A few weeks back I was at the Run On! and Shake Shack social run. I met these dudes. They were all runners. But not just runners, they were fast runners, really fast. Way faster than I could ever go, though I feel on a track I could compete. 200 meters of less. I got it.
Back to the story:
The dudes, they were all a part of this group called Nomad Running Society. Essentially, they’re all former collegiate runners who want to share their passion with the community. You can read more about them on the Nomad website.
I began following them on Instagram, and I noticed that they have social runs on Sunday mornings. I have been meaning to go to check it out, but I was either out of town racing or going to church. Last night I made the executive decision to go to the church of the long run with the group. I’m sure God will forgive me.
When I first walked up, there were just a few people. They all seemed friendly enough. I met two women who claimed they ran slow. Thank God, I thought to myself. I had never run with the Nomads, but I had done my research. They’re freaking fast.
As more people showed up, the intimidation factor exponentially grew as the minutes passed. All of these people looked like fast runners. I knew I couldn’t compete, but I was assured I was welcome.
It was chilly. I was wearing shorts, but had a light jacket over my shirt. I should have taken it off before the run, but we all make dumb mistakes every now and then.
Everyone took off and I followed suit. The elites were out of sight within five minutes. Gazelles they were. Beautiful gazelles running across the lands of our ancestors. National Geographic could have made a special…And then there was me, trotting along in the back behind the “slow” people. I didn’t mind. I’ve accepted the fact the speed is relative. And as long as I’m out there, I’m lapping the people still in bed, or on the couch.
I ended up doing 10K, averaging at a 10:06 pace, according to Strava. Not bad for me. When you dig into the details, I let my aspirations get the best of me. I took off way too fast. My first mile was 8:21. The next several miles were slower, and slower still, even going up to 11:00 at mile four.
I don’t know if it was the cute little ducks that inspired me, or the thought of everyone getting back before me even though I ran less, but a match was lit and I sped it up toward the end. I was sweaty and gross. I was sooo ready for the beer that was promised.
There were two options: some IPA I don’t remember the name of, frankly because I don’t like them, and Vape Tricks by Prairie Artisan Ales. I’m a big fan of sours, so the choice was obvious. I had never had it until today. It was refreshing, especially after running. I recommend it. I skipped on the donuts. I regret that decision.
Long story short, I ran six miles to drink a beer at 8 in the morning on a Sunday. I wonder if Jesus likes sours…