By Jack Edwards

Few things are more fundamentally wholesome than a high school fundraiser – a bake sale, a bottle drive, or, in the case of my daughter’s cross country team, a forced run of out-of-shape parents over a grueling 5K race course. And if you aren’t a runner or haven’t used the metric system lately, five kilometers in miles equals three heart attacks and a stroke.

Some number of years ago, a group of demented high school runners at my daughter’s school, which should remain nameless, so I’ll only reveal its initials – Sheldon High School, hatched a cunning idea. These young minds, with as yet undiagnosed psychotic tendencies engineered a scheme to recruit unsuspecting and wholly unprepared family and friends to participate in a 5K run at the bargain price of $25, or $5 per “K.”  And, like a fungus, it spread.  I personally found out that I had signed up three days after I had signed up.  One little problem – I had not “technically” run in 35 years.  The good news was that I had four days to train.

The first challenge I faced was that the closest thing I had to running shoes were a pair of leather wingtips, which feature all the impact absorbency of granite. So my wife took me (yes, like I’m ten) to a specialty running store.

A female clerk approached us and asked if she could help. Of note is that it was 100 degrees outside, and she was wearing a giant stocking cap.  No, it wasn’t 100 degrees inside, but it was like talking to someone at the North Pole who was wearing a bikini.  She told me to walk across the room while she kneeled down like she was lining up a putt – except she was looking at my feet.  Understand that I had no idea who this woman was.  I wasn’t 100% certain she even worked at the store.  Then she stood and announced that I was rolling my ankles.  She told me that the solution was a pair of running shoes that will push my retirement back three to five years.

Upon arriving home, I immediately announced that I was going on a run. My run consisted of bolting from my driveway like Prefontaine and maintaining a blistering pace for a full five yards before remembering that the final remnants of my knee cartilage parted company with me during the Carter administration.

Finally, the Big Day arrived.

My wife and I arrived for the race thirty minutes early. People were jogging around warming up.  I walked slowly to the check-in table, strategically reserving my energy for the race.  I signed in, they issued me my “bib” (the paper number you pin to the front of your shirt so they can confirm you came in last).  After a period of milling about, we lined up (or really “grouped up”) behind the starting line.  I positioned myself toward the back, so I wouldn’t get run over by all the skinny moms who had a take-no-prisoners gleam in their eyes – one of which was my wife.

The race was pleasant enough with the high school team members lined up along the race to make sure we didn’t accidently veer off course and end up sitting in a bar someplace. Their common refrain being, “Keep it up!  You’re doing great!” which was code for, “We can’t believe you’re still alive!”

I managed to “finish strong.” I blazed down the homestretch into the shoot like a lightning bolt as a result of my clever strategy of walking long stretches of the course along the way.  As proud as I was with my performance, however, next year, I’m begging them to hold a bake sale.