the placard-holding Jesus freaks, reminding me that I’m going to Hell.

I admired the creativity of the costumed competitors, particularly the young girls disguised as bacon strips.

But mostly, I just tried to keep running.

I felt good at the turnaround, boosted by the fact I was halfway home. The skyscrapers of downtown slowly came into view.

Ten kilometers became 11, then 12. Suddenly, I realized I should have eaten more than a glazed doughnut for breakfast. My pace began to fade.

The final 2K, which followed hilly Boston Avenue, kicked me in the ass.

I finished on fumes, but erect.

It was a good day.

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