Back at the Ranch

I guess I'm getting older. I remember the day that Ryan Davis told me that his body just didn't heal like it used to, I thought he was being ridiculous. We were snowboarding in the Catskills, taking video of the boys, relaxing, having a fun time. He was not prone to falling, but after some ill-designed moguls and a hefty body slam to the snow, he began to preach to me on how his body wasn't like it used to be. However, since he nearly killed himself with a router, he's never been the same. He said something about taking life a little easier and not doing stupid things that might result in a serious injury, things about the realization that he is mortal, bla bla bla, and after dismounting his soapbox of safety, we went about our day.

Within 30 minutes I was kneeling next to an unconscious, moaning Ryan who could never back down from a challenge. I actually have video of him, with the same mouth the preached to me about taking it easy, lean over to 3 complete strangers and tell them to watch this jump. Inevitably it was followed by him landing on his head, 30 extremely scary seconds, and one of the funniest moments Ryan and I ever had together. A semi-conscious and very confused and concussed Ryan asking if he was married and began preaching the same safety sermon again, followed by how much trouble he would be in with Mary Beth, who had told him "no tricks!" before he left. He would then forget where he was, and cycle back through the same safety sermon and line of questioning -- a process which would repeat itself about 7 times, all the while with a very confused, yet wry smirk.

After picking him up from the local hospital after the ski patrol transported him all the way down the mountain and to the ambulance, we talked about the safety sermon, about how our bodies were not the same.

I learned my lesson this week. No, there was no trip in an ambulance. No interesting semi-conscious dialogue. Just the naivete of a 24 year old body, who's been sitting in an office, deciding it could run 6.2 miles.

Yes, this weekend was the Shelter Island 10k Run, on a beautiful, small island between the two forks of Long Island. It helps to benefit the Ranch, and naturally, we are avid supporters of the event. At the last minute I decided, "Heck, why not give it a try?" And there I was, standing in the middle of well over 700 people thinking it was possible to finish this race. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't naive enough to think I would win, much less even place, but I thought I could at least muster up enough mental discipline to fool my body into 6.2 straight miles of calm and consistent running. After all, I had kept to the strict training regiment of ho-ho's and yoohoo, and to top it all off, I watched "Without Limits" -- a movie about Steve Prefontaine -- the night before. I wasn't going to pull a Pre and be the front runner, but I sure as heck could gather the brain power to successfully navigate the course without stopping... and I couldn't have been more wrong.

The plan was this: take it easy, 9 minute miles for the first 6 miles and give it everything I've got in the last two tenths. It started without a hitch. My pacing partner was one of my boys, Terry. I'll admit it, I knew I was overmatched, but I thought if we could stick together for the first 3 or 4 miles I would be in good shape. Terry was kind enough to stick around, knock off his place a little, and run with me. A great kid, he always has something funny to say, and felt the need to talk the entire time. It was no doubt the combination of boredom from the turtle-like pace and the excess of oxygen from the lack of necessary energy expulsion -- point being, I was too slow. He would make a comment about wishing he would have done his hair, or worn better clothes if he knew all these good looking girls were going to be running all around us. Running along with us was an older gentlemen in his 70's with an Australia hat on. Through labored breath I made a joke about judging the success of our time versus him. We didn't think much about it, and continued on our way.

We hit the 1 mile marker, 8:58, right on time. I felt a little winded, but pretty good. The plan was working. Then came the hills. Holy crap, the hills. They weren't even that bad, but whatever meager amount of mental preparedness I had mustered struck up a labor union and went on an indefinite strike, and thus the battle within my head waged. Mile two, 17:32, actually a little ahead of schedule, no doubt thanks to the downhill. Then my mind kicks in "A little ahead of schedule, maybe we could slow down a bit, you know, catch some energy before this big hill, then make up for it on the down side." Lashing out quickly, whatever small force of discipline was left broke through my mental picket line and began to work, "No, we have to keep the pace, if you slow down now you'll never finish." Agreeing with what would be their final response, I kept going, only to come around the corner and discover an even larger hill. A quarter of the way up, I personally killed off the last of the discipline and honored the strike, mainly out of laziness, but partly because I was losing the sensation in my arms. I sent Terry on his way, chasing after the girls, and pulled over to the side and began to walk, apologizing to my body for not listening before. People are passing me right and left, many in worse shape than mine. But I stood my ground, walked up the hill, and ran down the back side.

This strategy continued through mile 3, until, while walking I heard a lady in her mid 40's blow by me, casually explaining to her friend how she had lost precious time already after pulling over to pee. My pride took a huge shot, "An old woman can stop, pee, start again, and still outdo you?" I was ashamed, but I committed to my plan. I waited till the next hill and ran down the back side. Several other incidents of much odler and more disciplined people inspired my pride to make a final effort towards a strong finish, taking me all the way through 4th mile without a stop.

But it was right after the 5th mile line, when the 50 year old accountant from the Ranch patted my back as she ran by that even my pride gave up on the running. It was pronounced dead several minutes later.

Late in the 5th mile everyone was passing me. There was a kid no older than 13 leaping by like an antelope, with his father right beside him. I like to think that I had the opportunity to appreciate the scenery, as, at this point in the race, everyone was staring at the ground, plugging ahead. Then a phenomenon occurred. It was at the moment when the group of parents pushing their toddlers in the strollers came running by, that I realized the entire new level of laziness I had achieved. Pulling out the mental defribulator I gave a solid charge to my wounded pride and gave it a final push.

After gaining a significant lead on the babies, I pulled off to the side again to find Fern Hill pushing her granddaughter Ellie, and we had a casual conversation. Something to the effect of my wanting to push Ellie out of the cart and get in myself, or at least that's what she says, I personally don't remember, admittedly my brain was not receiving much oxegyn.

Unknowingly, all the baby pushing parents wizzed past me again, and it this point I was okay with it, I had come to accept my weak fate. Walking there, in my pool of self-indulgence I looked up to see my worst nightmare. No, not another hill, rather, the man in the Australia cap, a good fifty yards ahead of me, about to cross over the 6 mile marker.

Unannounced, with all the fury of a bat out of hell (but none of the speed) I booked it for the finish line, refusing to lose to Australia. And I am proud to say, that with the speedy time of 1:07:25 I won my own personal race against the land down under by almost three minutes.

If you don't believe me, just ask Ryan, he was smart enough to take it easy, and not even run at all.

My man Terry, still chasing after the girls -- 51:46

The woman is telling on me to her grandchild, "he didn't start running till the end." Snitch.