Thanks Giving Turkey Trot

I really don’t understand Thanks Giving.

There seems to be a lot of hype and build up, not least, or so it seemed as I passed through The Twin Cities, the moss mobilisation of about ninety per cent of the population with multiple suitcases. However, the day itself, seemed to be a lot of sitting around watching James Bond films and waiting for the turkey to cook. Clearly, I need to investigate this further as I am obviously missing something.

However, I did learn an important lesson on Thanks Giving…that of humility.

I registered for the local Turkey Trot which was occurring for the 34th consecutive year. Though billed as a ‘run for fun’ (as American’s don’t get the concept of a Fun Run) it still looked like an interesting proposition. Six-thousand runners, a flat five mile course and a great opportunity to gently poke some fun at the locals. The distance was a little strange being not quite a 10km and not really a long run. I was too long for speed work and too short for slowness. So as I lined up on the starting line I had no real game plan other than to get the job jobbed and head back from turkey.

Being halfway towards the back I missed the singing of the National Anthem and the opening bars of Chariots of Fire but as soon as the gun fired I was off muscling my way through the crowds. It took some judicious use of shoulders and elbows to get away from the main pack and find some space and within about a quarter of a mile I had picked up some pace and was feeling good. The weather was perfect, the sky was blue and there was a lovely vibe about the race.

My first mile was really quick (7min 52) and I was feeling really great when three old ladies ran past me discussing how best to cook mash potatoes with marshmallows. I shook my head, checked my pace which was still sub 8 min miles and watched them zoom off into the distance.

After that I was really furious and pushed myself. Racing over 5 miles is very challenging for me as I had no idea of pace and so I just went for it. The first four miles were ok but the last mile was really beginning to hurt. I pushed myself as hard as I could and crossed the finishing line on 41mins 16 seconds, which I was mightily proud of.

Whilst I tried to catch my breath (and not throw up), my wife wandered over and asked how things went.

‘Oh, it was a great run,’ I told her through gulps of air, ‘I was like a lean, mean, English running machine…totally kick Johnny Foreigner’s butt out there today…’

‘Really?’ she replied, ‘then how come that guy pushing his baby stroller came in about three minutes ahead of you?’

Which kind of took the fun out of the day.

But I did get a nice t-shirt….so it wasn’t all bad…I think.