Profile of the Louisville Mini

Mile 0 - Noticeable increase in heartrate and pulse. I begin to grow anxious as I stand alone in the B corral waiting for the signal to start. I wonder if I'll be able to finish this thing without stopping. A cursory check of my systems says that my legs, lungs, and stomach all seem to be in good shape. Time to go.

Mile 0.25 - A sudden betrayal by my digestive tract. Where there was once peace and understanding now sits a churning whirlpool of hate and fire. An urgent, desperate calling from my lower half promises quick violence with release and prolonged agony without. I scan the roadside- there is no respite to be offered. Teeth clenched, I chug on.

Mile 0.75 - Grateful leap into line for the first grouping of port-o-johns. I wait impatiently. What is that woman doing, knitting a goddam sweater in there? She leaves; the violence is quicker than promised. I make do with the available resources and exit the facility. Free of its extra strain, my body reacts with unforeseen energy. I bound forward effortlessly, held to the earth only by my inescapable mass and mercilessly low coefficient of lift.

What a great shit.

Mile 2.00 - What was once a fun frolic amidst 15,000 companions has turned ugly once more. Whoever invented hills, especially hills in parks, can suck my dick.

Mile 2.75 - I find inspiration when I stumble upon "The Elvises." A bunch of dudes are dressed up as Elvis and push a stroller containing a boombox. The crowd sings along to "In the Ghetto," unperturbed by their predominantly Caucasian, white-collar, middle class+ standing. The irony and music push me forward.

Mile 3.5 - The top hill is crested. As others fly past me, I try to exercise the restraint advised by those who have run before. "Don't blow your load early."

Would that I could store such wisdom in jars.

Mile 5.0 - The flat section is comparatively easy, but I grow restless. The infinite line of homes and street lights on this unwavering road proves surprisingly successful in undermining my sense of distance. Only the mile markers are indicative of progress. Without them, I should not know whither I moved forward or back amidst a sea of grunting humanity.

Mile 5.5 - Orange slices! Yay!

Mile 7.0 - We enter Churchill Downs. Expecting grandiose bearings and a sense of undue wealth and propriety, I find a horse track that smells every bit as shitty as the Lancaster County farm fair. This quick visit has not enlightened me to the wonder of the Kentucky Derby. Also, the Budweiser stand is closed.

Miles 8.0 to 10.0 - Panic. As the race meanders through narrower streets and less affluent neighborhoods, it is difficult to find mile markers. Missing markers 8 and 9 consecutively, my eyes grow wild. I rely on the only information to be had to measure my progress- rumors from those about me.

"This is mile 10!"

"This is mile 8!"

Worse- "This is mile 7!"

But, but ... but ... it said that when we left Churchill Downs ... surely that must have been a half hour ago? 10 minutes ago? That could not be now? How could it be now, when it was then? What was THEN cannot be NOW.

And who are you to decry my claim that this must be mile 9? Who are you to deny my exhaustion, with your own subjective "feel" for your pace and your stupidly large plastic watch with which to quantify it?

You know what? Fuck you! Fuck you and that bitch you're running with! I will not be denied that this is mile 9 ... it, it just must be. It is. It must be. It must be because I have decided it is. You're no one and I am myself, and I WILL CLAIM THIS TO BE MILE 9 IF I HAVE TO CLUB YOU TO DEATH WITH OWN MY SNEAKER TO MAKE IT SO.

Mile 10.0 - I pass mile marker 10 and decide to call off the murder of "Big Watch Guy." He and his girlfriend actually seem pretty nice. My bad.

Mile 11.0 - The massive cramp in my left side decides to go on vacation and hops a train to my right side. Honestly, I would have missed him if he'd decided to go abroad. Good thing he stuck around.

Mile 12.0 - We enter the city district, with much taller buildings (and therefore shade) but distinctly less airflow. I find my legs offering loud warnings of impending pain. In an interesting reversal, the pain will apparently manifest when (if?) I stop running. Until then, all evidence of such pain is restricted to a clear and growing tautness in my calves and hamstrings.

I reflect on the nature of my legs. Right now they are simply parts in a moving machine. As with those of any machine, any construct of man, or any natural construct, these parts abhor change. Once brought to speed at a desirable level of functionality, their "best" future lay in the unending continuance of that speed, serving that functionality. Yes, an end lay in their future regardless ... energy and mass must inherently disperse as they are moved and exchanged over time. Entropy must increase. Maintenance must be required.

Applied to my current situation, the change will be me bringing their speed to zero. The outcome will be painful chemical buildup and cellular strain that reach critical mass due to this change. I do not look forward to it.

Mile 13.0 - The struggle has become intolerable as exhaustion takes its toll. The straight road of miles 6 through 11 has given way to a series of labrynthine twists and turns in the city district. Every new direction that fails to present a finish line elicits an angry groan from the running crowd. One turn in particular drops us in front of a steep incline not entirely unlike the hills from the park. Who the hell was in charge of that call?

Mile 13.1 - I don't realize I'm adding speed until I'm halfway between the last turn and the finish line. I'm sprinting as fast as I can. My last conscious decision is to not look at the finish line. As I run under something, it's over. I slow down to a walk.

The immediate stabs in my legs and locking of my neck muscles threaten to paralyze me. I guess I had been running with a hunched back for the last few miles? I stagger forward. A smiling man hands me a medal. I put it around my neck. I stagger further. Water is everywhere. I see someone filling the cups with a hose from an indeterminable source- I do not care. I down several cups, stagger more, and take 4 mini bottles of Powerade. I swallow two of them and finally begin to feel distention of my stomach.

The distention brings on my first smile after the race. It reminds me of San Antonio in 2005, when I guzzled a Gatorade between brass block and ensemble and then threw it up behind the stands minutes later. I recall the whole incident with no small level of fondness. Funny how that works.

All in all, it was a good race, I'm proud of my time, I'm proud of the fact I never stopped (except for that awesome, awesome shit), and I'm glad I did it. I might even do another one.

As for right now, I'm going to go drink water and fall asleep on my couch at 7 PM. Happy Saturday night.