Diary of a Pat’s Run participant

I know we’ve just met, but there’s something I feel I have to get off my chest right away.

I’m not your typical runner.

I don’t know what a “typical” runner is, but I can only assume I’m not one of them by the looks I get from people when I tell them I run. In the middle of a conversation about someone wanting to run a 5k, I’ll pipe in and say “You should! It’s actually not that bad,” which is always followed by a look of confusion from the person I’m talking to.

“YOU run 5ks?” they’ll ask with a blatant look of shock and utter confusion.

Oh, I see – so I guess the fact that I’m 5’3” and chubby with a penchant for Pop Tarts and fast food makes me an unlikely candidate?

But that’s precisely what makes events like Pat’s Run so amazing. It’s not the event itself that brings people out – a 4.2 mile run/walk – but the cause itself. It’s not about being a runner, or being a supreme athlete of any sort, really. It’s about honoring the memory of one of Arizona’s best, brightest, and most noble men. It’s an event that brings thousands of people out to tackle something they never thought possible – to prove that Tillman is still an inspiration, even all these years later.

All that being said, I’m a competitive little fart, so I took this as an opportunity to kick ass and take names. After all, that’s what Tillman would do on the field, right?

When Saturday morning finally rolled around, I knew this run was going to be like no other I’ve done before. I didn’t know this right away, mind you. It wasn’t until I was at the Priest and Washington light rail station that I got tipped off to this. As I read my Sports Illustrated and waited for the train to come, a short, stocky woman in a bright green hat and bright green tennis shoes started howling – and no, howling is not an exaggeration.

“You’re messin’ with a – OOMPH OOMPH – son of a guuuuuuuuuunnnnnn…”

Nothing like a little crazy to let you know it’s gonna be a special day.

Once we got down to ASU campus and jumped off the light rail, we followed throngs of runners around to the starting line. Because there were over 18,000 people registered for the event as of Friday evening, my friend Amy and I weren’t able to actually start running until approximately 7:24am. While many of the people faded from a run to a jog to a walk within the first five minutes of the run, Amy and I kept going. I actually felt pretty good about everything until after turned onto Curry Road at the mile and a half mark.

“What the f__k is this?” I asked Amy.

“Um, an incline,” she responded between huffs.

Now I could give you some sob story about my ankle injury from November, where I had issues with my Achilles tendon that had me confined to a walking boot for four weeks, but when it’s all said and done, it comes down to this – I really am actually a lazy person, and I don’t really even LIKE running. It’s hard enough for my fat behind without making me go uphill. Thankfully, my pre-race beer and pasta dinner had left me just gassy enough that my flatulence propelled me up the hill and through the pain.

(Which reminds me – my apologies to anyone that was behind or around me on Curry Road at approximately 7:38am.)

As we passed the two-mile mark, I felt myself ready to slow down when I heard a sweet, sweet sound. I couldn’t make out what specifically was being said, but I did know one thing – that was the sound of a group of men, early twenties, in a boot-camp style formation. We looked over our shoulders and there they were, rapidly approaching. The sight of those “Chandler Fire Department” t-shirts were like the hand of God reaching down to touch us, and it was at that moment Amy and I realized we could not stop no matter what. We are in our thirties and by gosh – we had to keep up with the firemen!!

(I think they were actually firemen in training, but at this point, I was covered in sweat and not in any shape to be picky.)

Herd of testosterone aside, the single most inspirational moment of the day to me was shortly after this, when Amy and I came upon a gentleman who had artificial arms and legs. He was by himself, jogging a steady pace, saying nothing to anyone around him, but simply smiling and nodding to those who passed him by. For a brief second, I forgot about the firemen and just focused on this guy. He was so unassuming, and seemingly completely unaware to the fact he was likely inspiring everyone that he came in contact with during the course of that run. I felt like the world’s biggest a-hole for complaining about being tired when this guy…there just aren’t even words…

Sadly, the thing about me is that I don’t focus on any one thing for too long, so it doesn’t take long for the moment to pass. By mile three, I was back to bellyaching, trying to convince Amy her hip was bothering her so SHE would be the one to want to walk this time instead of me. Unfortunately, she wasn’t biting and she’s too nice of a person to trip, so by the 3 ½ mile mark, I had to bite the bullet and slow down to a walk to avoid passing out and/or needing an ankle replacement.

Turning onto Packard Drive had us coming up on the four-mile mark, though at this point I had forgotten that it was a 4.2-mile run because I kept looking for the finish line and cussing under my breath wondering where the %&^@ it was. But somehow, seeing Sun Devil Stadium and knowing that our big finish was right there on the field was enough motivation to keep going. That, and someone had mentioned that the ASU football team was cheering people on at the finish.

(Look – I’m 32 years old and no matter how single or taken I am, I appreciate the value of a group of men in good shape. Stop judging me.)

As we came out into the stadium and stepped onto the field’s grass, the “FINISH” balloon arc off in the distance, I took a moment to appreciate the fact that Tillman didn’t wear number 44. If they would have moved that finish line another twenty feet, I can’t promise I would have made it. I heard Amy yell “Go!” and without hesitation, I just started sprinting. I ran like my ass was running from the cops, because if I knew anything, I knew this – the faster I run, the faster I can get this damn thing over with. So I ran…I ran and I ran and – hey, there’s the football team! – and I ran until my foot crossed the finish line, when I abruptly stopped, looked at Amy (who ran in seconds behind me) and said a combination of profanities not suited for reprint. Success! We were done! Now where the hell are those bananas and Powerade bottles they promised us? I almost jacked a little girl for her popsicle, but there were too many witnesses so I just let the kid be.

As Amy and I wandered out of the stadium (stopping briefly for photos with the Chick-a-filet cow mascots and Sparky), I felt an odd sense of pride that I hadn’t felt before. Mainly that I hadn’t tripped in front of the photographer at the finish line, but also in the people who surrounded me. Each of us had one thing in common that day, and that was that we all made it a point to come together in honor of a man who did so much more than just sacrifice his Saturday morning. Maybe we aren’t such a nation of selfish a-holes after all?

Sure, my time sucked (48 minutes and 28 seconds), but at the end of the day, no one will remember my time – including me. What I’ll remember is the experience – that I participated in my first of what I hope to be many Pat’s Run events. And I ran, I walked, and hopefully, I honored a man whose memory deserves so much more than what I did that day.

Now, about those popsicles…

Photos by Rachel Hawkinson