Pterodactyls

I was in fourth grade when I first started to contemplate long distance running. I was running the backstops at Columbine Elementary school. I was a round kid who didn't get team sports, and they didn't get me - but something about this running against a clock made sense to me. I wasn't the fastest in my class, but for once, I wasn't the slowest.
Years passed. I was on the track team in junior high. I didn't run distance then, there was a new special breed of lean young men for that, but I did train for miles at a time as I prepared to make a slot on the shot put or discus. I was no good at shot put or discus, but I didn't mind the training. I have the distinction of competing in both shot and discus against Kevin Call - who ended up being an offensive lineman for the Indianapolis Colts. I wasn't as good as Kevin Call. That didn't matter so much - the running part mattered and even if I wasn't the fastest, I knew what my time was and I knew who I was running against.
High school was a conscious avoidance of exercise - unless you count marching in straight lines and carrying large fiberglass instruments exercise. I learned to drive, lost my license for six months, rode my bike for half a year, and went back to driving.
My freshman year of college was when I started more endurance sports - most of which included consuming ever-increasing amounts of beer. When spring came, I was at a crossroads - I wasn't returning to the liberal arts school and I had broken up with my high school sweetheart. I needed solace. My father called one night to ask if I wanted to run a "10K" with him. 10K? That's not even American - how hard could that be? I spent the next few weeks running circuits around campus in my red suede Puma Clydes.
On Memorial Day weekend, I woke up early and met my father at the starting line. I stood and waited with thousands of other runners as my father (of the peanut sized bladder) searched desperately for an open port-a-potty. Then we were off. The first mile was nice and flat. Some people passed me, I passed some people. By the second mile I had found my pace group. We shuffled along at a steady clip and moved toward the half way mark.
Half way mark? Three miles was half way? What insanity had I left myself open for? I considered tearing the number from my chest and wandering off into the crowd. Three miles to go? I must have a long discussion with my father about his notions of recreation. Then I remembered something: I hadn't ignored running in high school. I read "The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner" in Miss Copeland's class. Alan Stilltoe had it exactly right. The runners on my left and right began to disappear - and I thought of pterodactyls.
There was a hill at mile four, but I didn't notice. I was back at Columbine, rounding the third backstop, heading for home. The clock was ticking.
When I finished the race, I got in line for my free lunch and commemorative t-shirt. As I waited, lean smiling folks tried to press applications for more races into my hands. No thanks - just the yogurt covered raisins and the shirt, thanks. I ran 6.2 miles in less than an hour, and I was still standing. When they sent me the certificate in the mail, I noted the number of people my age that were ahead of me, and behind me. I didn't win my demographic. I didn't lose, either.
I've been running since then. People ask me sometimes about my training regimen. I try to run a few times a week, and once a year I run a 10K. I know how far that is now - exactly. And sometimes, if I'm feeling really good, I think of pterodactyls.