A Race Well-Limped

A reluctant runner's key to keeping high spirits? Low expectations.

- James Breakwell

I 'M WALKING AROUND the house with a severe limp and actively second-guessing every decision I've ever made. That can only mean one thing: I just ran my one race for the year.

For the second time in a row, my 13-year-old, Betsy, accompanied me on this foolish endeavor because the best mistakes are made in tandem. We both went into the 7-mile course with no training, and it showed. Determination and a can-do attitude are no match for gravity and distance.

As an extremely sedentary person, it's important for me to occasionally do something semi-athletic to remember that it's much better to not move. I'm greatly envious of those coral reef creatures that sit in one spot their entire life while plankton filters through their mouth holes. I'm out here working for my food while the ocean basically has free DoorDash 24/7. It was a mistake for mankind to give up gills.

Betsy and I were accompanied to the race by a group of three extremely in-shape people. You wouldn't think that such individuals would want to associate with me, but we all live in the same Indianapolis suburb.

I lift weights because it's the form of exercise that requires me to move the least. I can literally do it while sitting down. These guys bike and run countless miles, often in the same day. One has done dozens of Spartan Races, which are grueling obstacle courses that require you to crawl through mud, flip tires and throw spears. Another is training for a triathlon. He's the worst because in addition to being faster than me on foot, in the water and on wheels, he can also outlift me.