Thursday, July 3 @ 7pm was The Stars and Stripes 5K, which I was eagerly anticipating the entire week. When I anticipate things, it means that I OBSESS over them. It was the only thing going through my mind. The reason for this is because I had a goal. My goal was to complete a 5k in under 30minutes. My very first 5k was 44 minutes, and my very best was 32:32. Coach Von was telling me, about 6 weeks ago, that in the future, he will probably not agree to coach athletes until they can run a sub 30min 5K. This makes perfect sense, as it would show that a runner has, at least, dedicated himself to a degree of fitness as to be worth his time. To most people a 30minute 5K is not a big deal, but I am not most people. I am me, and I am working with what I have, not what most people have. Von made it clear that he meant no offense to me, being that I had never achieved this goal. I relayed to Von that, “I COMPLETELLY understand your thought process, and actually agree with the logic. No offense taken”. I then relayed to myself, “I am gonna cram a muther fu-king sub 30min 5K so far up his fu-king ass the first gosh d*mn chance that I get. He will not know whether to piss his ultra britches or wind his GPS watch.” I have the sneaking suspicion that Von knew exactly what he was doing in having this conversation with me. A*shole. Anyways, Amand Drogmiller, who has become one of my closest CF family members, volunteered to run behind me and keep pace. She was there to warn me to “slow your roll, big boy” at the beginning, and “when you turn this corner you gotta get on it, Beef” at the end. It was tough, absolutely, but it would have been impossible without her help. When I got to the finish line and saw my time 28:05!

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I WAS ELATED! It was a smorgasbord of every drug that I ever loved waiting for me at the finish line. It was every high that I have ever chased, at just the right altitude. It was a Sunday morning Bloody Mary, only to find out that you don’t have to work Monday, PAID! All the feelings that I had pursued in my previous life of drugs and alcohol were waiting for me right there, free of charge, all I could handle, with nothing but healthy consequences.

Now, I told you that I am a drama queen. I warned you that I do things BIG, or not at all. I told you that I am passionate, loud, and emotionally driven. CAUTION: scenes might be graphic, and unsuitable for young viewers and, so called, tough guys. When I got to my vehicle in the parking lot, the big beefy wheels fell off of my overheated, oversized, overworked body. I let out a moan that mimicked that of a man passing a kidney stone. I sobbed uncontrollably. It was like the first and 10th time that I watched Mr. Holland’s Opus. I was pounding on the steering wheel and clinching on the cloth seats. The snot had blown out of my nose, and connected to my top lip, which already had saliva that connected from top lip to bottom and arced to my chin. I was trying to get it together, kinda, and was playing Charlie Daniel’s on my snot fiddle. All tears of absolute gratitude, it was fu-cking beautiful. I have a heavy faith in God. I do not preach, because I don’t know anything about him. I am not sure that I fit in any particular religion, and don’t particularly care. I stay out of religion, or lack thereof. In my opinion, you are all fu-king right, because you are all fu-cking crazy….and you ain’t gonna convince a crazy person that they ain’t right. Trust me, I know. All I know, is that God is good, all the time. I could not help but reflect on all the people that God has placed in my life that go OUT OF THEIR WAY to help me be happy, and MOST IMPORTANT, help me feel accepted. It is not one or two, but an entire world of wonderful people who give their time, energy, patience, knowledge, food, encouragement, skills, and ears to help get me a little further down the road. Through my joyful tears, I thought about what Amanda had so selflessly done. How she gave up her entire race to sit back and make sure that MY goal was accomplished, never mentioning hers. I asked myself if I would have done the same for her, or anybody else. My answer was this, “absolutely not”, not going into this race would I have been willing to do what she did. However, as I sat there on top of my mountain, in my huge piece of sh*t Suburban, which felt like a royal chariot, and wiping off my tears, while my body feeling wonderfully broken, assed out, without another ounce of gas in the tank, I asked myself if I would be willing to do what Amanda did for me, if it meant helping someone get the high that comes with it. My answer, “any and every fu*cking day of the week.” Thanks Amanda for teaching me to be a better person.

Peace, Love, and all things Beef related.

Wilson Horrell

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