March 10, 2003

DOWN HOME:
At least one guy runs really fast
___The highlight of the Cowtown 10K occurred about one-third of the way into the race.
___That's how far along I was, anyway, when Alan Culpepper, the eventual winner, completed about two-thirds of the race.
___There I was, among a throng of normal people, trudging uphill on North Main, near the courthouse in Fort Worth. At the time, I was busy lying to myself--not uncommon when I run--telling myself running uphill doesn't hurt and it'll all be over soon.
___Then I heard cheers from up ahead. I looked to my right just in time to see Culpepper blazing downhill on the other side of the road. He already had zipped up that hill, traversed much of downtown and was blitzing for the finish line, minutes ahead of

MARV KNOX Editor

the guy who came in second. Along with almost everyone else in my pack, I clapped and cheered him on.
___Culpepper zoomed within about 20 feet of me, just a few minutes before he set a new course record. And that's the closest I came to glory on that sunny Saturday.
___The difference between us is that Culpepper runs for a living while I just run for life. He's a 10K specialist: Represented the United States in the Olympics. Trains in Colorado. Sets racing records. Runs six miles back to back at a pace faster than I could run a single mile if my life depended on it.
___In a way, it does. Or at least that's the lie I tell myself to convince me to lace up my running shoes, stretch tight leg muscles and step onto the street. Of course, I probably wouldn't die soon if I stopped running. But running keeps my weight, blood pressure and stress level down. It offers uninterrupted time to pray and meditate. And it makes me feel good.
___Culpepper's goal that day was to set a Cowtown 10K record, which he did.
___My goals were more modest. First was running up that long hill without throwing up. Then came passing "Chubby Boy," decked out in red, who led me for about three miles. Then came staying ahead of at least one of the guys who, while they trailed me as we passed the Bank One Tower, talked about entering an Ironman triathlon. Later, I vowed I would pass a couple of women who looked to be about my age. Finally, I attempted to beat all the excessively old men.
___One by one, my goals fell beneath my feet. Except for beating all the excessively old guys. Some of those geezers can run.
___The thing I like about being a middle-aged Saturday racer as opposed to being a young wannabe "athlete" is the pressure's off. Nobody noticed or cared when I crossed the finish line. Nobody judged my worth by whether I beat all the women my age, much less the men.
___As I stood in line to get a bottle of water, I thanked God for heart and lungs and legs to run. And the chance to watch, for a second at least, a world-class runner.

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