Over the past few weeks, fellow bloggers have shared funny running moments. I’ll share mine. Humor is relative, and this feels a bit risky, but here goes.
A few decades ago, on a hot and humid day, I ran my first 10K. I’ve been running for years and learned some lessons the hard way. But I had a gift of forgetting the simple pleasures and doing them again. Making a wardrobe selection for my first race was one of those lessons. Lesson: Don’t wear cotton on races longer than 5K, especially when it’s hot or wet. With my limited experience, I chose my favorite old cotton T-shirt, which had accumulated many miles from training.
The race was challenging due to the weather, and I sweated profusely before we even started! About a mile into the race, my light gray shirt had turned dark gray. About two miles into the race, nipple friction became unbearable. I could sense that if I continued, there would be a painful consequence. Now, what should I do? My race number was securely pinned to my shirt, soaked wet and clinging to me. Suddenly, a brilliant idea struck me! I would slip out of the armholes and wear it around my neck until I reached the finish line, and then I would put it back on before crossing the finish line. I was so clever! I was the king of the 10K improv runners that day!
My brilliance paid off, and my nipple remained unharmed. But then, the final mile arrived. Remember when I had convinced myself that everyone wanted to see my muscles? The shirts I wore were tight, and this one was drenched in sweat, one size too small. Imagine trying to get dressed and running a 6-minute mile when the clothes didn’t fit? Not only that, but the shirt had four pins holding it in place. So, I removed it and managed to get one arm through the neck and the other through the hole. As I ran along, I couldn’t see the simple error. I was fumbling around like a man trying to get out of a straitjacket!
I had less than half a mile to go in the North Dakota State University Homecoming 10K. A group of co-eds saw me fumbling when one yelled, “Take it off, take it all off!” This was my first and only Chippendales experience, with sounds, hoots, and hollers.
As a shy farm boy, I’d never had a woman scream for me to remove my shirt. My heart rate soared over 160, possibly reaching 170 with those perverted thoughts. As I descended the last 300 yards, I fumbled with the shirt, being screamed at by attractive women, and I didn’t notice a raised sewer cover. My shoe hit it perfectly, propelling me through the air, arms caught in my shirt, unable to break the fall.
A friend saw me bounce and roll. I scraped my head and bled from my left arm and leg. Embarrassed, I finished at 36:42, my first and best 10 K run. Overwhelmed with embarrassment, I ran to the car and left.
Looking back, I got the PR because I wasn’t thinking about the race, the pace, or other mental mistakes I now make while running. I was so caught up in that shirt I just ran in that I completely messed up!
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