The Viking Half Marathon 2023

I kept looking up ahead. In my mind, I was calling him C Man because he looked like the letter C with legs. His head was at the top of the C. His butt was at the bottom of the C, and his back was bent like that. Then add a set of legs that look like they were drawn on by an arthritic artist who was having a bad day, and you might can imagine what he looked like. I was trying to catch him, and we were closing in on five miles into the race. This was the 2023 version of the Viking Half Marathon. But let's go back a bit to the beginning and see how we got here.

It was chilly, 52 degrees when I walked over. The mile walk from home to the starting line helped me get fully awake, and I think helped me warm up a bit. When I made it to the starting line on the street on the south side of the courthouse, I was immediately impressed by the lack of runners. Where is everyone? I wondered. I saw a few people I knew and spoke briefly with them. Bad Kate and I and her girl posse took a selfie, and then we were off to the running.

Bad Katie Jones and her girl posse.

Only a few blocks in, and I saw a walker up ahead. Then I noticed a man and woman ahead and to my right. They were heavy, far from young, and they moved like they both had artificial limbs. Is this what I am racing now? People who look like they need to be in a hospital rehab and a walker. It took a few more blocks, but I passed the three of them and looking back every time I rounded a corner showed me that they were the only ones behind me. 

Yeah, I had that talk with myself. Those voices came, the ones that said I should just quit this nonsense. At least I can still swim pretty well. Maybe I should just focus on that, a sport I am still competitive in. Now I am racing people who look like they are auditioning for The Walking Dead. But that other voice spoke up. Keep doing this even if you are the last one in the whole race, it said. For a couple of years now, I have been having this conversation with myself every time I enter a race. It is a bit disappointing and embarrasing to be so far in the back, but I am too stubborn to stop.

A shot taken early in the race rocking
my Quadrathon T-shirt.

We made our way to Johnson Street where we ran in the road instead of on the trail. Huh? We zigged and zagged until we got to River Road at mile three, and from there we ran east towards the Keesler Bridge. It was after the Keesler Bridge that I first noticed C Man and began to stalk him. He looked so bad that it hurt my feelings he was ahead of me. I caught him on Cherokee Street just before the five-mile mark. 

"How old are you?" I huffed as I went around him.

"Seventy-four," was his answer. This is who I'm racing now. Seventy-four year old me who look like they are about to fall on their face.

There was a porta-potty at the corner of West Cleveland and Grand Blvd. I was tempted to use it, but I knew if I did, C Man would catch and pass me. I looked back as I rounded the corner. He was only about thirty yards behind me. Heck, I thought, he would have passed before I shut the door.

On the Boulevard, we ran north until we got to Jeff Davis where we turned west. I looked back and did not see C Man. Huh? Where could he be? We ran to Medallion, Riverside Drive, Robert E. Lee, Hemingway, Weightman, and finally to East Claiborne where we turned back west. At the porta-potty at the intersection of Claiborne and Poplar, I stopped to use it. But before I did, Claudia White was outside and seeing me she asked, "How did you get way back here?" 

Lovely. Just lovely. No, I didn't have the conversation again. I'm too stubborn.

From there we zagged and zigged until we finally made Grand Blvd again, this time turning north and running straight for the finish line which was now about 1.2 miles away back across Keesler Bridge and left onto Front Street. When I crossed the line, I was happy, happy to be done. My time was terrible, and my pride was smashed, destroyed, blown up, and all memories of it deleted from my brain. But I was there. God let me be there one more time. Thank you, Lord. I ate some Larry's catfish, picked up my award, and walked home thankful to be alive and healthy enough to be humiliated one more time.

Larry was there. At least there is that.