Crawling through the woods for fun, food and fellowship

It was eight weeks ago on these very pages I declared before all of humanity (or at least the tiny portion that reads this column) that I was committed to running a trail race in mid-November. No stranger to the power of shame, I knew making such an announcement would force me to follow through with that plan no matter what.

My wife, the architect of my suffering, had signed me up for the race when she’d mistaken my failure to deliver an outright and emphatic “no!” to her suggestion that I join her in what for her would be just another day running through the woods.

Back when I’d made that fateful announcement, the calendar was flush with potential training days. More than enough time, I figured, for a reasonably fit mountain bike racer to seamlessly segue from knobby tires and 25 pounds of ridiculously expensive carbon fiber to a simple pair of deep-lugged sneakers and a pair of baggy shorts.

Turns out you actually need to put the shoes on and run in them to gain any sort of experience in the sport — something I quickly found cumbersome and painful. Some creatures are meant to spread their wings and fly. Others are meant to board an airplane, crack open a complimentary drink and enjoy the view while the plane does the work. I believe my idea of running may have been erroneously skewed toward the latter.

I logged a total of somewhere between 3 and 5 miles over the course of the 56 days leading up to the event — more than enough to prove to me this whole thing was a terrible idea and I would suffer unthinkable pain on race day.

Convinced of my ability to walk as swiftly as some people run (a skill undoubtedly developed in early childhood as I endeavored to keep up with seven older siblings), I figured I could do just that over the 10-mile course of the race.

“Yah, that’s a nice plan,” Kristin said. “Of course, you’ll probably cache that idea the minute you get passed by some little, old lady. You can take the racer out of the race, but you can’t take the race out of the racer.”

She is wise for her age, that bride of mine. My plan was intact all the way up to the moment we stepped across the starting line together, and everyone busted into a jog.

“Just go, John,” Kristin shouted over the thundering drum beat of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.” I took off with the graceless lope of a newborn calf.

For every bit of 2 miles I ran — up and down, in and out, zigging and zagging until my legs finally realized what I was doing and literally seized in protest. The lead antagonists — the quadriceps muscles on the front of my thighs — spasmed so severely I could barely manage a waddle.

Still, I knew if I stopped moving entirely, things would be much worse. And so the course of the day was set. I locomoted by whatever means seemed the least pain-inducing for the next two hours —sometimes a thy-torturing jog, sometimes a stiff-legged shuffle, sometimes a fate-cursing, teeth-clenched crawl — all of it in pursuit of a bowl of chili and a puff-topped beany.

I was smitten. By the time Kristin found me at the finish line, I’d already begun to formulate a plan for the next time. Suffering might just be my new favorite thing.

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.