RACES I’VE KNOWN by Rex Ray 1995

“It’s past time to start, now get off the track!”
“No! I’m running!”
“Your name is not registered for the mile run! Decatur Baptist College has not entered this meet and doesn’t even have a track team! Now for that last time; get off!”
“I’m the school track team! There’s my coach!” (Pointing to his roommate, who had also skipped school to go to the Texas state track finals.)
“OK. Start in the outside lane but don’t get in anyone’s way.”
The runner took the lead before the first turn and no one passed him. They gave my father (Dave Ray) the trophy. That was 78 years ago. If that happened today, there would be ten lawsuits.
Next, he tried a two-mile race. He lost the race shortly before it started by eating a hamburger. He led all the way but collapsed near the finish. His roommate kept yelling, “Get up! You can walk and get second!”
All my Dad would say over and over, “Get a doctor!”

My twin brother and I grew up in the country without bicycles. We did more running than walking. There were seven American high schools in Germany in 1947. We were in the 11th grade at Frankfurt. My training consisted of basketball, baseball, and the coach saying, “Anyone who wants to run track at Munich, be on the bus at seven.”
That night I showed my family a blue ribbon for the mile relay and a silver medal for my half-mile. After the praising, I showed my gold medal for the mile. I had tried to get my brother to go (he was a better runner) but he didn’t like the coach. That night he came to bed late. I knew he’d been running.

In college, my brother won his share of races. Once his coach told him, “Don’t let this guy get near you on the last lap because he will kill you with his kick.”
Starting the fourth lap and in the lead, my brother started running faster and faster. On the last curve, about to die, he looked back and saw no one. He won by jogging. His coach said, “Why in the world did you do that?”
“My shoe sole started flapping and I thought he was about to pass.”

In 1970, I was 38 and in memory of President Kennedy stressing fitness, I trained hard three months for the Dallas 8 mile Turkey Trot. I finished with a 7:05/mile. Toward the end of the race this conservation took place:
Brain: “Well, Ego, looks like we have a problem.”
Ego: “What do you mean?
Brain: “Do you remember the Body asking to walk three times and you had me tell him no?”
Ego: “Sure! I’m not walking. What are you saying?”
Brain: “Everyone is passing us.”
Ego: "Tell the Body to run faster!”
Brain: “You don’t understand. The Body is just standing.”
I finally finished but looked so bad a guy kept asking me if I was ok. Someone had my other arm and asked if I would enter a marathon.
“What’s a marathon?”
“That’s two times around White Rock Lake.”
“How far is that?”
“Twenty six miles.”
“No thanks!” I thought that was the most stupid question anyone had asked me in my whole life.

At 48, my get up and go had got up and went. Playing softball, I would walk from the field to the dugout. After listening to some health food tapes, I cleaned house. I put all the white bread, bacon, and ice cream in the trash. I quit all foods that had white or brown sugar and took vitamins. In three months I was feeling so great I thought I’d prove a point by running a mile. All I had run since softball was a computer. My throat was on fire but my time was 6:30.

I read about a marathon in three days. “Hey, I’m going to finish White Rock with no practice and that will prove nutrition will help anyone.”
“All it’s going to prove is you’re crazy!” says my wife.
It was everyone’s dream; the crowd was screaming, photographer taking my picture. Run faster; the ribbon was just ahead. The pain in my concrete legs told me it was no dream. I heard footsteps coming fast and I was sad. A young man won the race while passing an old guy who still had 13 miles to go.
I started walking at mile 15; defeated. I had prayed to run it all the way but I learned three answers; “Yes, no, and you’ve got to be kidding!”
I finished because I never found the right place to stop. I learned why the greater praise in the Bible was not “They shall fly as eagles” but “They shall walk and not faint.”
I didn’t go to work for three days because I knew I couldn’t get down from the upstairs restroom. From then on I practiced some before proving I was crazy.

The dumbest thing I’ve done was in 1983. It was not buying a nineteen dollar bicycle and after three days, riding it 80 miles to a family reunion. It was throwing away half my water jars I had in a basket and trying to go the last half on the same amount of water I had the first half.
In June it was hotter at noon than when I started at 2 AM. After a headwind I was unable to ride in high gear. I had reached the end of my rope with five miles to go. I was dehydrated sitting in the shade of a telephone pole when my sister stopped for a red light. She didn’t recognize me waving my arms off in front of her van.

Two weeks later, on the same bike, I entered a 1.2 mile swim, 43 mile bike, and 10 mile run of Dallas’ first triathlon. I swam once, ran a few times, and got sixth in my age group.
A doctor said, “There is nothing wrong with you!” I told him I was unable to convince some guys that I was white because I hadn’t been in the sun.
I didn’t know there was a trophy for the least train person or I would have applied.

By eating right, in 1984, I trained less and ran the Turkey Trot faster when I was 52 than I had at 38. I averaged 6:52 per mile on the 8 mile course.

In 1985, the Triathlon Magazine title was “Meltdown in Dallas.” When I finished the 1.2 mile swim, the announcer said, “Mark Allen is 26 miles into the 40 mile bike ride.” I agreed with the guy behind me that said, “I need to learn how to swim.”
My flagpole was easy to find with only four bikes left. “Fourth” flashed in my mind as that was the answer I’d give to people that asked how I placed in the marathon. Their disbelief changed to a smile when I would add, “But I’m not saying which end I’m talking about.”
I set out to find the vanished heard. I looked back to see the guy behind me going in a different direction. I turned around and finally caught him.
“How do you know which way to go?”
“Arrows on the road.”
My son had loaned me his new $700 bike. It was perfect till some inspection guy adjusted the shifting. Ever stop your bike with your feet strapped in? I was going up a steep hill and when I shifted into low gear, the chain came off for the third time. My legs did two turns before they gave up. There was nothing graceful about it…you fall like a tree. “Are you hurt? You OK?” (Egos must be part cat since they still live after numerous deaths.)
At the bike rack, I asked a lady where the restroom was. She points. “But that’s in the wrong direction!”
I began to realize my condition when that 100 yards looked like a mile. She said she would turn her back and I could get behind the bike curtain.
It’s strange how your morals change when you’re tired. I had planned to keep my coveralls on until I got in the water since I had succumbed to a Speedo swimsuit. My kids laughed when I told them I planned to wear one. These ladies told me they had to mark my arms with my number. I tied the sleeves around my waist and they marked my arms. “We have to mark your calves.”
I bent over and jerked the pant legs over my knees. I kept waiting but the ladies didn’t move…looked worried like someone was going skinny dipping. “We have to mark your thighs.”
It was worst than dropping your pants in the military. I stood there like a statue trying to see something miles away and these ladies were giggling so they could hardly get the numbers on.
Back at the ranch, I took the suggestion of the easy restroom break, which later started this conservation:
“How could you do such a thing?” says my wife.
“No on could see.”
“I knew what you were doing. It’s not like you.”
“You don’t know how tired I was.”
It was about 99 degrees and the run was 5 miles out and 5 miles back. After thirty yards of jogging I had to start walking. I thought I’d walk till I felt better, but it didn’t work. After a mile, I turned around wishing I hadn’t gone so far. It was hard meeting people I had passed on the bike. One was a young girl and I hoped she wouldn’t recognize me, but she gave me the same big smile when I had asked, “Are we having fun yet?”
It got worse because the crowd started cheering. “Please don’t cheer me because I’ve quit.” Then I had a flashback of undeserving cheers that turned to boos the year before.
I had missed the start of a mile run, but I wanted to see if I could beat my fasted time of 5’55”. After the last guy finished, I took off on an ‘out and back’ route. With a quarter to go, a guy passed me that was the leader of a 10K that had started earlier. Soon the crowd was cheering me for second place until someone yelled, “He doesn’t have a number! That old guy is a fake!”
I was hurting so, I ignored their boos, but with 30 yards to go, the boos got louder than the pain and I did an exit stage left to avoid any possible mob beating. You would think people would have something better to do than make a wide path. Behind their glares I could see, “How dare you …trying the cheat!” I wanted to explain but decide to let well enough alone.
Today, there wasn’t any exit until I reached the parking lot. A hospital tent guy said, “Hey! You have to get your bananas at the finish line!”
“Where is the finish line?”
“It’s that way. Here, have two bananas.”
A woman in a motor-home, asked if I’d like a cool place to sit. I told her I was looking for
my wife. “You look like you need to cool off. It will be OK, my mother is with me.”
“Thanks but I have to find my wife.”
I knelt to crawl under our locked car for shade but the thought of sand sticking to sweat canceled the idea. All the time there was a voice saying, “Fool, that motor home was air-conditioned.”
Back in the crowd, I ran into my wife. “Rex, I’m surprised to see you. The way you looked, I didn’t expect you so soon. What happened?”
I didn’t answer but headed for the car. I knew if I said one word I was going to bawl. So ended my “Meltdown in Dallas.”

Sometime around 1988 I received third place in my age group in the Dallas Triathlon. When they announced a 15 year-old boy was competing with the pros, I thought, “The smart aleck wants to start when it’s still cool.” As we were starting our swim, I changed my mind as they announced he was in second place at the end of the bike race.

The boy’s name was Lance Armstrong.

In 1991, my pulse was recorded over 300 and they gave me a pacemaker. My wife took CPR and bugged me by hardly letting me out of her sight. I practiced three times and told her I was riding in the Arlington bike ride.
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick?”
“I decided to do the 100 mile ride.”
“Are you trying to kill yourself?” After a while she said, “Well, I don’t have to stay around you any longer.”
I smiled because that had been a major goal. We had been married 38 years and some time back, before the pulse thing, I had told her I was going to live to be 120. That was a mistake more ways than one.
“I’m not living that long. Who’s going to be your next wife?”
She kept after me until I said, “You know how these old guys marry some sweet young thing?”
“Yesssss!”
“Well, my next wife probably hasn’t been born yet.” I laughed my head off. She didn’t think it was funny and replied, “That'll never happen because you don’t have that much money.”

In 1990, my pulse would get too high and I ran less than twenty miles the whole year. A friend got me to enter the Burleson mini-triathlon. I got first out of five in my age group.
The plaque read “Bionic Man.” I thought, “How ridiculous…I’m falling apart.”
I tried the Stonebridge triathlon in McKinney, Texas. Fifteen miles into the bike ride the biker in front of me got water, but the water guy turned his back to me. “Help! Help! Water! Water!”
“Sorry, I don’t have any more.” When I got back to the bike rack, I was more than finished.

Two weeks later, I entered the Dallas triathlon (3k swim, 40k bike, and 10k run.) Ten minutes before my wave started, I decided to leave since my pulse was high and I felt bad. The day before I had read there were only three in my age group. That meant I would get a medal if I could just finish so I changed my mind.
In the swim, I started slow but picked up the pace after I started feeling good. I left the water feeling great. There was a wide lane so I stopped and had a cup of water. I just knew I had third place.
I thought how different it was than the year before when a lady tried to pass on the ladder. We went over the top into this narrow chute like Archie and Meathead…stuck. We backed off and looked at each other with the official saying, “One at a time please!”
Somewhere I lost my manners and since I was on the ladder first, I ran ahead. That was a mistake as she pushed me in the back saying, “Faster.”
It seems most of my problems involved the opposite sex. I’ve wondered why they keep starting us old guys ahead of the young women. Once I treaded water to see who had thrown a firecracker at my head. It was a lady that had kicked close to my ear as she passed.

Running that same race, a hernia strap started flapping. I waited until I couldn’t see anyone over my shoulder, hiked my foot on the curb under a small tree, and fixed the embarrassing item. My wife is always saying, “See, it’s right where I told you. Can’t you see anything?”
I looked up and locked eyeballs with a lady sitting in the shade. She didn’t say a word but her mouth was wide open.
This year proved no different. Fourteen miles into the bike race, a lady, about the age of my daughter, had passed me five times. I knew she was serious by her speed and her fancy helmet. I said, “Looks like we have our own private race.”

Her reply was friendly, but the next time I asked her, “Are you the same lady I’ve been talking to?” her “Yes" was cold as ice.
I had dropped my water bottle, braked and started to turn back for it. “Passing on the left!”
Our hands were one inch apart. I thought we were going to clear but the world turned upside down. Part of her was under two bikes and the rest had been a cushion for me. My back was scraped from my shoulder to my waist but nothing like her hamburger hip.
It’s crazy why you try to get a hurt person on their feet. “Let go of me! I want to lay here!”
I felt like a villain. I got the water bottle and straightened my handlebars, but her bike seat was off. While unsuccessfully straining to get it back on, I told her I was sorry a dozen times. She was almost friendly in saying, “These things happen. It’s just not my day, so go on. The pickup wagon will get me.”
Four miles into the run, I asked a guy that was passing, “How old are you?”
He opened and closed his hand twice and I knew he was the 55 year old from Houston that was listed in the race. The other guy listed had won the race the year before when it was a world qualifier, so I knew he would win easily. In that race a man from Hawaii got third place. He had completed a couple of Iron Man triathlons. His $3,000 bike made mine look like the $250 that it cost.
The 55 year old got a hundred yards ahead. I noticed his jogging up hills was not much faster than my walking. I thought if I could run the down hills faster, I could catch him. I had new ambition; from third to second. I told myself I deserved second because I was three years older and had lost five minuets in a wreck.
With a mile to go, I told him, “Hey! I believe we are racing for second place.”
He assured me that he was not racing anyone but only wanted to finish. I was a little ahead when we came to a large building that produced shade.
Body: “But you promised I could walk in the shade.”
Ego: “Be quite! We have kept ice on your head the whole run and we’re getting second whether you like it or not!”
I kicked the last hundred yards just feeling good. I waited to get my medal but didn’t know there were seven in my age group.
My smile faded when third and second went to someone else. Since I was standing alone, I said aloud, “I didn’t get nothing!”
As if to correct my poor English, the announcer said, “And now for first place, Rex Ray from Grand Prairie, Texas.”
Now it was my mouth that was open. “Oh happy day!”

NUTRITION
A runner without a message or purpose
Is one that will not finish the race.
A runner with good news to tell,
Will endure pain, regardless of the pace.

With no practice, he set out to show
What can be done without the sweets of life.
A message of no sugar on his shirt had faded,
But not the message in his heart to his wife.

Why did he hurt twenty-six miles?
Was it just to be seen,
Was it ambition and pride,
Or only a plea to you and me?