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Jan 28, 2003 I ran a mile over the weekend -- four times around the high school track. Then I hobbled back to my car and drove home with shaking legs and aching lungs. Before I reveal my not-so-astonishing time, let me first offer up three excuses and one fact. Fact: The world record for a one-mile run is held by Noured Morceli of Algeria. He ran it in 3:44:39. That's 3 minutes, 44 seconds and change. Jaw-droppingly fast! With my plodding-shuffling “technique”, I found it hard to believe that Morceli and I are part of the same species. A more likely explanation is that he was genetically designed by a race of superior extraterrestrials. Perhaps the Raelians had something to do with it. Anyway, on to the excuses. Excuse Number 1: It was too cold to properly warm- up my muscles or to breathe. My hamstrings felt like angrily taut banjo strings. My lungs burned and shriveled at the stinging cold air. I coughed as much as I breathed. I felt like a syphilis patient pathetically running away from an armed robbery. But on I ran. The Keystone Cops in hot pursuit. Excuse Number 2: My knee hurt. It was aching and throbbing and felt a little unstable. I was worried it would give out and I would seriously re-injure it. And by the way, it was cold. I thought of the protagonist from Jack London’s "To Build a Fire." It was reasonable, I imagined, that I, too, would die alone and frozen on the desolate tundra, or on the high school track. (If you've never read "To Build a Fire," it's certainly worth the read.) I imagined that I, like the protagonist, would somehow fall through ice and soak my feet. And with temperatures at 70 below (okay, 24 above), it would be necessary to quickly start a fire and dry my socks and shoes and feet. I imagined igniting and tenderly caring for the small writhing flames, which I would then feed with progressively larger branches until I had established a real fire. However, what I wouldn’t notice in my fire- building frenzy were the snow-covered branches of the pine tress directly above the fire. The heat would rise and melt the snow, and then the snow would fall and douse the fire. I would then be in a much more serious situation. I would assuredly lose a few toes and maybe the end of my nose to frostbite, but I would still survive. With death closing in, I imagined struggling stupidly (though heroically, I suppose) to build another fire. But again, I would fail. I would end up frozen dead in an arctic wasteland, or on the high school track. Perhaps London's story is trying to tell us something about humanity's stubbornness and stupidity. I don’t know. What I do know is that as I gimped around the track, I found it much easier to relate to London’s frozen protagonist than to Morceli, the world record holder. But I kept chugging right along like a child’s toy train. Choo! Choo! Excuse Number 3: My toe hurt. Last week I smashed the "ring" toe of my left foot on the corner of the wall in our upstairs hall. If you’ve ever had two kids and a puppy and a spouse who also works, you can probably relate to the chaos of the morning ritual. Here’s what happened: As my wife struggled to brush the teeth of our sleepy cranky son in the bathroom, I attempted to entertain the puppy and my one-year-old daughter in the bedroom. The puppy was happily biting my toes and tripping me, while Audrey was happily destroying everything she could get her hands on. I was "happily" trying to pick out a shirt. Should I wear this? I'd ask myself. No, you wore that yesterday, stupid. What about this? No, it has a stain on it. Or this? Or this? Just pick a stinking shirt and get on with it! While my two selves argued in the closet, I heard the bedroom door open. Oh my God! Audrey had somehow opened it and was heading for the top of the steps. With lightning quick and adrenaline-boosted reflexes I dashed through the door, mutilated my toe on the wall and grabbed Audrey just in time. I was filled with great relief and great pain. My foot instantly turned green and purple and swollen. The puppy chewed on it anyway. Audrey laughed and pulled on my ears. Almost in tears, I lay on the floor holding Audrey like a recovered fumble and calling for my wife. As usual, she came to the rescue. The toe remained iridescent and slightly swollen for a week. It was pretty much back to normal, though still a little sore, as I chugged through the finish line on my one-mile run. Exasperated, I gazed down at the stopwatch. It said: 07:51. 7 minutes and 51 seconds. All-in- all, not too bad, especially considering the weather and my knee and my toe. Just imagine what I could do without all those excuses. Noured Morceli, look out! I mean, please don’t step on me as you go flying past. (It’s important to remain realistic). ------------ Jeff Milligan lives in West Sadsbury Township, Pennsylvania with his wife and two children. He falls in the following demographic categories: Age 25 - 34. Race: Whitish. Email Jeff: JIam41@aol.com Comment on this column in the forum. ------------ |
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