34:30

RACE NUMBER-TWO

Still bog-slow, but not the 39:40 of last time.
What I say is “64 years old, 50 pounds overweight, had a stroke, but still finished anyway.”
“You also have to remember you had open-heart surgery,” my cardiologist adds.
Yeah, I guess that was kind of drastic. Seems I stopped running after that; although I always thought it was more the antidepressants.
It was the inaugural Buchanan Brothers Memorial 5K (that’s 3.1 miles) in nearby Honeoye Falls; in honor of the brothers Buchanan (“Byew-CAN-non”), both of whom died young; one in the collapse of the World Trade Center, and one in an off-road four-wheeler accident.
My first race was a month ago, the Crosswinds 5K in Canandaigua, a race organized by a zealot church.
But that was a tougher race; down to the lake, and back up again.
First mile of that race was 12:12; bog-slow but saving myself for the killer hill at the end.
Haven’t run a Christian race yet that didn’t have a killer hill in it. (“We are climbing Jacob’s Ladder.......”)
This race was flat as a pancake. First mile was 10:26; still bog-slow, but better than 12:12.
I had preregistered for today’s race.
Walked into the high-school lobby, and arrowed toward the “preregistered” table.
“You don’t exist!”
“You already cleared my check. I have a xerox of my sign-up right here.”
“In that case, go over to the ‘registration’ line. They’ll give you a number, and not charge you for it.”
Linda was along with our dog.
The idea was for both of them to do the accompanying one-mile walk.
She had not preregistered, so forked over $22 cash.
“What if they want you to pay $22 in your case?”
“I ain’t payin’. I already gave them $17; that’s all they’re getting. I’ll run without a number if I have to.”
“We have a problem,” my wife said to the clerk. “My husband already preregistered, but apparently it didn’t crunch. We got sent over here.”
Oh well, this is what I have to do all the time. Rely on my wife to deal with social situations.
My ability to do so was compromised by the stroke. People always perceive my hesitation as anger. (Happened recently at Tunnel Inn.)
The race began with a freon-horn blast — it was drizzling slightly and very foggy.
I passed a father with a little boy.
The little boy was dazed and confused.
“Don’t worry, son. He’s just breathing.”
“Yep,” I thought. “They used to call me ‘locomotive-breath.’ All my brothers do it.” —I was at a race once with Bill, and I could hear him coming: “hoofa-hoofa-hoofa.” Asthma I guess; although not very bad.
We turned onto Ontario St. — Route 65 — and began the long haul out of town.
A Honeoye Falls Rescue-truck was at the end of the long straight, colored strobes flashing.
“Are you all right, sir?” as I passed.
(He must have heard the “locomotive-breath.”)
Another long haul along Quaker Meetinghouse Road, and then back into Honeoye Falls on Boughton (“BOW-tin” as in “OW”) Hill Road.
Halfway into town a silver-metallic Honda Odyssey minivan starts backing out of a driveway about 50 yards in front of me.
He sees me coming, so stops.
Nope; a little farther — by now I’m 20 yards away.
Finally with me about five yards away, he backs right out in front of me.
I had to zag around him (thankfully no traffic).
“Oh well; no problem. Just a person; not a car. Should be home watching NASCAR and glomming Cheetos. Them runners are disgusting.”
Sorry chillen; no Dubya sticker — maybe he took it off; Dubya is no longer slam-dunk popular. But he must have been REPUBLICAN. Sure drove like one.
Maybe the guy was a friend of Kinnear.
Linda used to pound the fenders of drivers like that.
I just let it ride. (I know, it’s always my fault. —Has been ever since the stroke.)

I had a stroke October 26, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech.

“Honeoye Falls” is a small village near where we live.

About a year after the stroke I tried three antidepressant drugs (one drug at a time); mostly at the insistance of my psychiatrist. But they didn’t do anything other than knock me out; so I stopped. —Haven’t taken anything since.

“Crosswinds” Wesleyen church, a rather large mega-church; but not 89 bazilyun members.

“Zealots” are tub-thumping born-again Christians; which I am not, much to the dismay and disapproval of all my zealot siblings.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years.

Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s four-plus, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.

“Tunnel Inn” is a bed-and-breakfast near Horseshoe Curve (the “mighty Curve”), west of Altoona, Pennsylvania, by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. (I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.) —Tunnel Inn has a very tiny parking-lot, and it was blocked, so I couldn’t park there. Patrons thought I was angry when I hesitated to say anything. (I usually stay at Tunnel Inn.)

“Bill” is my younger brother in northern Delaware.

We live on State “Route 65;” but about five miles east of Honeoye Falls.

RE: “Watching NASCAR and glomming Cheetos......” —My all-knowing, blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say; insists I should be “watching NASCAR and glomming Cheetos......” like him, instead of trying to stay in shape. (He weighs almost 250 pounds.)

“Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right. —“Dubya” is George W. Bush, our current president.

My siblings are all REPUBLICANS, and noisily insist I should be. That Dubya has been the greatest president ever — even greater than Reagan.

“Kinnear” is Lloyd Kinnear (“Kin-EAR”), the current supervisor of the Town of Canandaigua, a strident blowhard CONSERVATIVE, more interested in noisy theatrics than actually getting anything done. He was charged with felony driving-while-intoxicated, which he noisily claims is a spurious charge. “Felony” because it was the second time — he took his car off the road. (“No one was killed; and if they had been, they deserved it!”)