Victory Over Violence 5K: 'Patience, hell . . .'

During my first job out of college, one of my (many) bosses had a cartoon in his planner, that featured two vultures sitting on a tree limb. One looks to the other and said, 'Patience, hell. Let's go kill something.'

Last post, I mentioned something about becoming a walker, and I may have said something earlier about my company being a sponsor of the Women's Shelter Victory Over Violence 5K and that I thought I should participate.

Last week, during one of my walks, a runner zipped past me. I didn't feel compelled to chase the runner down, but I did decide that I would run in the VOV 5K and not walk. I haven't run in months, but . . . well, patience, hell . . .

I ran-walked my way to a 32:55 finish (no chips, my watch), which is just eight seconds slower than last year's time of 32:47, when I trained for about a couple of months. In 2005, I ran the 5K in 34:20, but I don't remember how much I trained. I just remember being hot and fat.

So, patience aside, I took off in a confident lope (after taking two minutes to walk up to the starting line) and zipped around lines of chatting walkers. I completed my first mile in 9:45, and I started one-minute walks around 12-14 minutes.

The question arises: how can you run the first mile in slightly less than 10 minutes, then slow to a run-walk and still finish at about a 10 1/2 minute pace? About 1/4 mile before the finish, the VOV course, which winds through Fort Worth's Trinity Park, takes a sharp right toward the finish line.

At the turn, I jokingly asked a college student who was directing runners if I was in the lead, and he just looked confused (hope he's not a pre-med student). I always accelerate when I see the finish line, and when I did, I heard corresponding footsteps to my right. I pick up my pace, and he picks up his pace.

I glance to the side and see that it's a teenage boy, and testosterone-induced second-wind kicks in. He and I are racing to the finish line, and I'm thinking that I can beat him with a strong finish.

Then the question that crosses every middle-aged man's mind during strenuous activity came up: Are you nuts!? At 52, it's difficult to tell whether you're pushing your body to its limits . . . or you're getting ready to have a heart attack.

He eased by me about 20 yards from the finish line, and I thought I could push a little harder to catch and pass him. Then I questioned my sanity and let him go.

I'm hoping he was tired and had to go take a nap, but I probably should've thanked him for pushing me to a strong finish and a time, with no recent training, close to last year's.

I'll return to walking (I've really enjoyed it), but I'm sure there'll be some evenings when a runner will pass me, and I'll look up the sidewalk and mutter, 'Patience, hell. Let's go kill something.'