Winning a Race

Just once before time's cruel sense of humor recudes me to brisk walking with a stick and prune-loading, I'd like to experience the heady exhilaration of winning a race. I've always found the word "never" extremely depressing, but it is painfully appropriate when the question of this event is posed. My chances are about as good as Momar Khadafi's winning the Nobel Peace Prize or Farrah Fawcett becoming a member of Mensa.

As with the majority of mediocre runners, I console myself by concentrating on less spectacular, but more realistic goals; such as setting a PR or breaking a specific time.

A more competitive but sometimes psychological crushing mind game we run of the mill runners play, is that of familiarizing ourselves with other runners who appear to have race times comparable to ours and then competing (incognito usually) with them. This will increase one's chance of success. However, in my case so far this fall, not only have these runners been beating me (I don't even see them at the finish line), but a few of the others who always finished far behind me are defeating me by demoralizing margins.

Quite frankly, I am not beginning to feel some desperation mixed with my anxiety. I am no longer able to rely on the aforementioned rationalistic goals to prop up my teetering ego, and as a last resort, my psychic defense mechanisms have called upon fantasy to forestall my spending the holidays at Southern Pines.

My initial fantasies used two approaches to accomplish my objective of becoming a winner: the first though base trickery and deceit and the second through groveling and self-degradation. With the former, I would either try to prevent the better runners from participating in the race or reduce their effectiveness. In the first plan, I considered disguising my voice as Cedric's and calling them the night prior to a race, to say that the site had been moved because of some unfortunate circumstance. I.E., Better Runner: "The Cooper River Bridge is going to be run across the New Ashley River Bridge?"

Me, disguising my voice as Cedric's: "Yeah, a last minute safety check determined that it was hypothetically possible for the bridge to collapse if 5,000 or more runners happened to run in unison for at least four seconds. The start is at the Ashley Plaza Mall."
The other fantasy was throwing a free beer bust and laxative laced Texas Chili party for CRC members the night before the race. I would, of course, abstain.

In brief, I began to imagine a fantasy which involved my presenting my case to the other CRC members and officers at a regular meeting:

"My fellow club members. I am 44 years old. I've never placed higher than fifth place in a race (a very depleted age group). I run 20 to 25 miles per week – seven to six minute miles at the very best. I've got a bad back and a starting to recede hairline. Who knows how much longer I can run at all, much less win a race. I've got a working wife who cares and knows nothing about running, a 13 year-old son who has chosen to be functionally deaf rather than remove his walkman head phones, an overweight wimpish Collie, and two cars that have the automotive equivalent of AIDS. I'm not asking for money, fame, a better job, or a fresh start; and I'm not even prostituting these multiple deficiencies as Rodney Dangerfield does."

"All I want is to win just one single race. You don't even have to speak to me after the race, or ever again. I just want to feel that one brief moment of victory (who cares if it's hollow?). Then I'll gladly return to the bland anonymity of my mediocre runner's life, and you'll never hear from me again. I won't even write my stupid articles anymore. Whattya say?"

Returning to reality, I guess I could really start a vigorous training program with increased mileage, a proper diet, strength exercises and speedwork. But that's a lot of trouble, and for what—maybe I'd come in fourth. I think my only shot is to show up at the next CRC meeting and simply throw myself at the mercy of my fellow runners (play out my fantasy). It's 50-50 and that's a lot better than my current odds. Either I'll lose a little (more) self-respect, or I'll get my chance to win a race. By God, it's worth it!

Doublemint Smack Down

It was a little after 10:00 a.m. in September, 1953 in Mr. Griffin’s 8th grade American History class at the High School of Charleston. The strained silence of feigned reading-your-assignment-at-your-desk is suddenly rent asunder by Mr. Griffin’s thunderous voice:

Mr. Griffin: Miss Johnson, are you chewing gum?

Miss Johnson: Uh, no, sir.

Mr. Griffin (again, sternly): Miss Johnson, I’m guessing that you’re not a member of one of the ruminant species and that you have no relatives by the names of Guernsey or Holstein, therefore, you must be chewing something else other than regurgitated food particles. Miss Johnson, please take the chewing gum out of your mouth, bring it to the front of the class, and drop it into the trash can.

And so, Crudella Johnson was peremptorily outed as being a member of one of the 50s most popular youth clubs, the “Chewing Loudly on the Doublemint Society” (or “CLODS”).

Of course, you will never see this humiliating scenario repeated in today’s schools, with teachers’ attentions being focused on drugs, weapons, and various kinds of sexual activity. And since these types of behavior are certainly more serious than gum chewing, they were right to have removed this relatively innocuous one from the list of don’ts.

Unwittingly, however, with this laissez-fair attitude, we have allowed the creation of several generations of gum-smacking goofballs who see nothing wrong with displaying their visually and auditorally disturbing antics anytime, anywhere.

Actually, I really don’t have a problem with gum-chewing itself, if a person simply keeps his or her mouth closed. And I imagine that if these inveterate gum-smackers who feel compelled to chew with mouths as wide open as possible, also masticate their food in the same irritating manner, then obviously the gum is not the major culprit. It’s just that some people tend to chew gum all the time, so it has sadly become the international symbol of all those people who chew with their mouths agape and make those awful noises of smacking.

Gum-smackers also have the advantage of being able to create exterior as well as interior bubbles and then pop them with an ear and Dendron-splitting “crack” that most food chewers could not replicate unless they were gnawing on something like taffy-filled condoms, which, of course, you will only find at Mardi Gras or perhaps on some future episode of “Temptation Island.”

Unfortunately, it is not just teenagers who practice the intensely unappreciated art of gum smacking. Celebrities, both show business and the professional athlete type, are in the vexating vanguard of gum-smackers. Just watch any of the post or pre game interview and you’ll see that more than half of these mesomorphic heroes will show off, along with their athletic skills, perfectly synchronized sports clichés, God-crediting, as well as enthusiastic outbursts of gum-smacking.

But frankly, the showbiz types have exceeded their more physical brethren, since it appears to me that at least 75% of them are want to fill their non-stop mouths with those wondrous wads that resultantly afford us, their loyal fans, not only with superstar quality smacking, but rare opportunities to view, with impunity, the deep recess of their mouths, where we might actually be privy to Arnold’s adenoids or Enya’s epiglottis. The most shocking instance of this phenomenon came at one of those countless awards ceremonies last year when one other than Jack Nicholson regaled us for about 20 minutes with some high-powered chomping and smacking that we were actually privileged enough to see the appendix-sized lump of gum itself, as he expounded, rhino-mouthed, on the accomplishments of Sean Penn, who, appropriately, got up and tried to outdo Jack with his own version of Gumapalooza.

I haven’t seen any politicians do it yet, but if there ever were a likely candidate, it would certainly have to be our ex Goober-in-chief, Bill Clinton. In fact, I can’t believe that we’ve never seen him do it. I can only guess that he probably has a mouthful of gum most of the time, except on those occasions where it’s displaced by cheeseburgers and friends and that Hillary (or Al, maybe) must make him spit it out before appearing in public.

As for Monica, probably the only time she didn’t chew gum, was when she was with Bill, for obvious reasons:

Bill: Damn, Monica, how am I going to explain this to “The Warden”? If I could chew gum that way, I might just have to join the circus.

As for how we can destroy these generations of ill-mannered Frankensteins we have produced, I’m not sure that we can. Electric prods, pepper or laxative-laced gum might deter these people temporarily, but perhaps we should take a lesson from David Letterman, who, although he is dentally equipped to create some spectacular bubbles himself, has chosen to be the adult rather than the incorrigible child. Whenever a celebrity comes on his show, no matter how important they are, he simply resorts to what Mr. Griffin did those almost 50 years ago, by asking the somewhat startled star to give him the chewing gum, which he then places into a Kleenex and politely disposes of. Just think, if all the talk show hosts did this, what positive effect this might have, not just to the performers themselves, but also on their easily influenced fans.

In the meantime, we foot-soldiers can d our part by taking the initiative to go up to a person who’s chewing and smacking gum in public and asking the simple question, while graciously extending a Kleenex: “May I have your gum, please?”

So I want you all to start doing your part in promoting gum smacking and chewing awareness right away. And if any of these hardcore smackers and chewers give you a difficult time, just explain to them that you are there to help them and make amends for the educational system and society, in general, having failed them. I feel confident they will understand and accept the sincerity of your efforts, but, if for some reason, they still do not respond in the affirmative, and display even the faintest sign of hostility, then you simply say: “Hey, if you got a problem with this, see Eddie Hogan, our regional coordinator.”
Editor’s Note: Make that Brian Lindren.

Note from Brian Lindgren: Make that Smoky Weiner.

Note from Smoky Weiner: Huh?

Note from all of the above: Make that Jimmy Hoffa!