I’ve been running for a month now. Running but not a runner. Especially since half of my ‘runs’ are of me keeled over with cramps.
I guess it’s more commonly known in the runner’s circle as a ‘side stitch’ but that makes me think of a sidekick. Which makes me imagine Ed McMahon in Richard Simmons-inspired exercise gear running up the path ahead of me boasting “Heeeereeee’s Kari!”
If running is for the psychotic (as I am convinced it is), it should really come easier for me. Sigh. I have tried eating better, drinking more water, and timing my eating and drinking better. Failing all that, I try alcoholic laced coffee before heading out. Sadly, that too fails.
I Google ‘side stitch’, which is always dangerous since any ailment researched by Google most commonly results in death. Fortunately, my prognosis is better than that. Slightly. It’s all very scientific and technical but has something to do with jiggling livers and diaphragms and stretching ligaments and for one horrific moment, stretching ligaments triggers ‘pregnant’ in my brain. Almost as bad as death then…
But no, it’s just that I run funny. Something absurd like my right foot hits the ground on my exhale while most people’s left foot hits. Of course it does. So I head out on my run trying to put my left down on the exhale. This confuses my brain and I end up looking like Kramer entering a door that hits Elaine who is dancing. So, not pretty.
Eventually, all of this depleted oxygen to my brain results in me insanely calling my brother asking if he wants to do a trail run with me. “Yah sure. I just started running again. It’s been ages. Went out this morning.” he says nonchalantly.
“Oh cool. I’m headed out now. Today I am running 3 minutes, walking 2 minutes, 10 times.” I boast since this is a vast improvement over my starting schedule of run 1 minute, walk 3 minutes, 8 times.
“Oh yah, I can’t do that. I have this Nike gidget gadget blah-blah that records my time and distance. I set it for a 10km run. When it tells you 2km, 3km, etc it’s a bit discouraging as it feels long—”
“Hold up. You ran 10km this morning?” “Yah.” “Just like that? 10km? You ran the whole thing?” “Yah.”
Which is when I should have hung up on him. But I’m too good of a sister for that. Besides, when we do run it, he’ll be able to cross the finish line, drive to the store, come back, chill some beer, pour it in a frosted mug, and be ready to hand it over just as I finish.
Only it turns out the guy wants to actually run with me. It is both my lack of oxygen and ingestion of copious amounts of beer that has me agree to the run. *** When picking a running partner, it is advisable to always pick someone who is slower than you. This not only boosts the ego, but also means they probably will not catch on to your sly ‘Oh, my shoelace came undone!’ ploy to have a break. And if they do catch on, they will pretend they do not.
Since I have yet to meet anyone slower than me, this is all conjecture of course. Or bullshit. Same, same. If, like me, you have to pick a running partner who is faster than you, ensure that they do not mind being called ‘Bastard!’ with saliva-filled, wheezing vehemence. This is non-negotiable. If they prefer not to be called violent names, get rid of them. Which is to say, let them run at their own pace.
Still, you can make your point known. Kicking mud at their heels works fine. Fortunately, my running partner this past weekend also happens to be my little brother. Which means nasty name-calling has been engrained in our relationship since Kindergarten taught me all about ‘Cooties’. Because the cynical son-of-a-bitch that is my brother, just got back from a 10-day vacation on a Caribbean island filled with friendly, gregarious, laid back folk, I am fairly certain he is ready for some attitude. Some bitchiness. You know, bring him back into reality and all that. What else is a sister to do but curse him and his tanned, pansy-ass self? Win, win as far as I can tell then.
Seriously though, if you are going to run with somebody faster than you, bright and early after a midnight arrival from a lazy beach vacation is the way to do it. He is jet-lagged and happy to go for a ‘saunter’ while he chatters about his trip. I am happy to have him have so much to talk about so all I have to do is: “Oh yeah…” *gasp* “Mmm Hmm” *gasp* “Cool” *gasp* And when it gets really hilly, a garbled “Uh huh” which he thinks is me responding to his tale but is, in actual fact, me having a full-blown asthma attack.
Then suddenly, without my even keeling over, we are finished. Done. An 8km hilly trail run. Running and now, dare I say it, a runner?
Watch out lil bro, Heeerrreeee’s Kari!
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