I recently ran my first half-marathon at Virginia Beach for the Shamrock Weekend.  At 7 in the morning, it felt like low 30s with the wind whipping at the heels. Rain was steady but consistent as I made my way over from the Farm Fresh Parking Lot to the Corral 3 starting line. The sun was rising but had yet to make an entrance. I trailed a group of people, assuming they were some of 7,000 people up in the morning to run in these dreary conditions. Here are my thoughts as I came upon 42^nd street.

Mile 1: Okay, phew we got this Jon. One foot in front of the other. One step, two step. Hey look, a non-African black person! He up here in the front, making these gainz. Damn that dude looks upset. Is he about to cry? I’m going to say “hello.” [I say “what’s up”] Oh he don’t see me? Wow, I thought we were in this together. He probably doesn’t season his food and follows Stacey Dash on Twitter.

Mile 2: Hmm, I wonder what mile I’m on? Probably 6. Ya’ boy is coasting, ya’ boy got that speed. That speed, I said I got, I got, I got-got-got that SPEED. Half-marathons are a joke, I could do this in my s(ch)leep. Oh there’s a “cheer station” lemme’ get some high-fives. [I extend my hand out to high-five the two dozens of people cheering on their loved ones.] Yes, high-fives for the win. I have been rejuvenated. Tavon is fake for not waking up at 4:30 in the morning to cheer me on for two hours in the cold rain. Probably should find a new favorite cousin.

Mile 3: Wait mile 3? Wait, hold up. I’ve been running for like 30 minutes. This can’t be right.

Mile 4: Wait that’s the 2:45 pacer passing me. Oh no. Oh god. What have I done. Oh that girl is cute. Imma’ look cool passing her. Wait, is it frowned upon to flirt with someone during a half-marathon? Maybe I’ll wait, only 7,000 people are running this race. I’m sure I’ll see her again.

Crossing the finish line on the Virginia Beach boardwalk. 

Mile 5: Okay about 8 miles to go. That’s 4 miles twice. 2 miles four times. That’s a mile, eight times. That’s running about 13 kilometers. Wait how many feet is that? Crap, Dr. Mutiti would have killed me if he knew I forgot about my unit conversions. Another cheer station! Sweet!

Mile 6.5: I hate everything that has ever lived. Who invented the high-five?

Mile 7: cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp.

Mile 8: Oh yeah Dusty Baker and Glenn Burke started the high-five. Duh Jon.

Mile 9: [I start crying and singing internally] Rock it, don't stop it, [gasps for air] everybody get on the floor…crank the party up [wipes away eyes to frustration] we about to get it on…let me see you 1, 2 step, I love it when you 1, 2 step… [stuffs water, Gatorade, bananas, and Gu energy gel into face while temporarily and simultaneously choking/blinding myself]

Mile 10: I can’t believe I spent $123.46 on this race with a $10 parking fee. My money better be funded to cure AIDS that’s all I’m saying. Oh wait it’s going to Children’s Miracle Network. Never mind…

Mile 11: I definitely have totz mcgoatz more energy than I thought I did. Two miles? That’s almost nothing. I think it’s time to activate ‘twin turbos’ [I quicken my pace to a slow sprint]

Mile 12 &13: runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run : runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run. IF Y’ALL DON’T GET OUT THE WAY, I NEED TO END THIS SELF-IMPOSED TORTURE.

Mile 13.1: I can’t feel my fingers, my thighs are in limbo, I’m wet from the rain and sweating, I don’t remember where I parked my car, it feels like 30 degrees out here, I’m not sure if I need to poop or pee or throw up first, but hey:

I get 6 beers, Brunswick stew, and a 90s R&B cover band is playing. Leh’ get it.

Later I saw that I finished 250 out of almost 7,000 people with a 1:35:28. Maybe I’ll get it another try later on? Try to get some 1:20 action? Ugh.

Runs From Trolls & Jim Crow

I was running, running, running,

Through the forest, forest, forest,

And it was pretty, pretty, pretty,

But then I saw Horace, Horace, Horace,

I love trail running. In college one of my preferred areas to frolic around in was Bartram Forest. It is a network riddled with trails right off US-441. Miles and miles of dirt, trees, rocks, and the occasional naked hippy*. One of those areas where somebody could fall asleep in and wake up unscathed.

Bartram Forest Entrance (GWS Gallery)

But my favorite reason to run out in nature is when I get into a certain elation. I catch a third wind**. For background, second wind is what most people feel at a certain point of distance running. When your body switches metabolic processes. This anaerobic metabolism becomes that best friend at a bar who you only call when you want to completely ruin your life for a couple of hours. But third wind. That’s when limbo presents itself to me. Time isn’t a priority nor is my body exhaustion an issue nor do I care where I am going nor do I realize where I am. Or who I am.

I just run.

Did I mention, mention, mention,

That I stole from Horace, Horace, Horace,

He was a troll, troll, troll,

Who’s face was bleh, bleh, bleh

Loblolly pines served as inebriated High Overseers. Always physically imposing but essentially inept. My agenda had been clear that cloudy morning. To take back a relic my possession from the nasty, horrid-looking, disease-ridden, no nipple-having, mud-troll.

Once I mustered up my will, I crept up to a seemingly-lifeless cobblestone bridge. Tiptoeing up to the unprotected item, I made an unnatural noise and lunged for it. Once it pleased my fingertips, I fell backward. The troll did not make one grunt, grumble, or mumble. 

Then I left.

These pines were often burn to reduce hazardous fuels

I wove in-between the burnt timber as though I was Thomas Saint. My toes provided traceable footprints, but it would take the troll a fortnight to catch me. That is if I were to stop moving. My bare feet trampled over stones, acorns, pine combs, red clay, smoldering ashes. The calluses on my feet were that thick to where I could have had a footbath at the crest of Orodruin. One foot, two foot, big toe, small toe. Rain drops falling off the tip of a leaf. Not on-beat but perpetual.

By the time the troll had consumed his late-morning brunch, I was already grabbing a pint at The Green Dragon Inn.

By the time the troll figured out his relic was not with him anymore, I was grabbing my fourth pint at The Green Dragon Inn. 

648 kilometers from where the troll got hit.  And he screamed out to the heavens, I mean he screamed to where all the creatures and critters who had functional eardrums. My  own ears caught his tone and along with the black muck in his pupils. It was as though he was sitting in the stool right next to me. Listen, he told me:

“You get back here you f*cking n*gger.”

My mind collapsed from my fugue state of strenuous activity. I fell through the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th stages of limbo. My wireless headphones were at 0%. Somebody woke me up.

There were three humans in the cab of a modded pick-up truck. The trail route in Bartram I normally take had been washed out, so my bare-feet had to hit the Vinson Highway pavement. Only for a few minutes. The action and reaction only took a few seconds. I didn’t yell back or throw a rock at their windshield. Maybe they were unaccompanied minors attempting a prank or maybe a white supremacist group or maybe some of my college associates. Maybe I could have even set myself up for an outdated slave joke since on occasion I run without Asics. But maybe is for the indecisive.

Whatever the maybe was, I didn’t have time for it. I had 5Ks to run.

I glanced back at that troll, troll, troll,

Who called me a derogatory term, term, term,

But I did not stop, stop, stop

Because I was not done running, running, running,

--

*A story for a different time.

**A third wind is a term I made up to refer to a euphoric feeling. In this state, I imagine a daydream sequence of me running in an imaginary environment. In for this fictional setting, I’m a hobbit running through The Shire.

My Name is Jon and This is a Blog about Running Because a Kid Called Me Fat in 7th Grade

Let me be clear, I sucked at running during grade school. Okay it wasn't that bad but pretty much.

2015 was the 10-year anniversary of when I first started running. Twelve years-old when I strapped on my Asics and started running before Carver Middle School's first bell. Fortunately my parents forced me to go to bed at 10 p.m. on weekdays, so I didn't mind waking up 6 a.m. to run a mile or two. If I didn't run in the mornings, I would hop on over to my best friend's house about 1.5 miles over in the neighboring hood. Don't get me wrong, I operated a number of adolescent vehicles. Mongooses, Razor electric scooters, Schwinns, the occasional Heelys. 

First race in my life when I was 13, being supported by my family. I cried like a Denzel Washington.

But hitting that stride, 1-step, 2-step. Took me maybe five minutes to get to my friend's show on a bike, 20 minutes to jog. One may be asking why I took the time out of my 7th grade life to take that slow, exhausting trip. All of the PBS kid's showtime I was missing, all of the homework that could be completed, all of the girls to daydream about. What amazing origin story has got me running consistently with competitive times at the age of 22?

My ten year affliction with running was an outcome from one of my vertically-challenged peers calling me fat. One kid. Who's name I can not recall at the moment. "Hey, you're a fat-a**." I will never forget that feeling because it was pooped-out processed hopelessness. Gullible and emotional as I was, that one phrase in particular pierced me. It's that one thing that got me trippin'. Such an arbitrary reason to start one of the longest and most structured hobbies in Jonny's modern life. 

Now,  this blog is for me to express underlying vibes and such from this process that I have developed, as well as explaining to people how I view exercise in general as a chronic wienie, understanding body image, my battles with semi-depression, my obsession with geography, and being a fitness minimalist 

Don't show my mom.