The Mississippi River Half Marathon

I went to bed wondering why my co-worker, Katie Jones, was not doing the River, as we call it. When my alarm went off at 4:20 a.m. Saturday, I said to myself, That's why. 

As planned, I got on the road by 5:00 with the radio and a cup of McDonald's coffee to keep me company on my solo journey to the port city. I made it, got parked, and picked up my packet. Then I made my way to the busses. In this race, a point-to-point, they bus the contestants to the starting line. We run to the finish. En route to load on a bus, I found a row of porta-johns and utilized one. Keep a count of this. Then only thing that went in my mouth that morning was a bowl of cereal and that one cup of coffee. Small. Small coffee.

On the bus, no one talked. This was in sharp contrast to last year when the whole bus was buzzing with chatter. Why? COVID? Politics? Personality? Go figure. To make a short story long, we started our half at 8:00 a.m., and I knew right away it was not going to be a strong run for me. I did not, however, expect what I got: embarrassment, humiliation, shock. I hit a new low in running, one that has me reeling today.

The sign at the Cow Pen Restaurant.
It's going to take a whole roll of
duct tape to fix that. 

Back to the porta-john theme. I used one after we arrived at the starting area at 7:05. I used it again at 7:40. On the run, I had to use it at miles two, four, seven, and ten. Huh? Dude, where did all that come from. I wore a hydration pack, but only drank sparingly.

The real story, however, was in my performance. I started slow and tapered off each mile getting more and more pedestrian. I passed walkers at the first half mile. Why do they always start up front? One of them, an old man, passed me back at 5.3 miles. That hurt. Bad. When he pulled up beside me, I said to myself, It ain't happening. But it happened, and it did not take long. As he passed me and began to pull away, something in my soul gasped and died.

The picture is so small that it's hard
to tell, but that is a fat lady ahead
of me. This is on Highway 82
 headed north.

At mile six, the fat lady caught me. I told her she was disrespecting her elders. She slowed to a walk and chatted with me awhile. She walked while I "ran." After a few minutes, she said, "I'll see you later," and ran away. Later, another walker caught and passed me. Then at mile nine, the first marathoner passed. Last year, the lead marathoner caught me at mile twelve, and he was the only one.

The first marathoner was a female. A woman walking nearby jerked out her phone, called someone, and reported that a woman was winning the long race. "She was smoking," the lady added. The guy running next to me looked my way and quipped, "She was smoking." He was referring to her looks, I think. She was the closest thing to naked I have ever seen anyone in public that was not on a beach or at a pool. She wore a sports bra, and a bottom that I can only describe as an undersized Speedo, made of spandex I'm guessing. I was wearing tights, three layers on top underneath my hoodie, and toboggan, and gloves.

I counted the marathoners as they passes: thirty five. Thirty five!!! I finished the half in 3:20:13 for a 15:14 average pace per mile. No, I did not walk any of it although several walkers passed me. It was tough. I felt like I entered the underworld. Is there a path back? The only consolation I can take from this is that I am still out there. Thank you, Jesus, for that. Am I still too stubborn to quit? Only time will tell.