Humor
by Alex Speed
I am not what most would consider an athlete. Most endeavors into this field end in either embarrassment or profound long-term injury or often both. I have broken feet and fingers, permanently altered the alignment of my spine, and (although I can’t directly tie this one to an injury) sometimes my hearing just stops working for a few minutes at a time.
My most involved achievement so far was completing the 2023 Austin Half-Marathon in a time that was agreed upon as “acceptable.” After finishing that race a group of older homosexual men started asking me about my dimensions. One of them chuckled at my measurements and told me “Yeah, we have a name for guys like you. We call you the 'Clydesdales.'”
As I trot around my Montana neighborhood in preparation for my next athletic humiliation ritual, I ask myself why I keep signing up for races I am so distinctly not qualified for. I listen to comedy podcasts when I run because I have no respect for the concept of sanctity.
This upcoming race will take place on October 4th in Waco, Texas. It starts with 1.2 miles of swimming followed by 56 miles of biking followed again by 13.1 miles of running. As of today, I do not know how to swim, nor do I own a bike of any kind that does not use a motor for propulsion. I am currently still limping around due to a fractured left foot from an unfortunate basketball injury. I am too stupid to accept the things the universe screams at me.
Despite the noise from the almighty I convinced both my friend Monica and my brother Ethan to join me in a test of our abilities to move our bodies forward across three different mediums. We all have varying lengths of sober time. Monica is the leader with twelve years, Ethan has a year and some change and I am firmly planted on day one hundred and thirty-eight of no booze, weed, or pills. The space that substance abuse leaves behind is vast. Without a delegate, it can swallow you whole and send you out into a web of oblivion. It can take you to dark and undesirable places—like jogging for fun.
A cornerstone of the addict’s mind is their assumption that they could do anything they set their mind to. The weight of reality is obstructed by a comforting venture into the hypothetical. The magical place where their tenacity, absent from their day-to-day life, is abundant and powerful. Where they aren’t bogged down by the burden of truth or objectivity. When you quit drinking you learn the consequences of this convenient subversion. You learn that the pavement beneath your feet three miles into what was supposed to be a six-mile run is hard and hurts your still recovering foot. You learn that you can’t actually smoke a Marlboro Red and then swim for an hour because drowning is something that can happen to anyone in any depth of water. You become a student of life in a way that is embarrassing and infantile, which sucks because other people who are “students of life” usually at least get to do psychedelics and have sex. They drive trendy Tacomas and wear baggy clothing that don’t bleed with sweat… while I suck down air with an accompanying noise that refutes any idea of looking cool and mysterious while I run. I confront the full weight of reality when I look down at my phone and Strava informs me that I have only actually run two and a half miles, not three.
When I get home, I collapse on the floor and sweat into my living room rug as I fumble for the TV remote. I haven’t gotten to that Zen part of sobriety that allows me to be alone with my own thoughts. My dog lies beside me and pants in a cadence that matches mine, reminding me that he and I are in this together. I feel the satisfaction of escaping my hypothetical infinite achievement and settling for a lesser one rooted in a world that is real. My bones hurt from doing the work I used to tell myself would be easy.
The obvious question to ask here is: What are you physically and metaphorically running from? To which I would implore you to mind your own damn business.