When is a 5k not a 5k?

My uncle started a tradition in the family, running a fun 5k the morning of Thanksgiving. A Turkey Trot, if you will. Certainly this tradition is not unique to our family, but it is a welcome addition to the usual list of turkey and cranberry sauce and cornucopia centerpieces.

Two years ago was in Delaware, not two miles from Granogue, where I paced Sol to a then-excellent 24 minute 5k. This year we were in California for a holiday weekend hosted by the other cousins, so my uncle found us a Turkey Trot in that neck of the woods. Along with 8,000 other Trotters (at least half of whom had baby carriages, it seemed), we raced around San Jose while working up ambitious appetites (and staying out of the hostess' hair).

Sol lined up towards the front, and he ran his way to a top-50. No longer just a sporty kid, Sol is now an athlete in his own right. If he would only get a haircut... sigh.

Hippie

The youngest paced himsef admirably, finishing soundly - and with enough energy to spend an hour on the trampoline later that day!
Trampoline Enthusiast
My brother ran with the red-head, and while she has a great deal more experience than him, he's got longer legs. And more facial hair. Anyway, she's more of a sprinter, and he's more of a ... thinker. Me, I could've used a bit more thinking.
These two? Showboat? Well I never!
When the gun went off, I started. Walking. It took a good two and a half minutes before I got to the start line, and even then, there was a wall of walkers in front of me. If there's one thing I've learned from 'cross, it's this: Ride the tape. So I cut over to the sidewalk and tried to settle into a rhythm.

When the sidewalk ended, I was back to the "running back" mentality, as my uncle so aptly put it. Cut between obstacles, surge when in clear terrain, and always look for holes. I've no idea how many people I passed, but it must've been in the hundreds, if not thousands.

So focused was I on the zig-zagging, and so short on oxygen, that I didn't keep my head up. There was a water station on the right, and the whole mass of humanity started moving right (because you NEEEED water in the middle of a chilly 5k). So I went right too.

Still fighting for space, still riding the tape, I zigged and zagged so far to the right that I went behind the water station. No big deal, I thought, unaware that there had been signs saying "Turn Around Here for the 5 K!!!"

When I hit the second water station at the 3 mile marker, I thought to myself "something is wrong". People are dumb, sure, but nobody's dumb enough to take a water break 160 meters from the finish line.

Ouchies

"Am I on the 10k course?" I asked? "Yes," some tan guy in an Ironman shirt answered with an air of smugness. Thanks, you overqualified orange jerk.

I did not quit. I did not walk. I just laughed. Again. And then the hurting started.

When I finished the full 10 kilometers (outsprinted somebody, too, because he was there), I was not feeling too well. I know my body, and I'd pushed too hard somewhere around the 4th mile. My quads were ablaze with pain, and I knew I needed to sit down as soon as possible.

Twenty minutes later, after posing for pictures...

Everybody smile and say "cramp"!

...and hiking up a neverending flight of stairs...

Why did we park all the way up there?!

...I finally got to put on warm clothes and eat.

nom nom nom

The soreness lasted through Monday, preventing me from fully enjoying traditional family activities like trampolining, football, and walking.

Worth it? Absolutely.

But so help me, I'm not running again until August.