I'm a late comer to long distance running. I didn't start exercising on a regular basis until I was 45 years old and my body was looking like a bag of wet mulch standing on end. I started slowly, working myself up to running one mile, then two, and finally three. Even though I amassed some reasonable mileage over the ensuing three years, I still considered a four-mile run as beyond my capability. The inspiration to go further came from my young and buff co-workers. Their happy talk about the rapture of training for ten milers and marathons convinced me I too could do it. I should have known better. You can't trust people who freak out over a zit, yet think impaling their faces with 25- gauge wire is high fashion.

I learn that a critical first step in preparing for a road race is the purchase of a superior pair of running shoes. So I visit a running specialty shoe store. After the salesman and I exchange greetings, he asks me how long I have been wearing my current running shoes. I answer, "About three years." He looks at me as if I had just set fire to a Chihuahua puppy. "Three years!" the poor guy gasps, shaking his head in disbelief. I didn't know that serious runners change shoes more frequently than publishers release new books on Princess Di.

After a summer of ever increasing mileage, October arrives and I excitedly drive to my first big race. It's the 1998 Army 10 Miler. What a thrill, walking around the grounds of the Pentagon, taking in the color and the nervous anticipation. As I look at the thousands of sleek and vigorous runners, I have one thought. "Oh God! Will I finish this race or will I be scooped up and driven across the finish line?" After the pre-race ceremony ends and the gun is fired, I am one of 12,000 bobbing heads easing out of the starting area. Immediately, several dozen male runners dash to the trees bordering the course to relieve their bladders. I assume they're alpha males who can't resist marking their territory.

I cross the starting line a few minutes behind the leaders and begin a series of small achievements. I make it to the first mile without crushing someone's heel. I successfully navigate the swamp of paper cups around the various water stations. I get depressed knowing that as I pass the seven-mile mark the human greyhounds have already finished the race, gone home, showered, changed their clothes, and are enjoying brunch. I feel my eyeballs rolling back into by head as I cross over the 14th Street Bridge for the last mile. I reach deep inside to find the energy for a final kick and it's like shopping at Hechinger's, empty with nothing but a few loose ball bearings rolling around. But I finish. My time puts me in the last quartile of finishers for the overall race, my gender, age group, and for warm-blooded animals as a whole. Nonetheless, having gained the exhilarating experience of running the race, plus the free food and T-shirt, I am hooked!

My next big race after a winter of running on a treadmill is the GW Parkway Classic. What a great course. Fifteen kilometers of nice smooth Parkway pavement on a sunny morning in April. It was then that I discover one of road racing's dirty little tricks, what goes up doesn't necessarily have to come down. I run the course, arriving at each rise in the road hoping to gain a gentle assist from gravity as I descend. But it doesn't materialize. This course never goes down! I later learn that this is true for all races. Even if the starting and finishing line is the same, somehow the race designers defy the laws of physics and it always up, up, up.

This is a really true story. During the race I was with a pack of runners at about the halfway point of the course. A young woman speaks up to a male companion, "Hey honey. When we finish this race, can we go to IHOP for some pancakes?" Honey replies in a testerone soaked voice, "Sure baby," he chortles. "I got a stack for you right now. " At which Baby replies, "Yeah. A short stack!" Everyone breaks out in laughter. Everyone except me. My brain is saying to my cardiovascular system; "Must use air to breathe, can't laugh at witty woman."

For Father's Day, my wife buys me Galloway's Book on Running. My kids look at the jacket photo and think Jeff Galloway looks like me. I have to agree, since we both wear a beard and have angular good looks. Unfortunately, at the time, I have in hand the World of Color race photo of me crossing the finish line at the 2nd annual Colt-USO Defenders 10 Miler. I look pathetic. My stride is so cramped that the little guys on pedestrian crossing signs move with more grace. I look again at the book cover. In the photo, Jeff's feet are wide apart, his stride covering an acre. His arms are pumping, a look of determination on his face. I looked back at my race photo. My face has the expression of an exhausted opossum chased down by a super-sized SUV. A dark mood comes over me. I take a pen and disfigure the book cover by drawing fishnet stockings on Jeff's legs.

In June the next big race for me is the Lawyer's Have Heart 10K in Georgetown. Another lesson learned; hit the porta-johns early. Its embarrassing to sprint to the starting line seconds before the gun sounds with a stream of toilet paper flying from your shoe.

The race begins and I'm in my customary spot towards the back. The day is warm and bright and the air feels comfortable. My stamina is stronger and I'm ready to run a great race. But I am destined to have another new runner experience. This is an almost completely true story. At the 4-kilometer mark of the race I trip and fall. Steep hill, loose gravel, and big feet, they all conspire to send me tumbling. In one fluid motion, I roll over and return upright with blood seeping from wounds on my hands, elbow, knee and shoulder. My fellow runners quickly ask me about my level of hurt. They express the appropriate sympathy. But I know they are thinking, "Man did that guy look stupid. The big doofus should be running with a walker." To prevent the ridicule from manifesting itself as full-blown mockery, I act quickly. Turning to them, I announce that I hadn't fallen by accident. I say that the polyester in my running shorts had ignited into flame because of the tremendous friction generated by my pumping thighs. To put out the fire before it spread, I had just stopped, dropped, and rolled. I think they believe me because they all pick up their pace and run ahead of me.

The summer is steaming by and I'm trying to follow Galloway's strategy in preparing for my second Army 10 Miler in October. My first full year of road racing is about to end and it's been a super experience. I've learned that ChampionChips are not a processed snack food. I know that without Vaseline, a man's nipples are no longer an evolutionary oddity, but a potential source of jaw clenching pain. I learned that runners wearing garbage bags prior to a race are frugal and efficient, not suffering from poor body images. I also learned that, as Tina Turner sings in "Steel Claw",

The odds turn out even
When you give up believing in the
Cold Law, Steel Claw

Okay. So that doesn't make sense. But I love Tina so much I like hyping her whenever I can. Actually, Tina is my new racing role model. With her stamina, she could easily run a marathon. I bet she could do the whole 26 miles plus in six-inch high heels, wearing a leather mini skirt and belting out rock and roll songs. Now there's a racing program for next year.