When pigs fly…

This writing is a classic blog showing how life while training was a three-ring circus. So I juggled every word, punctuation, and capitalization to mix and reconstruct to make an updated, enjoyable blog. Like a lion tamer, I whipped these sentences until they correctly formed paragraphs best for your situation education. Just like with the elephant, I have sat and squished all the past participles and adverbs to make the structure of this blog make sense. So, as if you were sitting under the Big Top eating your cotton candy and watching the clown comedy, please enjoy the following blog about my first and only wheelchair 5K. 

When pigs fly…

My buddy Bill came over with a pizza and soda so we could have some socialization with conversation and mastication. We discussed many things, including how my wheelchair life began a few weeks prior, and how it was pretty rough for me. My new station in life dreadfully discouraged me, so this was the focus of our in-depth discussion. I allowed my intense imagination to run wild on how my existence in a wheelchair would look so sad. My brain imagery showed a purgatory of gravel and sand roads I could not traverse to reach my family and friends.

They estimate that two hundred million people worldwide use wheelchairs to aid their mobility. However, the idea of being permanently stuck in my newly seated contraption unsettled me to the core. I lived alone in a house built in the early 1950s, which was not even near wheelchair friendly. The mandatory moving money did not live in my bank account, nor did I have the cash to make my residence more accessible. My imagination showed my new wheelchair life that would be a constant uphill battle deeply drenched in my blood, sweat, and tears.

Bill, who had been in the Air Force, recognized the best thing he could do for me was to challenge me. He told me if I did a 5k race in my chair, he would walk with me, and together we would conquer this beast. My knee-jerk reaction was to say, “I’ll do a race when pigs fly.” However, I later accepted the challenge and began looking for a 5K race in Columbus, Ohio, that would fit my needs. This race had to have a few things, like a first aid lodge, bathrooms, and a place at the halfway point to stop and have lunch. Apparently, for a 3.1-mile race, they do not include any of those amenities, so I settled for a first-aid table and a banana at the end of the race.

Four months and one day before the race, it was time to train for this complex competition. On my first training trip, I planned to conquer the world or traverse a few miles around the neighborhood. Sadly, it did not take me long to realize I did not yet have the muscles to conquer a quest like this. That day, I completed an excruciatingly exhausting 0.2 miles and needed a two-day respite. My arms felt like I walked the entire 0.2 miles on my hands, making them as wobbly as jello during my two-day rest. At that point, I understood my training would take longer than I thought, and we were four months until race day.

Wheeling around my neighborhood every other day, I watched my distance grow regularly. For the first month, I needed the next day for respite as every trip challenged me and was extremely exhausting. While I trekked around the community, I celebrated every milestone I had achieved and watched my mileage grow exponentially. As I got stronger, my seemingly circuitous route took me around a school several times throughout my neighborhood. By the second month of determined pushing, my trips became long daily muscle-building excursions with less pain and more miles. I also recovered more quickly than I expected, as nearly every day, my daily distance crept higher and higher.

The night before the 5k, Bill brought pizza to converse and discussed the morning procedures as I continued to sweat bullets. He reminded me to get plenty of sleep and eat something in the morning, but not too heavy. We talked about when he would pick me up in the morning and what I would wear for this 3.1-mile marathon. I was nervous about the 5k, so Bill reminded me there was no doubt in his mind as I had done the training and was ready for every inch of the road.

Four months after starting this dynamic distance drill, it was game day, meaning it was time to put up or shut up. Now I needed to put my big boy pants on and show the world what I could do, or at least those who showed up. My nerves were shaking more than a guitar string playing heavy metal music, which made me wonder if it was too late to back out. Just then, a big pink pig, one of the hot air balloons floating across the sky, made me break out into booming laughter. Bill looked at me, giggling, and reminded me of my words when I said I would do this race when pigs fly, and now there was one flying.

I spoke with Lisa, the race coordinator, and requested to start the race early. Moving slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter, I wanted an early launch. Although I hoped for an hour’s head start, Lisa told me I get 10 minutes after the kids and before the runners. The ten-minute early launch disappeared quickly as the runners caught up and passed me within minutes.

The race was excessively, excruciatingly, exhaustingly long at 5 kilometers, or 3.107 miles, to be exact. Of all wheelchair users that day, I was the first to cross the finish line and get my picture in the newspaper. I started with 0.2 miles on day one of my training, and exactly four months and one day later, I completed 4.11 miles. Others are proud of me, and I am too, but it shows what a little ambition, tenacity mixed with a twist of angst can do.

When told you cannot do something, do it and prove them wrong.