Just can’t stop running into trouble

FUN runs get me into strife, with the running police.

Adelaide was the scene of the first crime. My Dad was doing a half-marathon and suggested I sign up for the 10km run. I smartly signed up for the 10km walk instead.

The big day arrived. The combination of my official race bib and the nervous energy of the other participants got to me. I wanted to run.

The starting gun went off and my running career began.

At about the 2km mark, I was shuffling along, headphones in, when a woman trackside started waving her hands at me. I smiled and waved back. Her waves got more aggressive and it became apparent she was yelling at me. “Stop running!” she said. “I’m in a fun run, I have to keep running, I will come last but I don’t care!” I smiled and started to jog on.

“I know you’re in a race, I’M A RACE OFFICIAL and I can see from your bib you are registered as a walker, you must stop running RIGHT NOW,” she screeched.

“Oh don’t worry,” I ex- plained. “I’m so slow I will finish behind the walkers but I will take off my bib so it doesn’t affect the results,” I said and started unpinning it. “No you CANNOT do that. WALKERS CANNOT RUN. Stop running this minute.” I ran off, and put my earphones in to drown out her screaming. Jogging past a bin, I was about to chuck my bib in it when another race official stopped me to ask what I was doing. I explained. “Don’t you worry, you keep your bib and continue on. Enjoy yourself!” he said. So I did. I jogged the whole 10km and as I crossed the finish line, the loudspeaker announcement burned in my ears: I had won the women’s 10km walk. Oops. I disqualified myself.

The next crime scene was a 5km run in Melbourne I signed up for with Dad. He suggested we swap bibs so I would get a good time.

At the 4km mark I was plodding along and noticed a missed call on my phone.

I checked the voicemail in case it was work. It wasn’t work. It was Cheryl the race director, congratulating me on winning the women’s 5km race, with a time of just over 20 minutes.

Mortified, I fessed up, kind of. I said my Dad and I must have accidentally swapped bibs. I disqualified myself.

We’ve got another fatherdaughter fun run booked in October … what could go wrong?