JOE SCALZO Eleven seconds short and no beer

There comes a time in every man's life when he hears a voice inside him urging him to shake off the shackles of everyday life, summon all his courage and -- no matter what obstacles he may face -- stay in bed.
On Sunday, I ignored that voice.
Which is how, at 8 a.m., I found myself waiting in my driveway for my ride to the 30th annual Youngstown Peace Race. (Official motto: "Where the runners of today ruin the knees of tomorrow.")
My friend Terry Kenney, a 47-year-old who has run several marathons, picked me up at my apartment with my registration packet, a couple bottles of water, a change of socks, two extra pairs of shoes, two gym bags, a change of clothes and Lord knows what else.
"I'm organized," he said.
"Actually, I believe it's called 'anal retentive,' " I said.
Terry, who has run the Peace Race several times and would probably have a good chance of winning his age group if he wasn't running with the human turtle, had graciously offered to pace me.
School buses bad
In a column last month, I said I wanted to run a 71/2 minute mile pace, which means I would need to finish in 46:36. It was an ambitious goal and, for the first time in my life, I was glad no one reads my columns.
We arrived at the downtown YMCA about 8:30, where I ran into Poland football coach Paul Hulea, who was running with his super-friendly daughter, Kelsey.
"Actually, I won't be running with her," he said. "I think I'll technically be running backward."
Terry and I took a bus to Cleveland Elementary School on Indianola -- I haven't ridden a school bus since high school and I can honestly say I don't miss it one bit -- where I stretched, ran a warm-up and tried to pretend I didn't notice the cute girl with the pink tank top stretching next to me. (Just kidding. I didn't even try.)
Just before the race started, Terry spotted Channel 27 weatherman Rich Morgan. He then turned to me and said, "Whatever we do, we have to beat Rich Morgan."
Morgan is a very nice guy who once wrote me a very nice note about one of my running columns. So I, of course, looked at Terry, mustered all my decency and said, "Sure. Let's get him."
My race number was 527, which was the same number of career home runs hit by Jimmie Foxx. I mention this so you'll get a good idea of just how many useless anecdotes you're about to read.
The Peace Race was supposed to start at the water tower on Indianola at 10:15 a.m. It started at 10:15 a.m.
Ted Rupe is good.
In case you're interested -- and I'm sure you're not -- I wore a pair of Nike Zoom Vapors, an Adidas Clima-Fit shirt and a shirt sleeve on my head, as has become fashionable among idiotic sportswriters who agree to humiliate themselves in print for charity.
(I also wore shorts. In case you were worried.)
We started well -- that tends to happen when the first two miles are downhill -- and we passed several people wearing the black long-sleeved Peace Race T-shirt given out before the race.
There are certain unwritten rules about this sort of thing. You should never wear the T-shirt of the band you're going to see. You should never wear the T-shirt of the race you're going to run. And you never miss the opportunity to make fun of those who do.
Beware of alligators
At the midway point, just past the iron bridge near the river, Terry looked over at me and asked, "How's the story going?"
"I'm (huff) not (puff) really (gasp) thinking (whew) about (pant) it," I said. "If I can't remember anything, I'll just make it up."
Suddenly, out of nowhere, an alligator crawled out of the river, seized my right leg and bit off a chunk just above my knee. I actually hopped the rest of the race. My left quad is gonna be sore tomorrow.
At the four-mile mark, next to Lake Glacier, we spotted Rich Morgan.
And then we passed him.
(Heh-heh.)
Just before the five-mile mark, near the hill in front of Fellows Riverside Gardens, we ran past a guy blaring Tom Petty on his radio. You can rearrange Tom's name to spell Met Potty. I mention this because by then, I wanted to meet a potty and deposit my breakfast into it.
By the six-mile point, I was gassed. This is a running term, meaning "80-year-old women were passing me." Poland senior Colleen Moran -- one of the area's best distance runners who treated the race as a fun run -- also passed me, which didn't bother me in the least. She has regionals this weekend and I would just like to say that, while she's training this week, I hope she gets eaten by the Mahoning River alligator.
Just before the finish line, I mustered the last of my energy, picked up my pace and passed two guys in front of me, which was kind of cheap. I feel really bad about it, so I would like to apologize to James Driscoll, Rod Meeker and, of course, Terry, who didn't know I was going to take off.
(Heh-heh.)
Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. I needed to run a 46:36. I ran a 46:47, which was 11 seconds off.
Eleven measly stinking seconds.
It wasn't good enough to finish in the top 200 -- I was 221st -- but it was good enough to win my age group. I was the fastest 146-year-old out there.
Gareth Price finished first, although it should be noted that he rode a scooter for much of the race. (This is probably not true.)
Paul Hulea was 658th and his daughter finished 358th. One of the race sponsors was Rock Green Light, which had signs throughout the race advertising the low carb beer.
"I was distracted by the beer signs," Hulea said. "I thought they were going to hand beers out at the start of the race."
A reason they were free
They didn't. And, as Hulea discovered, they didn't hand them out at the end of the race, either. They did, however, hand out hats advertising "Udderly Smooth" body cream.
I'm trying to think of the right word to describe these hats. Ridiculous comes to mind.
After chatting with a few area runners, Terry and I packed up and left. And after reflecting on the experience, I can honestly say that it was worth all the training and effort. I now have a deeper appreciation for what runners go through.
And, when next year's race comes around, I'm going to do what I promised everyone I would do when I started Sunday's race.
I'm going to sleep in.
XJoe Scalzo is a sportswriter for The Vindicator. Write to him at scalzo@vindy.com.