Run for Wellsie

A few weeks ago a bunch of alumni from SLU track and cross country made the trip out to Canastota, NY (right outside of Syracuse) for the annual Nate the Great 5K. It started off as a run to remember Nate, who was killed in a car accident the summer before he was to head up to SLU. Since then, Nate's family, especially Papa Nate, have become quite close with Mike Howard and the track coaches at SLU, even sending a large contingent of Canastota High School track athletes to the SLU T&F camp every year. Over the last two years, though, the race has morphed into a memorial run for another SLU track athlete as well, my buddy Ryan "Wellsie" Wells.

Wellsie passed away two years ago after battling cancer, beating it twice, for 4 years. He was the definition of a fighter, never gave up and always had a positive attitude. He left a huge impression on those of us who were privileged enough to have known him, even if it was for just a short time. So, it is with great pride that many of us toe the line at the Nate the Great to remember our teammate and friend.

This years' race was like the last few - I started out thinking that I would run well and finished wondering why 5k's suck my will to live. It didn't matter that I was in shape, having put in many, many miles in preparation for such an event. Nooope, didn't matter in the slightest, really. I always manage to do something to undermine my efforts before the race even starts. In past years it was "the worst tradition ever," which entailed getting lit the night before, not sleeping much, and heading to the line for an 8am start. I might as well have done so, I would have a great excuse for my TERRIBLE finishing time. The only thing I can say about this years' race was that the weather wasn't THAT optimal for running. I am pretty sure I could taste the humidity, it was that heavy, coming in somewhere around 1,000,000%. I also wasn't pleased to find that by the time the race got underway, the temperature had already reached 90+. Awesome. You know what that is a recipe for?

Vomit.

Oh and did I ever.

After going out in a pedestrian pace for the first mile, I hit the start of the hill not with gumption and vigor but more with a thud and a whimper. Halfway up what seemed to be K2, I slowed to a notch above Crawl and maintained, not wanting to overdo it...or pass out. When I reached the summit, I was sucking wind and looking for oxygen, or at least a friendly Sherpa to help me finish. With no help in sight, I dropped the hammer and cranked it down a notch to Shuffle pace, reaching the bottom of Mt. What the F wanting to throw things. I had the urge to tackle the water people out of pure spite for being so nice, but I didn't have the energy. So instead, I took my shirt off in the thought that for some reason it would help. All this did was allow the sun to continue its hateful rage on me, sucking every last bit of moisture out of my body. It was at this point - you know, the point where the gates of hell were completely outstretched - when a lovely young lady ran by me and said,

"Come on! Almost there! Just crank those strides."

.......................................................................yeah........................................

I am sure she meant well and that her tone of voice was really normal and didn't sound like a four-year old saying, "I know you are but what am I" but that is besides the point. To me, it sounded like this,

"Come on! My sister could beat you and she is blind with one leg. Face it, I am passing you because you suck. Later, loser!"

That is what I heard and therefore she deserved to get a roundhouse kick to the upper torso. And I would have, too, if I could have done anything other than collapse.

As I made the turn towards the finish line, I felt the sensation that accompanies almost every 5k that I have run. However, this time around, my stomach was not sending a warning shot across the bow. Oh no, he meant business this time around and wasn't at all concerned that the finish line was only 100 meters away. In front of as many people as possible, I pulled off to the side of the road, right onto the lawn of the nice old lady sitting on her front porch. I looked at her, then the man announcing the names of those lucky bastards whose stomachs cooperated, and then at my feet...

Booya.

After giving back what seemed to be my soul, I felt a gentle tap on my back from my good friend and roadmate Chris Konic, who offered these words of encouragement,

"Damn, almost made it. Well, see you at the finish!"

Thanks, Chris, thanks for being there to wipe my tears and hold my hair back.

Feeling authentically awesome enough to start running again, I dragged my pale bag of skin across the finish line in record time...record time meaning my worst 5k result ever. Notice I didn't say, "worst 5k FINISH ever" as that would be misleading. No, my finish was flawless, breathtaking, actually - Wellsie would have been proud.

And I stuck the landing - suckkaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas.

Till the next running-induced debacle-

B