One Word. Alka-Plex.

A preview of the Sept 20th 20-mile long run route on Google Maps left me worried and confused. This was simply way too complicated for someone with my special challenges to remember. I awoke in a sweat that night, dreaming I would end up in Pflugerville. One of my most frightening nightmares in recent memory.

Behold how dorky I can be:




Yes, turn-by-turn directions in 8-point font that I folded up and stuffed into my running shorts pocket with my sports gels. It may be a 3M Half/Motorola/AT & T fusion route, but, when you run in those, unless you are Gilbert or Bernard, there are actually people in front of you and you just follow them.

The morning begins auspiciously with the commute to the starting line, when Pat generously lets my late self join the 17 other Gazelles in his minivan. It is official: We are a clown car. We have legitimate difficulty climbing the 183 flyover. I move a leg away from my face to see the speedometer sputter downward and bottom out at about 30. Ivi looks visibly concerned.

The opening steps under the streetlights on Jollyville Rd. scoot by pleasantly enough. As usual, I fret over my pace—Kevin Rowe’s crew is too fast, but the next group is exactly 3.5 seconds too slow. Afraid to commit, I find myself running alone. I stumble through the darkness over bottlecaps on the curb along Burnet. An apt metaphor. For something. Finally, Julie takes pity on me and asks me to join her. We run together for a few miles and, you know what? We’re making it work! We talk about settling down and having kids. I’m serious. I marvel at how she fits such disciplined training into her crazy two-kid schedule. I have challenges watering my plants.

Julie’s friend (Matt? Sorry if I got it wrong!), catches up to us after a stop at Jack-in-the-Box for taquitos, and we three are joined by a fellow named Glen. Glen is mysterious. Not a Gazelle, he says he’s “from San Antonio.” I think he might be a spy from Rogue. Sure, have us believe you’re from San Antonio, Glen. And that’s actually a water bottle you’re carrying and not a camera. I guard myself.

The next six miles fly by as we run and chat with ease. It’s like we’re going downhill or something. Julie and “Matt” split at mile 13 and head south, while I soldier north to complete the full 20. Glen joins me. As we disband, Julie calls out, “Don’t let him talk your ear off . . . “

Sage words.

On our little journey Glen and I discuss running, triathlons, Boston, the Gazelles, fish oil, deep tissue massage, Austin, San Antonio, the Hill Country in general, Austin Tex-Mex vs. San Antonio Tex-Mex, the future of light rail, Sarah Palin, offshore drilling, Will Ferrell movies, adding a deck to your home, Van Halen with David Lee Roth vs. Van Halen with Sammy Hagar, the ascendancy of China in the global market, Bush v. Gore, Dancing with the Stars, Al-Qaeda and plate tectonics.

Then, at mile 14, I ask, “So what do you do?”

“Heart valve salesman.”

“Aah.”

This is getting surreal.

The discussion quickly moves to a new product he’s got back in his car called “Acid Zapper.” Apparently, it’s a pill that flushes lactic acid from your body so you feel refreshed and ready to damage it again on another 20-mile jaunt. For several minutes he extols what’s in it.

“And finally, there’s the secret ingredient. Wanna guess what it is?”

“Uh, cocaine?”

“Nope."

"What, then?"

"One word. Alka-Plex.”

A hush follows this disclosure. It’s like in The Graduate when Mr. McGuire tells Benjamin where the future is headed.

“One word. Plastics.”

I consider adding the pills to my regimen of about 20 other things I do everyday to keep myself ambulatory. Whoa, what’s this? Do I detect a surge? At 18, I’m feeling unnaturally strong, like a superhero. Glen, who, as much as I kid is actually in monster shape, graciously suggests I take off and offers a swig of his Acid Zapperade. I accept, thank him for his excellent pace and enlightened discussion, and launch myself up San Jacinto. His voice fades into the distance, "This is your year, Robert. This is your year!"

At AT & T last February I crumbled on San Jacinto, but today I put it behind me with ease. Only Capital Metro buses interrupt my smooth ride down Congress. I, predictably, get completely confused as to how to get through the construction and onto the 1st Street bridge. Panicking, I run back to cross the river at Congress, turn west on Riverside, and finally shut it down over my improvised finish line at Hooters.

It’s got to be over 20, but I call it that and work through the numbers in my head.

Time: 2:31:03
Pace: 7:33.

Holy BQ, Batman, I am a superhero. My MGP is 7:24. I just ran 20 miles—strong but still in control while holding a political roundtable with Glen—at 7:33. Unrealistically easy course, yes. But I could have run the old Motorola today well under BQ time.

This gives me a lightning bolt of confidence as I head into the final two weeks before the taper. I wander over to RunTex and wait for Glen.

I need to get my hands on some Alka-Plex.

Stat.



***Update: It has been brought to my attention (see comments below) that Julie is actually the proud mother of three children. Will the wonders never cease, Julie! Nice job. And “Matt” is actually "Colin." Apologies. When you see me from now on, Colin, feel free to call me “Dave.”