So last week we go for vacation in Myrtle Beach. While we’re down there I’m going to run the Myrtle Beach Marathon.
The last marathon I ran was in Washington DC, The Marine Corps Marathon. I ran that marathon at 182 pounds.
Since that time though, I’ve been trying to work out and build some more muscle, so I took to eating Bulky Man! milkshakes twice a day, and while I was at it, I enjoyed a lot of pizza, beer and other like foods to excess. The net result is that I’m 208 pounds, which, I think I carry well despite the fact that I now have a gut.
At the race expo where I pick up my packet I get asked a couple of times if this is my first marathon.
Noon, the day before the race I am carboloading. Let me put that another way. My family and I are sitting on the pier fishing around noon. I am eating chicken wings and am on the second of three planned beers. I am wearing the Myrtle Beach Marathon shirt that I got at the expo.
This svelte couple wearing the same shirts is also walking on the pier. They see my shirt and come over and ask me what I’m fishing for.
“I have no idea. They sold me the bait and I put it on this hook. It’s more like we’re fishing than fishing for something.” We chat and my wife joins in while my five year old holds the rod.
“Are you looking forward to the race tomorrow?” The man asks.
“I…” and then I stop. The question has not been addressed to me, but to my wife, who looks more like runner than I do at the moment. I understand quickly that they have made an assumption. They see me, and the truth is I got kind of an Andy Sipowicz thing going, or maybe more like a William Shatner kind of deal. I am pretty thick about the middle. Even when I don’t have a layer of eskimo fat I am pretty thick about the middle because that’s the way I am and also because I do a lot of crunches. Strong abdominal muscles are mass. If you get a little fat on them you look much fatter than a guy with no abdominals and twice the fat. Then again, I’m also going bald, so who knows?
Anyway they see my wife, and they see me. They assume she’s running and I’m just wearing the tshirt.
“I’m not running. My husband is.”
“Oh,” he says, and turns to me. “Are you doing the half-marathon?”
“No. I’m gonna do the whole thing.” I reply.
“Is this your first?”
“No. This will be my sixth.” I reply biting into a chicken wing and finishing my beer.
“Oh.” He says.
I pop open my final beer and smile at him in a friendly manner. It is obvious that he wants to question me directly.
“How do you think you’ll do?”
“I plan on running about a 3:45, and you?”
“This is my first marathon,” he admits.
“Good luck.”
And that’s that.
The next morning I wake up at 4:30 and go out on the balcony. Brrr. The tv says it is 28 degrees.
I go to my suitcase and select the Underarmor Cold Gear.
For those of you not familiar, Underarmor is your basic superhero tights. They are space age spandex type compression fit material, like a second skin. Designed to keep you at optimum temperature while giving you full range of movement and whisking moisture from your body.
Damn!. It’s like that commercial for the Incredibles. It takes some serious meatpacking skills to get myself into the Underarmor. I stand in front of the mirror and realize I look something like an overstuffed sausage.
It’s kind of funny how this can happen. Just four months ago, I decided I was too skinny and losing too much muscle from all this running. So I bought the Bulky man five qallon pail of shake mix and started hitting the weights hard. It’s been winter and I haven’t really been paying too much attention to myself in terms of looks. I’ve been working out really really hard, and gaining weight. I assumed it was muscle. Oh, I knew I was putting on a little fat, but I had no idea that there would be…
This ass!
This Gut!
Suddenly instead of large and strong, I feel… fat.
So I go and I run the marathon, and… I kick its ass. A new personal best. 3:49. I would have beat 3:45, but I had to stop and poop… twice.
Riding up the elevator with another returning runner, it happens again.
“Did you finish?” I get asked.
“Personal best.” I reply. “How’d you do?”
“It was tough because of the weather, but I beat 2 hours.”
“So you ran the half-marathon?”
“Yes. You too?”
“No. I did the whole thing?”
“Really?” he asks.
“Really.”
And that’s that. I guess the moral for the story is that Bulky Man milkshakes work, just not like the picture on the front.
