SHUHEI MATSUO
Assistant Online Editor
Las Vegas loves me because I never win at Black Jack there. My dad loves to bet with me on golf because I choke every time I play him.
Last weekend I tried betting on horses, but I lost my shirt on that, too. I must admit, it was mesmerizing to watch those thoroughbreds sprint at 40 mph. How do they run so fast for such a long time? Actually, I think I know how they do it.
That’s because last Sunday I gambled that I could finish a half marathon. The gamble was that I usually train for an official race, but I didn’t for this one. Why? Because I decided to do it a day and a half before.
I was swimming at school Friday afternoon when junior Jon Hippensteel, who has done a couple of half marathons before, came and told me he was doing another one in Ventura on Sunday.
“Hey, is it too late to register?” I asked.
“No, I’m just going to register there right before the race,” he replied.
“All right. I’ll do it with you.”
As much as I wanted to do a half marathon, I wasn’t sure if my body was ready. Plus, the longest distance I’ve run in a race is 10K (6.2 miles). It was like betting on a horse with odds of 5-1.
The day before the race, I ran about eight miles to see if I was capable of completing a 13.1-mile race the next day. I felt fine and thought I was fully ready, at least mentally.
My goal: finishing without stopping.
Let the day begin:
5:30 a.m.
It’s early and dark, yet I am wide awake with sore leg muscles. That’s when I realize running eight miles the day before could be as bad of a choice as drinking milk on a hot, summer day in San Diego.
Oh man, I should have made it four.
But Jon and I eat breakfast, put our gear on and open the door. It’s raining.
“We are still doing the race, right?” I ask.
“It said event will be held rain or shine,” Jon replies.
6:55 a.m.
After a 40-minute drive on the 101, we arrive at the starting point, West Park community center in Ventura. As soon as we get out of my car, it starts to pour. We quickly run to the tent to register and come back inside the car to stretch and get ready. Jon insists on turning on the music so we blast some Kanye West and Rihanna to get pumped up. Play time is over. It’s time to shut up and run.
8:07 a.m.
The race begins seven minutes after its scheduled start. Jon and I don’t even bother staying with the front of the pack.
“Dude, stay with me,” I beg. “I don’t know how to pace myself.”
Jon kindly agrees, and we average about 7:50 a mile in the beginning.
8:25 a.m.
By the time we finish our second mile, we are completely soaked. My body temperature is not going up, and I start to regret not having an Under Armour long-sleeve shirt that Jon is wearing. I also begin to realize I might have a bladder problem at mile three.
8:40 a.m.
During mile four, I can’t think about anything but urinating. I originally planned to get off the road and pee behind bushes, but stopping is not an option.
9 a.m.
Half-way done. We averaged 8:12 per mile. I still haven’t let it out. I need to but don’t want to because I am too scared of losing my running partner.
9:24 a.m.
The last three miles. My legs are numb and the bladder is about to explode, but we are almost there.
“Shu, I think I’m going to pick up the pace,” Jon says.
A shocker. But that somehow fires me up. For miles 11 and 12, we average 7:10 a mile. During the final mile, we go even faster. Jon sprints at the very end, beating me by 10 seconds with 1:42:33. Our last mile times? They are 6:40 and 6:50. After all those miles with a slow pace, it feels like we have just sprinted like racehorses.
9:49 a.m.
Jon and I cross the finish line and celebrate our accomplishment with a hug. And I rush to a huge tree about 100 yards away.
I have won this gamble. Now it’s time to pee like a racehorse.
02-07-2008
