Since I've got more holes drilled in me than most two-by-fours, I'll never win footraces against able-bodied opponents. My body isn't built for running. At 5′ 10" and 200 pounds, it's like putting a monster truck in the Indy 500. Even so, I managed to take 12,408th place (out of 55,000 people, so not too bad) in the Bolder Boulder 10K this Memorial Day. The guy who won beat me by almost 30 minutes. FYI: 10 kilometers equals 6.2 miles—just in case you were wondering.
So I'm not a runner. I'll never win. I don't even like running or Boulder that much. So what's the point? The Captain Kirk answer is: "Because it's there." The New Age KC answer is: "To accomplish something." The Real KC answer is: "Because I get to wear short-shorts and look like a dumbass in front of an entire city."
I try to think about my next credit card bill or how many push-ups Ted Nugent can do. Anything to get my mind off the agony in my guts.For gear, I went to the store to find the shortest running shorts I could. Even still, I didn't have the best Daisy Dukes out there. I don't know where these marathoners shop, but I need to find their source. I found an Under Armour shirt that was so tight you could see the outline of my chest hair. I picked up a few new sweatbands for my wrists and head. I snatched the best running shoes $25 and fifteen minutes in a sporting goods store could buy. To complete the costume, I put on a pair of compression shorts that are supposed to keep your leg muscles from fatiguing—these are ridiculously small and tight, but also make my junk look huge, so you have to take the good with the bad.
Training was a pretty cool experience. I don't like to run with most people, because they either go too fast or too slow, so I exercise solo.
I smoke a cigarette now and then, but quit that completely. It was pretty easy because I used to just bum cigs from my sort-of girlfriend, but I moved from NYC to Colorado. I also quit drinking, ate right and exercised more, which if you can imagine, does wonders for your body.
The Bolder Boulder takes place on Memorial Day, a Monday. So naturally on Sunday I woke up at 10:30 a.m. convinced I slept through my alarm and missed the race. I picked up my cell ready to berate some friends until I realized the competition wouldn't be until the next morning. I spent the rest of the day relaxing, stretching, drinking lots of water, and sitting in the hot tub.
Come race day, I was feeling great and carb-loaded. I actually could barely sleep I was so excited to run. I put on my gear and walked toward the race an hour early. As you see a bunch of people dressed just like you heading for one of the biggest road races in the world, you can't help but feel the energy. And wanted to laugh at all the dorks.
I waited around for my running mate Jade, my 98-pound friend that's a girl—she calls me Ivory. We decided that since we're both crappy runners we should race together—it seemed like a good idea and we trained together for about 15 minutes. We walked to our heat's starting line. I kind of needed to pee, but waiting in line for the porta-potties was out of the question, as was just taking a leak on the side of the road in front of tens of thousands of people. So I held it.
BOOM! And we're off.
I'm stuck in the pack. I'm not running as fast as I hoped, but the 200 people in front of me are just farting around. So Jade and I just stick with our pace. After a few blocks the crowd breaks up and Jade takes off. I try to keep up with her. It seems like a few minutes later, and I see we've passed the one-mile mark. I check out my watch: seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds! I rarely run single miles that fast, let alone six fucking miles. Maybe my training paid off and I'm ready to beat this 10K into pulp. I ponder, "Perhaps I should try a half-marathon or even a real marathon."
A few hundred yards later Jade peels away from me. I figure I'll let her tire herself out and catch up with her later. No big deal. For now, I'm running my race and enjoying the sights, smells and sounds of Boulder. I see several houses I've partied in. I broke up and made up with a girlfriend at that Starbuck's. I nearly brained myself in a biking accident over there. While you're running, there are bands playing music, neighbors grilling and random people trying to get you to stop and have a beer with them. I pass them all by.
Mile three hits and as I look for my sole friend who's supposed to cheer for me I feel a rumbly tumbly in my guts. I think, "It's just a stomach cramp, it'll pass." I wave to my friend, who's chilling in a lawn chair.
Soon, bile starts forming in my mouth, but I'm so dehydrated I can't spit anything out. I imagine my tongue disintigrating from the stomach acid. Then ice picks stick in my abdomen, which makes me wonder if all the thumbtacks, pennies and marbles I ate as a toddler decided to work their way through my large intestine at this moment.
But I'm tough as fucking nails. A 10K is a walk in the park compared to the shit I've been through. I've willingly let tattooists drag needles across some of the most sensitive skin known to man. I've laughed at the face of death. I've been in plenty of streetfights, and won almost half of them. I try to think about when my next credit card bill is arriving or how many push-ups Ted Nugent can do. Anything to get my mind off the agony in my guts.
Pretty soon I realize these stomach pangs aren't anything out of the ordinary—I just really have to take a crap. But I still have almost half the race to run. I've seen some outhouses set up, but I think I can hold it so I pass one set of duke sheds.
I go for another mile and tell myself, "If I don't take a crap now, I'm going to be that guy who shits himself during the race. And that's going to totally fuck up my plan to fuck drunk skinny runner chicks after this thing."
So I run faster. Not to finish the race or improve my time, but to scope for the green bathrooms along the course. I find a perfect candidate…but there's a line! So I run.
Suddenly, the sweat on my forehead turns from burning to ice cold. More and more acrid tastes build in my mouth, even though I haven't eaten in two hours. I pray I just barf on some Spandex-wearing asshole and get over it. But I don't and I don't.
Five hundred more yards and I see it! Or him! Or him coming from it! A 12-year-old exits a duke shed. I stiff-arm my way through the peloton with one hand, and undo the drawstring of my shorts with the other. My runners come off, but my compression shorts seem Krazy Glued to my thighs. I slip my palms in the waistband and pull them just far enough so my butt peeks out. Even if I could slide my shorts all the way off, I wouldn't want to—there's a half-inch of standing piss on the floor.
A split second before my ass hits the seat it feels like somebody is giving me the Heimlich maneuver. I hear plops and taste three days worth of Power Bars and Grape Nuts. I hold my breath, which facilitates the next push. My body is imploding, and all I can do is drool on the crotch of my shorts. Viscous drool flows from my mouth and adds to the pool of other bodily fluids on the floor.
Usually I like to sit on the pot, read a magazine, and just enjoy the experience. But this is a competition! I've literally got to get my ass moving. I start wiping and can't figure out if I'm removing feces or sweat, so I just keep swiping back and forth. The compression shorts are just as hard to pull up as they were to pull down, but they're up. My runners are in place. I burst through the door. I'm full of energy. I feel like I've taken off a 90-pound backpack. I'm re-energized. I've rope-a-doped the first five miles, now it's time for a Muhammad Ali comeback.
I could do this last mile backwards, but I don't so I can make up the time I wasted crapping. I'm passing people left and right. I'm a cheetah. I'm Speed Racer. I'm the fastest man alive.
I'm coming up to the end of the race, which finishes at Folsom Field, where the University of Colorado Buffaloes play football games. I've watched some glorious games here. Well, I've been really drunk for a lot of games here, which is basically the same thing. I hear the roar of the crowd. They're obviously cheering for me. I'm even more jazzed up.
Everybody seems to be running in slow motion. I have enough time not only to pass them, but lift their wallets. Only, nobody is carrying money with them.
It's the last turn. With every step I take, I feel the foundation of the stadium tremble. I hurdle over a little kid, who also quakes at my constant acceleration. With mercy to everybody else, I cross the finish line. I check my watch: my best time yet. I raise my hands in victory. More eruption from the stands.
I walk a little bit and see Jade, who's already caught her breath. "Hey Ivory, how do you feel?"
I swallow some Rocky Mountain oxygen. "Like I just took the most refreshing dump of my entire life, literally and figuratively." She marvels over my time. Granted, she finished a few minutes before me, but I weigh twice as much as her and took a giant crap in the middle of the race. We hug and our sweat mingles. I'm thrilled my bum knee, broken neck, and abused liver survived and thrived.
We're about to start telling war stories about the Bolder Boulder, but I feel a similar rumble in my guts. I sprint—this time to a bathroom with running water. This is definitely less rushed and disgusting.
Now I'm fully energized again, for the next part of the race: the drinking portion. In my estimates, since I quit drinking for a few weeks and just finished running for 57 minutes, it will take half shot of whiskey to get me drunk…
And I must be right, because I don't remember anything else about the day.