[miles for moffitt 5k]

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I just want to start off this post by saying I’m not ready for Cory and Topanga to be parents.

I also feel it’s a stretch they have a thirteen year-old. At what age did they have her? They can’t be much older than I.

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Anyway, this post is about a 5K I ran back in May. Better late than never, I say.

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My company offered to waive the registration fee for the Miles for Moffitt race for the first 150 people to sign up, in an effort to break last year’s turnout. It worked, and around 200 people signed up, so the company just said the hell with it and let everybody run/walk for free.

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Since I had a goal of doing a 5K each month (which I dropped the ball on in June), I signed up. I arrived at the Sun Dome the morning of the race feeling good, T.O. with me for support.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed

Let me tell you about late spring/summer in Florida. It gets hot. And not just hot, but humid. Wet. You feel like you’re being wrapped up in a wet blanket every time you go outside. Or like you share a living space with an athlete’s sweaty genitalia. Gross. But true (probably). It’s fucking miserable, is my point. The morning of the race felt like the first really humid day of the season,  but since it was early and scheduled to end when things were really starting to heat up, I didn’t worry. It was still somewhat cool, and the sun wasn’t beating down. At least, it wasn’t beating down until it was time for the race to start. Then it came out in full force.

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The course was a loop starting at the Sun Dome, passing by Moffitt Cancer Center and student housing, and finishing back at the Sun Dome. For the first mile and a half, I felt great. My legs felt strong, and I was crushing it. Then came the hilly portion by student housing and the goddamn sun beating relentlessly down on me. I tried to not pay attention to it, but since there were no trees lining that part of the course, it slowly wore me down. I had to walk for a few short moments, then resume running. Then I slowed down to just walking when I began to feel slightly nauseous. At this point, I was close to the finish line. I could see it. I could hear the cheers of encouragement. My stomach felt settled enough. I decided to run the rest of the way and cross like a champion.

And for the first few minutes, I felt like a champion. It was some Chariots of Fire-type shit. And then the nausea resurfaced. I tried so hard to ignore it. I was going to run across the finish line like a winner.

But my stomach had other plans. The longer I ran, the harder the breakfast contents within knocked against it, trying to say hi to the world.

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And come it did–right as I crossed the line. Right as I crossed the fucking finish line. I tried to be classy and act like I didn’t have a mouthful of my own vomit. But then I started to choke. And then I couldn’t breathe. And then I was a heaving, gagging mess just trying to find the nearest aid with water. By the time I hooked back up with T.O. the worst was over, and all I had to show for my run was a broken ego, a lingering cloud of shame, and a splotch of dried throw-up on my pants.

Vomit on pants not pictured

The best part is that this was all caught on camera, by way of my finish line pictures. It’s not obvious, but if you know what’s going on (and now you do!) you can see it. See for yourself. Go to the BB Action Photography website and type in bib# 5141. You’re welcome.

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