A few days ago friends at another school invited me and some other runners to run in their "2nd Annual Chocolate Milk Mile." It seemed like a great idea to prove my manliness and prove that my stomach could handle anything. Sure, I hadn't drank chocolate milk since 3rd grade, but what did that matter? Sure I didn't even really like chocolate milk, but what's taste when you have a race to WIN?! I definitely experienced a bit of the tragic hero's hubris right there.
To start things off, I was running a bit late to the race. I spent about 12 minutes looking for my iPod to play in the car and never actually found it (I found it instantly once I returned home afterward). When I finally arrived at the track some 20 minutes later (Hooray traffic and 25MPH drivers in 40MPH zones!), they were just about to begin. I rushed down to the track to quickly get on the line and get a rather full cup of chocolate milk.
Before I realized it, the race had begun, and almost everyone chugged his milk in less than 2 seconds. I was left on the line sipping mine, and I started off in a decent last. I was able to pull some people back, but I was in a clear disadvantage. I chugged my next cup of milk after the first lap much quicker, and I was making up ground. Up until that point, my stomach was fairing well. I say up until that point, because my mind finally caught up with my stomach, which was yelling "Hey a**h***! Stop!" Pushing through it I made it to the end of the second lap feeling thoroughly sick. After a quick breather and a third (and very full) cup of chocolate milk, I was running again. This time I was determined. I saw one of my friends off to the side of the track puking - one of the early favorites was out! I continued to push, and as I came around the straightaway to finish the third lap, my stomach was now screaming. I finished my fourth and final cup rather quickly, and I was soon in the top five places. Then my conscience spoke. "Why are you doing this?" it asked. "You feel like crap, and you have drank a quart of chocolate milk. You don't even like a chocolate milk. I hope you're walking down the street and you get splashed by a car or the cat throws up on your rug or SOMETHING to punish you for doing this!" I sort of jogged in the last 100 meters or so because he was right. I had to swallow my pride, and my stomach's ego was shot.
And no, I didn't throw up, even when one of my friends punched me in the stomach afterward to see if I would. But I was very uncomfortable, especially in the 80+ degree (Fahrenheit) heat. One poor kid threw up every lap.
Don't do this if you have the chance. Be the cameraman (or woman) or the person who hands out the milk. For the love of God, do not run a mile after drinking a quart of chocolate milk. Thank you.
No comments:
Post a Comment