Savoring the sweet anticipation

the time, so I was pretty confident I could cover 20 kilometers without much trouble. My running plan was to start slowly and gradually work my way up to the required distance. I had no hope of beingcompetitive, even in my age group. I just wanted to cross the finish line, collect my cookies and walkaway with bragging rights.

And that’s what I did. I started by running slowly and then, over a period of two months, continued to run slowly. I always ran the same distance — 3.2 miles, 5 kilometers if you’re European.

My wife, who does this all the time, frowned at my strategy. Did I realize that I had to run that distance twice? I explained that there was a nice, relaxing bike ride in the middle, where I got to sit and catch my breath.

One week before the race, my wife and I were in New York City, and she wanted to go for a run in Central Park. I agreed but warned her that I would only run 3.2 miles and not one step further. It didn’t work out that way. Every time I stopped, she called me a wimp. When we finished, I looked down at my phone and discovered we’d run almost 6 miles.

The pain in my left foot started soon after. The whole week before the race, I hobbled around like a three-legged dog.

The morning of the event I started off at the back of the pack so I wouldn’t face the excruciating prospect of other runners passing me. The first 5K went as expected, slow but steady, but with plenty left in the old “tank.” The bike ride was OK. I even passed three people, although two of them turned out to be folks out for a nice lazy ride.

When I hopped off the bike, it all caught up to me. My left foot felt like it had been run over by a car. I hobbled to the gate, wondering if anyone had ever hopped for 3.2 miles. A cute little Girl Scout urged me on.

“You can do it!” she yelled, perky as all get out.

“I don’t think whined.

“Believe in yourself!” she yelled. “BELIEVE!”

Forty minutes later, I limped across the finish line, next to last. There was the Girl Scout again, holding out cookies and a “participant” medal. I stared at the box of Savannah Smiles.

“Wait a minute,” I gasped. “Are you out of Thin Mints?”

She shrugged apologetically. I reluctantly took my cookies and limped off, finished in every way a man could be finished.

So if you’re at a party anytime soon and see a middle-aged guy wolfing down beer and cookies, be sure to ask about that shiny medal around his neck. He’ll be verydisappointed if you don’t. I can!” I