I don’t really feel like talking about any of the unhappy escapades I’ve been in right now. But here’s my 12th Grade running essay. Not quite as thrilling a tale as my last, but I love the imagery in the middle. Thank you so very much for your concern, monsieur Alex.
This was, once again, a stretch of ten kilometers that I was, once again, expected to run across in the same nine-and-a-half minute-a-mile time frame. Despite such superficial similarities, Ford Island was no Pearl Harbor. It was different, first off, because it started in tears, with me begging for a chance at Pearl Harbor for fear of incurring the mighty wrath of Mom. Second off, because D-quackers would not be running it. This meant I had no real reason, indeed, to finish this race any quicker than I ought to within my own healthy boundaries. Third off, because it was not raining. I ran in the rain for Pearl Harbor. Perhaps slick, sloshy terrain got me to the finish line quicker last time. (I put my money on D-quackers, though.) But “slick” or “sloshy” Ford Island was not on that fateful morn’, though for the past two weeks of break, nothing but rain had taken storm (Get it?) in the sky. And in the Skye.
In-fact, I had trained exclusively in the rain all break long. My dad and my two brothers had commandeered the empty Moanalua Elementary School playground to run around in last year, but the weather this year had made that less than ideal. Instead, we took to running underneath the rafters of the school buildings. Rey’ was kind enough to try his best to run with me a good deal of the way, though he had not practiced, and Nova, my littlest brother, was completely devoted to being my finish line-man who’d cheer me on after every lap–and even challenge me by moving a couple steps farther back every time. My family was able to help me take on the yoke of rigorous exercise. They made it such a joyf’lly light burden by lifting my sweaty spirits with helium-filled devotion.
What I did over the break was certainly so much more than adequate. If there’s one thing I’ve been told since 7th Grade PE, it’s that I’m very… consistent. So my pace tends to stick to a very plotted, unfaltering beat once I’ve gotten there. So my practices set that beat and also strengthened my endurance. I slogged my poor lil’ keester off every day I ran. I never stopped running until that point of finality where I knew I could run no longer without a consequence. I immediately got sick after Song Contest, so the runs helped me regain the strength I’d had the previous week. Practice-runs with my family even helped me feel more positive about the running experience, which eased the monotonous drudgery of it all. If there were only one thing I could’ve adjusted, it would’ve been the weather. After running in nothing but bitingly frigid, windy weather, the desert-land of Ford Island was completely unprepared for. And running atmosphere makes a huge difference. Also, if it hadn’t been for some exceptionally gruesome weather, I would’ve traded in one of my DDR times in for a run, which might’ve improved my performance a tidbit.
Despite practicing every day, as is typical for me, I forgot all about the ticket pick-up until the very last moment, even when having been reminded the night before. But… we picked up the said ticket, any-which-way. All the praise for that should go to my parents, who inadvertently reminded me of it through college registration, of all things. I had average dreams the night prior. The dream consists of being woken up at 7:05 by my dad. There was nothing for me to eat in the pantry, and I was obviously already late, which seemed to bring a sense of maniacal joy to my parents. As I stood there aghast as my parents howled sadistic praises to my second failure to run, I wailed the petrified horrors of my demise. Yes, I promise, that dream is average. For me.
But morning came, and a lot more pleasantly, at that. I was awoken at 6 by Dad, who graciously asked for (and took) my request for my morning breakfast, to which I replied, “Oatmeal, please,” then promptly fell asleep again until it was ready. I spent pretty much all of my pre-run time asleep, and that was, in my opinion, very smart. I fumbled around with my safety pins and my timing chip in a brilliant routine of trial-and-error as we reached the starting line, then I embraced my good ol’ dadd’eh and took my place with the three-thousand-some-odd people. (Besides some pathetic little leg-pulls and running in place, not much warming-up took place.) And by “some odd,” yes, I mean some of the people were odd. That’s not including myself. I’ll get to the odd people later.
There was some hilaaaarious banter by the emcees, and the band’s rendition of The Star-Spangled Banner was met with three-thousand introspective souls. But finally, the gunshot sounded and we all sounded, “Shotgun!” to the mat, even though we were told twice not to rush since we’d surely all get our turn. Unlike Pearl Harbor, there was a vast majority of non-KS students running this, and I soon realized this as I lost sight of my friends… who were fading off in back of me. (Not to sound like I was a better runner than any of them. They passed me quite a few times later. Haw.) Winsome young adults holding smart-phones in front of them, recording themselves piston past the morning air yet to pass through a single pair of lungs. Leather-worn skin on tightly-wound old men who probably ran on running. Men with army crew cuts and well-defined brows, sloping into their jaw line like Roman helmets. Devoted married couples, pounding their feet in unison alongside each other, both pushing padded navy-blue strollers. It was flabbergasting to fathom that over half of the participants were running of their own accord and nothing else. The sheer passion these other people had for the activity outweighed my own tenfold. And it was humbling.
And now, to the odd people who ran. Costume. Yes, that’s right, they ran in COSTUME. Wonder Women with capes of majestic royal-red sheen, Robin Hoods of a natural green, as if it were sucking up the sun in gratitude, and full-body suits of a… decidedly unnatural green. (When I passed two of those characters, I yelled out, “Go, DIPSY!”) While I had no particularly outlandish outfit to bear, I decided to take on the character of Texan Tom Hanks when one of the people on the sidelines cheered, “Run, Forrest, run!” (To which I responded: “Lieutenant Dah-yun, yee-ou don’t have an-ay lay-yugs!” and “I lahv yee-ou, Jenn-ay!”) I also kept our school well-represented out there, proudly bearing my Kamehameha school lanyard, ID and all.
But truly, what I appreciated most out there were the parents. I don’t think anything can show truer devotion to your child or to your spouse than running an entire 10K run with them by your side. I’ll tell you one thing: those kids are going to grow up to be very well-adjusted individuals. All the way, ev’ry stroller I passed, I rose to the occasion with a hearty, “YEAH! PUSH. THAT. BABY.” Honestly, nothing made me happier on the run than meeting up with the sounds of those well-worn stroller wheels against the rubble-like macadam. The only two things that made me happier were having the honor of bringing someone’s discarded time chip and number to the finish line… and finding a penny on the bridge.
As I already noted six paragraphs ago (Criminey, what an essay.), I’m a very consistent runner—not always fast, but always consistent. I automatically push myself as far as I can, so that wasn’t of any difficulty to me. As long as I never stop running, I never have to worry about whether or not my time will meet my pace. That’s quite a comfort to me, in such a mad world (maaaad wooooorld~) of deadlines and guidelines and expectation. After reaching the finish line, I slowly but surely decelerated down to my normal walking pace, “sweating like a knock-kneed mule”, as Katherine Paterson once put it. After a raw-ther interesting cavalcade of confusion surrounding how my dad was going to pick me up, which involved me running all the way to the parking lot and back trying to catch up with the car, I was home. With a strawberry-peach-lime sherbet-lemonade slushy in hand for all to share.
I’m incredibly pleased with my progress as well as my time this year, and overall, very pleased with all four years of this insanity. Of all the years, I most appreciated 9th Grade’s scientific section of PE. Getting to blow up a pig’s lung with a bellows cram was a highlight of my entire existence. (But in all seriousness, knowing exactly what’s going on in the human body when I’m unfit or fit really keeps us at the well-rounded side of the spectrum.) Ms. Moa really should stop smoking those cigarettes, though, if she’s encouraging healthy lungs. 10th Grade’s swimming section was perhaps the most unnerving of all the classes I’ve ever had to take. Sometimes, I came out of the pool crying and staggering from one side to the other. But I very much appreciated the compassion and empathy Ms. Hanson bestowed upon me. No one understood me more. Certainly was a step up from middle school’s notions of yelling at us until we did it right. 11th Grade taught me how to run on a treadmill—something that definitely sticks with you like the whole bicycle shtick—and I appreciated the ever-constant encouragement and long-suffering patience from Ms. Chock. The worst part was definitely getting yelled at by D-quackers—no one enjoys being yelled at for trying to help. And this year has already been well-elaborated on its pros and cons. The lowest point was being rejected from the Pearl Harbor Run—rude, tearstained awakening–And the highest point was obviously when I found the penny.
– I mean, ran with my family.
As for the future, I plan to continue to act and do the silly dances I always do. Actually, my kind of acting—my highly physical, spastic kind of acting—is an even higher-intensity exercise than running. But I’ll definitely try to run whenever I can fit it in—which I’ll definitely find time to do, considering my siblings will soon be entering into the rigorous woe of Kamehameha runs. If I didn’t support them like they supported me, I’d be a truly crummy man. Exercising is kind of a relative word, but I’m definitely going to keep up my current level of health through the sorts of means I have for the past four years. I don’t quite think running five times a week is the sort of health I need right now. As I explained one essay ago, fitness is well-rounded. After all that running, what I need to balance the scales is some good ol’ fashioned fun and some good ol’ fashioned sleep.
Then I’ll talk about running again.
