So, after assuring myself that I would go the extra mile, do what it took, leave it all out on the course, and other inspirational-poster-type platitudes, you can imagine what happened next. Yes, I injured myself. Playing pickup football, no less. A friend's unimaginably bony knee made contact with my quad, inflicting upon me what has become enshrined in the pantheon of sports injuries as the Deep Thigh Bruise. It's a very painful, yet typically non-fatal injury that is maddening in that it will allow you to start to feel as though you can begin running again, only to flare up and cause excruciating pain the moment you attempt to do so. It is a bitter, petty whore of an injury. I discovered this when I was pulled off the course during a race the following week in which I was limping so badly that I had developed about a fifteen degree list to starboard. Despite this handicap, I was still ahead of about thirty or so other competitors. This episode is not precisely a glowing affirmation of their success as runners.
Eventually, though, I healed, and was at full strength and champing at the bit for our next meet, which also happened to be against our arch-rivals. I downed two CarboCoolers (a wretched 'performance' drink that enjoyed a brief vogue during the early 90s. It was chock full of carbs, in the sense that it contained enough sugar in it to euthanize a decent-sized rat. Lord knows what it did to my pancreas, but I firmly believe that the nationwide rise in late-onset diabetes can be traced, at least in part, to the introduction of that vile beverage. On the plus side, it tasted exactly, exactly, like a melted Flavor Ice) on the ride over. By the time we reached the course, I was ready to pummel my PR into submission, not to mention pick a fight with the other team, vomit out the bus window, and tie my shoelaces with my teeth.
The JV race was run prior to the varsity, so we were the first to line up. As I approached the starting line, I was locked in and ready to go. The starter's gun sounded and I took of as though I were being chased by lava filled with zombies. Within the first fifty meters, I was leading the race. Whether because of that heady feeling, or perhaps because of the dozens of grams of pure unadulterated sugar coursing through my veins, I continued to push my pace. Approaching the first half-mile in, I was still at the front of the pack and making good time. Visions of winning the race began to consume me. Not unlike Homer Simpson when he attempted to jump Springfield Gorge on a skateboard, I started thinking, "I'm gonna make it!" I was going to run the shit out of this course. The course was mine, as were all the runners thereupon.
It was at about this point that my plan began to unravel. My pace flagged and I heard footsteps. First one, then two, then several more runners, all wearing the hated orange and black of the other team, went by. All told, I was passed by seven of their team before the first of my teammates appeared. All I could do was gesture weakly ahead of me to indicate that we definitely were not winning. The rest of the race was a pathetic blur of ignominy. I continued to drop toward my familiar place near the back of the pack. Each quarter-mile became more fraught than the last. Finally, interminably, the finish line hove into view. What the fuck...I began to sprint. I did manage to pick off a couple runners over the last hundred meters, but the damage was done. Cold realization had hit me. I would never, ever win a cross-country race. I have no idea in what place I actually finished that race, but it was not anywhere near the top thirty. Worst part was, I had thought I might actually be one of the scoring runners for that race. Maybe I'd get another chance...
Up next...my opportunity for redemption slips away, but I push a kid down a hill.
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