BY AGE 50 YOU WILL ALSO HAVE:

* Bags of plastic bags hanging on the back doorknob

MOUSEDAMNIT!

I was all emotionally prepared to just somehow get through today’s run and make it my last—and probably most painful—half marathon ever ... but I FREAKING LOVED EVERY SECOND OF IT. And I ran the whole thing without stopping (except for water stations, which all runners get a pass on because running + drinking = spilling + wearing)—which is so huge to me that I’d maybe get choked up and cry if I had any moisture left in me.

SO PUT A 2020 GROUP DISNEY HALF MARATHON ON YOUR CALENDARS AND IN YOUR BUDGETS, RUNNER PEEPS. BECAUSE WE’RE GONNA ROCK IT TOGETHER! AND I’M NOT MOUSING AROUND.

Also: I have pictures! And funny things to post here that I thought up while I was running because what the hell else do you do for three hours with no distractions except the crap in your head? But I need a shower first. And 13.1 shovelfuls of food. And maybe a nap. I’m not sure yet whether or not I’ll post-race crash or post-race bounce off the walls. Stay tuned ...

I’m in my start corral!

We provide our estimated finishing times when we register for the race, which groups us with similar-paced runners into lettered starting corrals. The corrals for this race are lettered A through H for Afastest to Hslowest. I’m F for Fnoteveninthetophalf:

I haven’t heard a total runner number, but the group in front of me just in my starting corral is ENORMOUS:

Cool surprise: Jeff Galloway is on the stage chatting with the pre-race announcers as I type this. His Galloway Training Method propelled me through all four AIDS Marathons I ran in Chicago. And they introduced him by saying he’s run all 25 Disney marathons. Plus they just introduced some people who’ve run 100+ Disney races. The vibe here is SO COOL.

Except ... it just started raining. We have our work cut out for us.

The starting-line fireworks are in 3 ... 2 ... 1 ...

The last time I’ll pin a racing bib to my Summer Of Running Away From Being 50 shirt*

The last half marathon I’ll probably ever run, unless I have a tidal change of heart—and knee pain. Hopefully the last time I’ll compulsively eat like I’m running 20+ miles a week.

4:00 am alarm.

4:30 am bus.

5:30 am gun.

13.1 miles.

LET’S. MAKE. THIS. HAPPEN.

*Plastic “Wishing Star” not included in race. It was a little souvenir given to me for no discernible reason at our Cinderella’s Castle dinner. I put it in this traditional pre-race race-outfit photo to add a literal glimmer of Disney sparkle.

#HowToTurn50

We can’t find Rob, but we’re minutes from T-Time. Or D-Day. Or whatever.

So David stood in in my selfie with Scott. And we’re off!

#HowToTurn50

Packet pickup!

Scott and Rob have trained with me all summer—ALL SUMMER!—well, ALMOST!—on their shared journey toward their first—FIRST!—half—HALF!—marathons—THONS!—. The pre-half-marathon packet pickup is like a sacred quinceañera—¡QUINCAEÑERA!—before the race—as is, of course, the selfie—SEL! FIE!—so I tried to coordinate having the three of us pick up our race bibs and T-shirts—SHIRTS! WITH A T!—together this afternoon.

But no.

—NOOOOOOOOOO!—

As with all people whose last names are at the beginning of the alphabet and who always got to sit in the front of the classrooms and be at the top of the hair-transplant lists, Scott arrogantly alphabet-privileged his way to the front of the packet-pickup calendar and PICKED UP HIS PACKET LAST NIGHT.

¡QUINCAEÑER-NO!

But Rob is my true friend—and therefore contractually worthy of up to two lobes of my liver—and he met me—a mere 15 minutes too late, but I’m sure it was because he was delayed picking out his quinceañera outfit—to pick up our race packets—and more importantly, of course, pose for our life-affirming, existence-validating, handsomeness-celebrating selfie—together at NewBo.

Unfortunately, we are both high-profile local-bordering-on-international celebrities, and we were mobbed—MOB! BED!—by our legion-scale adoring fans all over NewBo, which made it all but impossible to collect our bibs and T-shirts with any shred of furtiveness.

But!

(I totally just said but!)

(And furtiveness!)

(FURTIVENESS!)

Fortunately, we easily persuaded two—TWO!—of our slavish fans to stand in for Scott—because it really does take two men to replace him. Plus we couldn’t decide which slavish fan to ask, and we didn’t want to hurt any feelings and make things awkward on this, our joyous quinceañera.

So meet Tim, who ran the after-dark GloRun with me last summer so he’s a legitimate runner and person, and Sage, who is really just three midgets in a trench coat.

Anyway, our bibs and T-shirts are picked—PICKED!—up—NOSES!—and we’ve successfully escaped certain near-fatal mauling at the remorselessly bloody hands of our legion-scale fans and we’ve put in our miles and survived our—meaning MY—stupid injuries and we’ll all be VERY sure to poop—There. I said it. Long-distance running is a cruel laxative, and if we have to suffer it’s only fair that you get to laugh at us.—and the NewBo Half Marathon that we’ve been training for all summer is FINALLY—FINALLY!—here and we’re off and running into history and glory and bragging rights and endless endless endless Facebook posts at 7:30 tomorrow morning.

¡QUINCAEÑER-POOP!

I of course need to photographically document the fact that I’m wearing my official licensed Jake’s Summer Of Running Away From Being 50 shirt for today’s beach boardwalk 5K before I get it too sweaty and gross to be in a respectable selfie

There comes a day after every man's 50th birthday

when he gets that dreaded call from the hospital scheduling nurse for that not-sounding-fun-at-all-no-not-even-a-little-bit carnival ride that rhymes with Tollhousebosspuppy.

I'm so excited I could just shit.

Elveløpet! Bucket list! Ready to røll!

#HøwTøTurn50

I RAN THREE MILES! WITHOUT STOPPING! OR PAIN!

I don’t know why Scott and Rob are in this photo—those opportunistic photobombers—because this is all about me Me ME!

And the perfect running weather. And my super-cool sunglasses. And my FINALLY functional hip. And OK, I guess it can be about Scott and Rob too. (ME!)

#HowToTurn50 #AndBeTrulyThankfulForYourPatientFriends

The last appearance from a representative of my bountiful wardrobe of clearance-rack patriotic attire

The first weekday training run since my hip grew back. Here’s hoping it takes me a full three miles!

#HowToTurn50 #AndNeverLoseHope

#WellMaybe #ButJustALittle

50 Things About My Fourth Of July:

1. I ran my 8K this morning with 99.76% NO PAIN. 
2. See what I did there?
3. I said .76 because of 1776!
4. Because I am nothing if not mathematically patriotic.
5. I hadn’t realized how defeated I’d gotten over my stupid hip injury and the fact I hadn’t run a step in 10 days, and the fact that the pain is gone has filled me with near euphoria.
6. WOOT!
7. As the cool kids say.
8. Rule No. 1 for running is to NOT try something new on a race day.
9. No clothes that you’ve never worn before.
10. No foods that you’ve never eaten before.
11. Because that’s DUMBASS.
12. But I’m a total dumbass.
13. Because I bought new compression shorts yesterday to hold my brittle, aging hip parts in place at the advice of a Facebook friend.
14. While I was at it, I also got some new running socks that have padded collars in the backs to prevent my super-cute patriotic running shoes from sanding away my Achilles tendons like last time.
15. Plus I dug out my long-overlooked patriotic sunglasses that I don’t remember fitting very securely.
16. Because why not?
17. Oh! I also dumbassedly chugged a never-before-introduced-into-my-body Rocktane(R) Ultra Endurance Gu(R) Energy Gel before the run.
18. But everything worked out perfectly and didn’t give me any problems.
19. Except.
20. Ex. Cept.
21. EX! CEPT!
22. Compression shorts—which I’ve never worn until this morning’s race—not only don’t feel noticeably compressiony but they do nothing to keep the seatbelts fastened for the bumpy ride.
23. NOTHING.
24. So after bouncing around in their slippery, unsupportive pouch for 4.97 miles this morning, my Margos are what we will politely call Channinged.
25. Ouch.
26. Ouch ouch ouch.
27. Also: They’re made with the same Super Slippery Slipperiness(R) as gym shorts.
28. Super Slippery Slipperiness(R) + Super Slippery Slipperiness(R) = MY GYM SHORTS WOULDN’T STAY UP.
29. I’m sassy!
30. After the race, I foam-rolled my hip even though it didn’t hurt.
31. Because I’m responsible hip owner.
32. While I was on the floor rolling my hip, Bridget sat down next to me to keep me company.
33. Just look at this picture of us.
34. LOOK AT IT!

35. I. Love. That. Dog.
36. Then I fell asleep sitting up in a chair.
37. Because the Rocktane(R) Ultra Endurance Gu(R) Energy Gel had clearly worn off.
38. I was still wearing my finisher medal.
39. Yes. I’m THAT guy: The douchebag who SLEEPS IN HIS DAMN RACING MEDALS. 

40. I ran into so many—SO! MANY!—wonderful friends before and after the race this morning.

41. Including—but not limited to—my training buddies Rob and Scott and my saintly friend David, who patiently ran at my old-injured-man pace with me through all 4.97 miles.
42. Even when I had to stop and walk.
43. Which I’m thrilled to announce was because it was insanely hot and not because my hip hurt.
44. WOOT!
45. Again, as the cool kids say.
46. So—unless this morning was a fluke—my Summer Of Running Away From Being 50 is BACK ON!
47. With super-slippery compression shorts if Margo and I feel like I need them.
48. Plus real, ACTUAL support from Bridget.
49. And that’s #HowToTurn
50. #50!

Only a gay man would artfully arrange his running attire for a night-before photo

I could say I haven’t eagerly to the point of giddiness waited until I could FINALLY pin a racing bib in its designated place of honor on the front of my new Summer Of Running Away From Being 50 shirt since the moment it arrived in the mail over a month ago, but we all know I’d be lying.

I could also say I haven’t eagerly been planning my patriotic little running ensemble since this time last year, but I’d only partly be lying because I didn’t know until today that I’d be wearing brand-new compression shorts to hold the randomly loose parts of my aging, brittle hip in place for tomorrow’s 8K.

Bonus purchase: cushy new running socks! With a pop of neon lime! To tie everything together with my red-and-neon-lime Rocktane(R) Ultra Endurance Gu(R) Energy Gel!

#HowToTurn50 #LetsDOTHIS

Well, shit. Again.

We made it a whopping 1.42 miles this morning before SEARING pain set in. I’m so frustrated ... but not yet defeated. Rob wasn’t feeling well and stayed home, so I didn’t waste his time. But Scott joined me for our nice little walk—again in freaking PERFECT running weather. We’ve been running—excuse me, “running”—on a nice paved trail near my house and I took our Daily Commemorative Not Running Very Far Before My Hip Injury Ruins Everything Selfie(R) there to show how Very Relentlessly Straight But At Least Shady(R) it is. And because we were walking by that point anyway So Why Not(R)?

Now onward with my optimistic hope that my hip will be all healed Next Time!(R)

#HowToTurn50 #WellShit

It was a PERFECT day for a run

But—DAMNIT! AGAIN!—it wasn’t a perfect hip for a run.

My stupid whateverthehelliswrongwithit lasted a whole mile before it crippled my weird new bowel-function-compromising gait like a race horse whose steroid prescription ran out. But instead of shooting me and turning me into glue, Rob and Scott benevolently stuck with me, helped me hobble home and stood in their proper place as backup singers in my—oops, I mean OUR—album-cover selfie. We tried a leafy tree instead of my garage for our background today. Because we’re runner jocks who also have a passion for artsy shit. And that’s a rare quality in a marriage-eligible man with backup singers.

#HowToTurn50 #AndHaveYourHipTurnOnYou

Inching back to normal one quarter mile at a time

My clumsy myopic-camel-struggling-to-avoid-potholes-on-a-three-wheeled-skateboard new running gait that my PT showed me + two quarter-mile walk breaks + a refreshing rainstorm + the benevolent run-on-my-injured-hip’s-terms patience of Rob and Scott = THREE SAD LITTLE 12:18-MINUTE MILES, BABY! Plus only a bit of hip pain at the very end. Plus some extremely waterlogged clothes. Plus some sexy just-out-of-the-lap-pool-in-a-Speedo hair. Plus a triumphant selfie in front of Rob’s midlife-crisis Ford Edsel. Or whatever.

#HowToTurn50 #Ouch

Nope.

Nope nope nope.

After making it less than a quarter of a mile last time before the pain flared up and made me go lame, my hip DID last .96 miles—which I pushed through to make it an even 1.00 because I NEVER LEARN—this morning. Then I turned around and lamed an even 1.00 mile home.

Shit.

On the plus side, the rule of thumb for someone my size is to put only 100 miles on a pair of running shoes before replacing them, so these new shoes still have 98.75 miles on them. It’s like cashing in a bonus rebate coupon!

But in the mean time: Shit. Shit shit shit.

#HowToTurn50 #AndSayShitALotOnFacebook

Welp. Here we go.

Operation: See If Jake’s Damn Hip Injury Is Better is about to deploy. I’ll either make it to the end of the block or the end of the next block. Or I’ll slog out three miles. But as The Book Of Ivanka’s Totally Authentic Totally Profound Made In America Chinese Proverbs says: The first step of the journey begins with the first step of the journey. So off I go ...

#HowToTurn50 #AndNeverLoseHope

I'm all hip and cool, yo

It’s time for my first (and ideally my last) physical therapy appointment for my stupid hip injury—with the physical therapist that literally the entire population of Facebook recommended within mere seconds of my first mention that I’d injured myself running. In anticipation of whatever physical torture awaits me, I wore gym shorts to work today ... which felt positively subversive and deliciously scandalous!

#HowToTurn50

Beware the Hips of Jake!

I warned these two that though my hip felt 99% better there was still the possibility that running with me wouldn’t get us to the end of the block and I’d have to stop and we’d all have gotten up at 5:30 and picked out our super-cute running outfits for nothing.

Well, shit.

We didn’t even make it half a mile before I had to abort our mission, but they decided to walk with me and we explored the newish paved trail—which is super-awesome—that runs between E Avenue—which is gross and dumpy and needs a tornado and a developer with a vision for a new and brighter utopian, space-needle-like future—and the new Mt. Mercy sports complex—which looks super-awesome but seriously, sports? me?—and we ended up covering 2.8 miles.

And I’ve clearly infected Rob with the selfie virus—which makes him weak and socially pathetic—because he suggested we take a selfie—which again is weak and socially pathetic—before I even thought of suggesting it myself. And that’s alarming. And a first. And say it with me: weak and socially pathetic.

Anyway, here we are—all resisting being in a selfie except Rob, who is making an absolute fool of himself—posing in front of his hyper-macho manly-man testosterrific muscle car, which he has incongruously named Princess Sparklepony. Straight people, amirite?

And I’m left with a re-wrecked hip, which I shall name Rear Admiral I.T. Band McDisappointmemt. Or Getajob Yahippie. Or Bennehip Arnold. Or Nancyhip Toosoon Questionmark McKerrigan. Or Cap’n Hipshit. Or Eleanor. If that name isn’t already taken.

#HowToTurn50 #WhichKindaRhymesWithHippy