On May 20, the Hoboken Harriers will present the Hoboken Classic, or some such moniker. As an 11-year vet of the Ho Has, I’m someone who knows what he’s talking about when it comes to competitive road racing. I have been through the wars and although semi-retired, I can supply enough savvy to get neophytes and late bloomers through this event. But you must do exactly as I tell you.
First, don’t bother showing up unless you’re serious. Those giggly, squealing adults making jokes during warm-ups about how the organizers will have to send out a search party blah, blah, blah, do nothing but indicate their own level of stupidity for even entering. Get that serious expression on your face fast and keep it there. So what if you have no idea how to stretch out – copy others, make up moves, above all grunt and gasp.
Stay away from sleek, abdominal-flashing balding guys with navel rings and a pinched expression. These were the adolescent spaz contingent who couldn’t make the Parcheesi team in high school, got into fitness and supplements after college and now want continuous revenge. Stick toward the middle of the group milling around waiting for the gun. Too far back signals insecurity and defeatism. Stand at the front and you’ll get trampled by Kenyans using this to train for more important races.
As the event begins, your heart will race, you’ll gasp for breath, and your legs will become lead. This is just nerves, nothing more. Settle into your stride. Try to relax and think pleasant thoughts until your heart resumes normal pace. Don’t be alarmed if you spot dozens of kids speeding past at the outset. These are children whose parents have convinced them running is healthy, and if they don’t want to end up fat like Aunt Minnie or Uncle Clark, they better get out there and sweat. These kids look great for 600 meters, then quickly one begins gasping like carp on the beach, their tiny bodies wobbling uncontrollably, legs and arms splayed, spouting the initial sound of what will soon become full-fledged moans and whimpers as each veers right and collapses to the curb in exhaustion and you blow right by them. This is one of the few enjoyable aspects of racing.
Forget the nipple ring guys and their female counterparts. Two minutes into a five-miler you’ll not see them again until the end when they’re already cooled down and comparing notes as you stagger across. Don’t get competitive with any woman running side by side with you, guys. You’ll lose focus on your game plan, which is something you’ll have to come up with. Mine was simply to find a lady with decent buttocks and stay behind. Often, since I have decent buttocks myself, I found women doing the same with me. This is not only permissible but perfectly natural. Looking at sewer grates and old guys with cigars walking their dogs isn’t going to keep you going for 50 minutes plus.
Around the first mile, you’ll feel pain in the knees and hips. At a mile and a half, the pain will spread through the entire body. At two miles comes wheezing, coughing up phlegm, tearing eyes and possible bleeding from the gums. At two and a half miles your mind will play tricks, flashing back to your most embarrassing moments. Paranoia begins to set in – you are convinced residents with hidden cameras are taping your effort from windows to blackmail you. At three miles, dizziness and headache, blisters, skin rash around your genitals will commence.
Think about how the money is going to charity. Work through that wedgie. Push up those sliding eyeglasses. Swing those arms. At three and a half miles, someone will offer you water. You’ll try to drink and run and spill it all over your Mostly Mozart T-shirt. Paranoia will be joined by hallucinations, possibly involving animal sacrifice and James Gandolfini. At four miles, projectile vomiting, complete nausea, speaking in tongues, loss of balance, blurred vision and overall numbness vie for your attention. At four and a half miles you veer off to take a leak, but the traffic cop draws his weapon and forces you back on the course. By four and three quarters miles, you are ripping at your race number with what’s left of your strength, bellowing obscenities, flushing up every slight ever committed against you in your life while onlookers encourage you. Ignore them. “You can do it!” means zilch. If you walk across or collapse or drag yourself over the finish line, it means nothing.
I told you, Kenyans are the only ones able to make a living out of this horror show. People will speak to you, you’ll still get dates, promotions, double coupon sales, E-mail. No one will look away when you approach them on the street. Grab your free bananas, bagels and citrus fruit, a cup of water, spit it out, get another, do the same.
Give everyone that “we’ve been through this baby and they haven’t” look. Make terse, pungent comments about the course. Mention you can’t stick around for the awards ceremony as though you were really in line for a trophy. Rip off your number, toss it in the garbage with a flourish. People will wonder if you’re disgusted or still in that competitive, fierce mode. Make sure you take out the safety pins. Nothing dumber than an adult limping around with four safety pins sticking out of their T-shirt.
Scoop up race forms for upcoming events in other parts of the state, wave goodbye to all with a sweeping warrior motion. Then disappear around a curve if you can find one. And vomit again. – Joe Del Priore