Running From Nothing

Since the beginning of time, the month of April brings one particularly awful weekend to the little town of Charleston SC. It’s Bridge Run Weekend and if you are not familiar, it means 40,000 people come to town to run across a bridge that is always open to joggers on a daily basis. Since joining the beastly wedding industry, Bridge Run Weekend has developed into an even larger obstacle in the already time-sensitive hustle to drive flowers to venues and get things set up on time. They close The Big Bridge at 7:00 in the morning, displacing lots of everyday cars to alternative routes creating traffic jams and high-pressure wedding situations. I once had a groom be late to his wedding because of the traffic on this day.

I was delighted to have weaseled out of my only floral obligation for this weekend this year and sat back ready to stay home, drink coffee, read a book…who knows! A free Saturday void of transporting goods or even changing out of my jammies. In addition to the 40,000 foreigners that pack into town a few days ahead of time, we also have a big tennis match that brings 90 thousand spectators and the Flowertown Festival, which also brings double-digit thousand people to town for one of the “SouthEast’s Top 20 Events.” This all happened yesterday, April 7, 2018. I’ll take a leap and suggest that the city event planners didn’t think ahead on this one nor did they bother to alert Royal Caribbean to the situation, as a cruise shipped also docked early yesterday morning to add a few hundred more fatties to the madness.

Count me out! I hate crowds, exercise, Yankees, fatties, traffic, porta potties, and all other temporary structures required for a mass influx of belligerent ne’er-do-wells.

Of course my friend group planned to partake in the bridge run. Last year Erik and Hayden scampered along with the’m’asses and they had the best time and had celebratory beers and showed up to Chris Union’s house to play games and eat snacks and sweaty Erik fell asleep on Mom’s white sofa. Naturally, they planned a repeat day but with Jenny and Brett and Ellen. No one even dared suggest that Big Lu come along because, let be realistic. And I supported my friends. “Y’all go and I’ll meet you at the finish line.”, I said, shimmying into elastic-waisted pants and setting the kettle on the stove. And I meant it. I’d love to come celebrate after.

Early last week Brett suggested that he’d enjoy the weekend much more if I came along. I said all the right things one should say as they move into a season of preparing for a lifelong marriage with that person. “I don’t wish to partake.” I said, “but I’ll do if you really want me to honey-boobear-cuddlebutt-snookums-jellyroll.” and then I looked at him with eyes of horror which he knows to translate as my real answer, which is “No crappin’ way.” On Wednesday he signed me up for The Bridge Run and I smiled politely at him and then excused myself to scheme plausible personal injuries before Saturday morning.

My friends were delighted by this news, not because they were excited about my presence that day or that the whole group would be together but because they enjoy watching me stagger through life. I am their lovable punching bag that takes the blame for most things whether or not I have anything to do with them. Was the night not a success? “Lu’s fault!” Did someone park too far away? “Lu did it!” Who’s gonna come in last place? “Lu will!” they shout in unison. I prepared for Saturday silently. I did not pander to my friends who hoped to see me frantic and looking for plausible personal injuries before Saturday morning. Instead I kept quiet and will now share with you the thoughts I had leading up to the day.

What if it is hot? Too hot? Am I healthy enough for a 10K? How far is a 10K? Does Kilo stand for a thousand? Is it 10,000 miles? Can a human even run 10,000 miles? Isn’t it only 3,000 miles to California? Kilo must not mean a thousand. You should just google ‘kilometer” and do the math. Where does the 'meter' part come in? Oh or google ’10K in miles’ that’ll give me the answer right there. But really what if it’s hot? I’ll need to bring snacks and water. I don’t have real running shoes. Wait a minute, I can’t run across the bridge! It’s three miles or something. Oh there you go, the bridge is three miles. Well that can’t be right either. Aren’t there two miles on either end of the race? Oh my goodness what about ISIS? It’s a perfect ISIS event. People everywhere. What if they blow up the whole bridge? What about a shooter? I’ll be trampled by the stampede if I’m not shot already. I don’t think I can do this. What if something happens to Ellen? No one’s hurting Ellen. I’d dive in front of the bullets. Whoa Laura, you’d take a bullet for Ellen? All of this is getting out of hand.

I woke up at 5:00 on Saturday morning, choked down some yogurt, and was standing outside in the chilly morning air with thousands of other people by 6:30. Everyone was very excited and I didn’t get it at all. I looked around for lone backpacks or people who looked suspicious. The volume of spandex present at the race was something that distracted me for a little while. I should sell athletic wear. Everyone buys it! Even fat people that don’t exercise… Brett and I spent a large portion of our wait-time looking at all the different shaped butts in the world, many of which should not have been adorned in spandex. I got hungry while we waited. “I’m hungry.” I said, “Let skip all this and go get breakfast.” This thought intrigued both Ellen and Brett. We were in the "walk/run" group because of Ellen’s knees (nothing to do with my athletic ability, thank you) and both of them agreed that it was a very different experience to casually saunter over the bridge instead of competitively race it. “You mean it’s boring?” I said and they agreed. I assumed this opened the floor for my intellectual observations on the matter which are “You know, you can walk over the bridge anytime any day.” And “I don’t think I get this.” Brett tried to explain to me the concept of personal goals and fulfillment as well as a sense of community and encouragement but it all went right over my head.

We walked that crappin’ bridge and Ellen struggled to not compete. “It’s killing me! I wanna get there first!” she would exclaim, but she said her knees were not prepared for a big run. Instead we people-watched. We saw people in costumes, an androgynous human playing an electric guitar, and also, a very large poo that seemed to have been dropped or thrown up against the side of the bridge. It was a large human poo and 18 hours later Brett and I are still working out the logistics of how one might shake such a poo out of an athletic pant-leg. Brett thinks it had to be fake but I reminded him of the fresh sheen it had and some slight skid marks in the surrounding area. I think Brett is in denial out of disgust rather than scientific evidence.

At the very end of the six mile race (10K is about 6 miles) Brett shouted a codeword and wrapped his arms around a startled Ellen while I took off, sprinting through the crowd. I would cross the finish line before Ellen and it would eat her up. Brett held on to that little bucking bull while I put mere meters between me and my first trophy. I crossed the finish line in an anticlimactic display of feeling silly (everyone around me was walking and pushing strollers) and I looked back to see Brett running too, maniacal “heehee’s” escaping from his lips as his long legs overtook Ellen’ stubby ones and he too, crossed the finish line before grumpy Ellen.

After all that we ate lunch as a big group and then went home. I felt no sense of accomplishment or skill and was only left with sore toes because my shoes are too small. I went to bed last night all achy and sore and fell asleep so fast that I don’t remember turning out lights or getting into bed.

That’s a pretty great feeling.