The 250 Pound Marathon Runner

One year ago at this time of year, I was not proud of what I saw when looking in a mirror and even less proud of what I saw on the scale when I looked down.  I could say that I have suffered controlling my weight, but to be honest, that is true in the way that would not make anyone feel sorry for me.  See I had that opposite problem with weight that does not get as much play on late night infomercials.  I needed to gain it.  I was a baseball and basketball player all throughout high school and for a guy standing at 6'8, the 180 pounds I was carrying around of skin and bone was far from effective.  Luckily for me I was able to gain some weight, but when I finished playing baseball in college I was a semi-athletic 220 pounds (let's face it, I can only give myself semi status after choosing to be a pitcher instead of playing basketball some more).

Then came the end of my athletic career, and I needed a break.  My elbow was killing me from a partially torn UCL with no Tommy John to bail out my failing fastball, my back was sore from bending over so many times to finish pitches as a 6'8 ogre, and my fingers were blistered from the constant diet of sliders I was asked to throw.  It is safe to say that I needed a break from not only baseball, but exercise in general.  I was burned out, or so I thought.  Little did I know that the weight I could not put on while lifting weights, eating lots of healthy foods, and mixing creatine and protein shakes that tasted like I was trying to make ground up chalk not taste terrible, was more than happy appear if I stopped.  In fact, 30 pounds was amazingly easy to gain with a perfectly rationed diet of pizza, beer, and the McDonald's dollar menu.

To look at the scale after a thanksgiving feast for the ages, I not only had to pull my stomach out of the way to read the numbers on that poor over-matched piece of plastic under my feet, but I marveled in the sight of the 250 number staring back at me.  My once thin, still only semi-athletic frame was on a one way street to the unhappy destination of obesity.  Although my tall body hid the weight pretty well, a 30 pound weight gain in only 5 months is definitely not healthy, so I decided to do something about it.

While I was able to successfully quit throwing a baseball for almost an entire year, stifling the competitive juices that had once flown when it was time to throw was an entirely different story.  I spent the majority of my life trying to push myself as hard and as far as my semi-athletic body would take me.  After taking a very enjoyable although extremely unhealthy 6 months of gluttony, I found the way that I would lose the weight and feed the inner competitor that would not be buried in the layers of fast food I tried to stifle it with.  I had the perfect plan to both lose the weight I had gained and push myself to new heights: I was going to run a marathon.

How hard could it be right?  I have run before.  There is no particular skill necessary to keep my feet moving forward.  I had thrown over 100 pitches before with an elbow whose throbbing was only dulled by the near dangerous doses of ibuprofen I had flowing through my body.  Running a marathon could not be any worse right?  It is amazing how stupid I can be.

Last year was my debut, the 250 pound marathon runner put on his Asics running shoes and took to the streets of St. Louis ready to take on the world.  I had run for months in preparation for that day, consistently putting my grades in danger of failure as I spent hours that should have been devoted to studying on 20 mile runs through Forest Park.  I could almost close my eyes and see every inch of the track that makes its way around the park.  I told myself I was ready.  Once again it was a game day, and I was ready.  I cruised at the beginning, feeling the exhilaration of running with thousands of others.  My iPod was turned up high with pump-up music and I cruised around the Budweiser Brewery.  I even laughed with those around me as I secretly thought I was going to do better than I thought.

And then I hit the first hill, and it was brutal.  Before long, I was cursing at women twice my age and half my height as they cruised by me.  My legs were reduced to useless balls of cramping muscles.  I finished that first marathon, although it was not a source of pride.  I walked more than half of it, experienced my first exercise induced vomit, and crossed the finish line a full hour later than I had once believed possible based on my pace for a 20 mile run.  I was humiliated and beaten.  Nothing would get me to ever run again, I told myself.

That is, I would never run again until this year.  I am back at it this year, although this time I want to avoid wilting half way through.  My semi-athletic body is still far from small, but the idea that a 250 pound man who runs like a deer if you cut off one and a half of its legs is not an impossible one I hope.  I have no doubt that there are going to be some fun and some miserable moments ahead of me as I try to squeeze as many miles out of my clown shoe sized feet as I can.  It should be an interesting experience this time around.  My goal is to literally shave an hour off my time.  Yes, I do know how ridiculous this sounds, but then again, so is the thought of a 250 pound marathon runner.