Fatties Running Fast 5k's

One weekend in early fall of 2009, I was in attendance at a local race that always brings in good numbers. The race featured some local "stars" as well as a horde of your typical fun-run crowd. My old bloodhound sat laxly at my feet as I stood near the line. I wasn't there to race, but rather, I was scanning the finish line for notable fat runners - fellow corpulent cruisers like myself.

The winner predictably passed in the high 14s, and those poor emaciated-looking souls followed within a minute or so of his time. Obviously, these are the least remarkable people to watch. I said a silent prayer for these sorry fools and looked on.

Starting in the low 16s, I observed a noticeable surge of "huskier" runners finish. Now, you couldn't properly classify them as "fat," but some of them truly pushed the "fat" end of the "skinny-fat" spectrum. I made several double takes Still, not good enough.

I checked my watch at about 17:29 and was ready to leave the course, unsatisfied as I have been in the past so many times. It seemed that, yet again, there would be no truly fat person to run below eighteen minutes (the universally accepted benchmark to be impressed by a fat man's 5K performance). As I began to walk away, stopwatch and scale in hand, my old bloodhound began barking frantically. I turned around, and that's when I saw him.

A puffy oval figure was in view, charging towards us. I adjusted my bifocals to get a clearer image. It was a slovenly looking fellow, sporting a baggy pair of red Walmart-bought basketball shorts and a completely soaked Judas Priest t-shirt of the highest quality of cotton I had ever seen. He puffed his cheeks with an exaggerated exhale in sync with the impact of each heel-striking over-stride, gasping for his breath mid-stride. His fists were clenched tightly; his arms made perfect 90-degree angles to his torso with every stride. But most importantly, my spot estimate of his size came out to about five foot eleven in height with a waist circumference of approximately 44 inches. An absolutely gorgeous specimen. Indeed, this man... was "fat."

I looked down at my stopwatch again - 17:41. I flicked my gaze back up to the runner and gave a full-diaphragm bellow: "RUUUUUUUUUUN!!!" The lumbering fellow's eyes glanced over at me with a smidgeon of fear, but he kept his head focused on the line and maintained his steadfast concentration. He increased his striding/puffing tempo and charged harder. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! FINIIIIIIIIIIISH!!!" I cried in hysteria. As his foot touched down onto the timing pad, he snapped his head down with a mighty crack of his double chin meeting his chest. I hit the button of the stopwatch and looked down at the LCD screen. My jaw dropped - 17:58.95.

My gaping mouth quickly transformed into an open-mouth grin and I quickly waddled over to the side of the wheezing behemoth, bent over with his hands on his knees. "My friend!" I exclaimed. "I must weigh you!"

He turned his head up, still bent over. "What?"

"I must weigh you!" I repeated.

"Uh..."

Before he had a chance to respond, I laid my scale on the ground and guided him on, balancing him carefully so as not to tarnish the measurement. The scale thought for a few moments before revealing its answer - 218.7.

"YES!" I let out. "YES! Congratulations, my good man! You, sir, are fat!"

"Uh... do I win something?" he asked, as he slumped off my scale.

I was already recording his time and weight in my notebook.

"You are the fattest sub-18 runner I have ever witnessed!" I replied, beaming.

"Huh... cool... I guess," he lulled on.

I put away my notebook, picked my scale, and shook the man's hand. "Congratulations again, sir!"

I turned to my tired old dog. "Come on, Webb. Let's go home." He opened his mouth to let his tongue flop out and gave a slow but happy pant. The two of us strolled away, proud of a good day's work.

Kenenisa Bekele is the fastest dude I've ever seen run sub 18. He is not very fat. Maybe around 3-4%.

Well done...

Hey, CorpulentCruiser - didn't I see you standing at the finish line of that race of all the Best High School Runners Who Didn't Amount to Anything in College?

Regardless, you've composed the post of the year so far.

I bet if Henry Rono was Obese he could still run sub 18.

/thread

ghfsdh wrote:

I bet if Henry Rono was Obese he could still run sub 18.

I don't know if this -

- quite qualifies as obese, but it ain't exactly slim and he was still able to grind out 17:48.

I weighed about 170 when I broke 18 minutes....next I've seen that was fatter was Chris Solinsky...

Corpulent Cruiser: Post of the year. Very well done.

Ridiculously funny. Good think lunch has been down for an hour or so.

lulz

Corpulent Cruiser, I believe I know the athlete you are referring to. His name is Mike Williams. I am his coach.

The story of how we met is one of pure chance. You see, I was once like you: Looking to catch a glimpse of the veritable prized manatee. I would travel, as all of us in the business do, around the country via greyhound lurking at the end of as many local 5K’s as possible. I really went around the circuit: Florida, Tampa done. I must have scoured Texas, the Mecca of portly prancers, for 5 years and the closest I have ever come to seeing a specimen as impressible as Mike was a 21:43 201lb outside of Austin.

Times were desperate indeed, and my love of the sport was all that was keeping me going. Too many times, I would get on a bus at the end of a local turkey trot and just break down. I felt….. Betrayed. Betrayed by the powers that govern our sport. It is a well known fact that the wide to slim approach is much better at creating the prized lardy leaper than the other way around. That is to say it is better to train a fat person than bulk a runt. But what was actually being done revive our sport? Where were the treadmills in McDonalds? I wrote many letters and emails trying to find out, but to no avail. People just didn’t want to know, to them the plan was preposterous. Like me, they also wanted to see the world full of healthy 17:40 220lb runners battling for the line every weekend, but didn’t believe it could be done.

My lowest point came in march of last year. It was a prime Sunday in early season, and I should have been out with my own bloodhound, journal and high definition camera with telescoping lens at a race starting a few minutes from my hotel. I put on my anorak coat, and headed for the door but stopped. Shoulders sagging, I thought to myself ‘Why bother? I am just chasing a unicorn here. No one is out there for you.’ I fell to one knee shaking with rage, the injustice of the situation filling every pore and atom of my being. Madness struck and I reached for my pocket. In it was a bottle of cough syrup. The second of the day. I popped the cap with that satisfying click that has signalled so much pleasure and suffering before and just drank, savouring each thick swallow. I finished it easily and wanted more.

I went over to my suitcase and opened it to reveal my last two bottles. I knew that drinking both would finish me, and that it would become my last struggle to see them off. Luckily, I knew I had great mental strength, having run a marathon on track back in my college days and being lapped twice only to come back for the win. Swallow after swallow, I polished off the red nectar. Each sip tasted so good. In my haze I stumbled around the room knocking into my prized possessions with which it was decorated. My set of hand crafted IAAF certified scales: ruined by vomit. The picture of my son, a future champion I thought before he left as a consequence of my intense regime of speed eating challenges and all out kilometre time trials with 5minutes rest that I would use to predict his time, trampled and broken under my spasming feet. And then: darkness.

I awoke in a clean, bright room. There was only one other person there, lying in a bed adjacent to mine, and giving me an enquiring look.

‘What is your name?’ I rasp in the hoarse voice indicative of someone who has had their stomach pumped.

‘Mike, I’m here to has a gastric band fitted’

Although in a bleary state, my ears prick up. I surveyed the man. Fine, he was fat. No big deal.

‘You see, I have just been putting on a lot of weight recently since I had to stop running. I developed a loss of coordination in my leg on longer ru-‘

‘Shutup’ I gasp, ‘let me speak. How seriously have you run before?’

‘Oh in college, and off and on since. I was at about 14:00 at one point. Not elite but rest assured I wasn’t a hobbyjogger.’

I had heard enough. Quickly explaining who I was I convinced him to leave with me and begin training at once.

‘Let me just text my girlfriend, and let her know where I am’, he said dragging his beautiful 250lb pastry of bed, amid much wheezing and coughing.

‘Never!’ I scream. ‘Don’t you see, this is the life we have chosen. Your relationships with women are over. But you have me.’

Over the coming year we trained. Like most groups, our week revolved around the staple session of 3*beer mile with 2mins recovery. Mike was dropping time very rapidly, but also much to my dismay: weight. One evening in our training camp, I was dismayed to read 199 on the scales.

‘What have you been doing!!!’ I bellow, rage coursing through my vein, backed up by my bloodhounds ferocious howls.

‘I’ve been doing another training run before breakfast, I thought be happy.’

I insisted he have surgery. Not a gastric band, as he traditionally wanted, but a gastric stretch. Although frowned upon, this procedure is still legal according to the federation rules, so I had no choice but to use it. It worked a treat, and I would still say that this is the number one piece of advice for anyone wanting to create what I have done in Mike: a 1759 fatzo.

Friends, I come to you with a story I haven't told to anyone in quite some time. These memories represent the darkest three years of my life.

Much like a bulimic, my life became a consistent binge of highly saturated calories and miles, but it only resulted in a purging of my dignity and youth.

Years ago, I too aspired to be a champion with not only swift feet, but also with thundering thighs, rumbling gut, and a hearty, barreled-chest.

Like so many high schoolers, I always dreamed of being fast, but with no real knowledge of training, I settled into mediocrity running a PR of 4:30 for the mile. But as the time tested saying goes, 4:30 milers are a dime a dozen, especially back in the 70s.

I was so deeply in love with running, that I refused to part ways with and decided I would run while attending college. I was too weak, too frail, too thin to ever gain the interest of a girl so I slaved away to my mistress.

After 4 years I managed to receive a top 40 finish at NCAAs six-mile cross country championships with a 30:04. But alas, when I had returned home for a celebration with teammates and friends my accomplishments did. not. get. me. laid.

I looked to the throwers, who I had a secret, passionate, burning admiration for. These men, resembling Greek Gods, whisked women around while pounding beers left and right. Guts rotund with pizza and beers stains, hair flowing, they were the object of desire.

It was then and there that I realized my calling. If I too could pack on the 65 lbs necessary to break the 200lb barrier whilst remaining fleet of foot, I could captivate women, and the world.

The next three years of my life were a blur. I was training during the day and moonlighting at a local pizza bar across town. My nights were filled with beer, brauts and more pizza pie than a man should be able to handle.

I remember getting off of work at 2 AM and changing into my ever shrinking running shorts and timing myself as I scarfed down 2x15 inchers* with all of the fixings! (pizza diameter, my friends, not penii)

Immediately after that I was sprinting as hard as I could for 1:00 on 1:00 off for 20 minutes only to return for 3xpint + 20 mins moderate.

It was a hard balance, but eventually the weight added up. But as the weight increased as did my times...

One morning, after a 12 hour burger binge for Chippy's Brisket Burger House I awoke to find out that even post dump I weighed in at a hearty 212lbs. I had done it, I had broken the barrier.

Knowing that I was over the limit I began to test my racing prowess. Time after time I tried to break under the 17 minute barrier.

You see, I was a dreamer, and pacing myself to run a 17:59 was not going to cut it. I would often times go out at 5:20 pace heaving and foaming at the mouth in an attempt to shatter the notions that portly fellows such as myself could not run. I raced in the style of Pre and Lindgren. But always found myself dying and even just on the outside of the 18 minute range.

But all of that changed on Oct 14th 1979.

This was the day I was going for it. I had trimmed weight to a flighty 200.01 lbs. This was perfect, the weather was cool, the sun was out, and it was unusually calm for an October day in Chicago. Today was MY day. I hustled and bustled through the first mile in 5:16, things were going amazingly. The second mile was nearly as encouraging i split my watch at 10:41. I felt a strength I had tapped before. It WAS GOING TO HAPPEN. at 4k I checked my watch 13:23 !! 1k separated me from the ultimate happiness.

Then with nearly 400 to go, the unthinkable happened.

- Thud.. Thud.... Thud..... Thud my heart began to quiver my sight became blurred and the last thing I remember was the dream was over.

I suffered a massive heart attack that day. You may not believe it, but they said that I was pronounced dead for 12 minutes, but by miracle I am back.

Today I warn you as runners, as fatties, as foodies. Trust your coaches, and the Internation Fat Athletics Association and their guide lines. They are there to help you.

But above all else, cherish your health.

Peace and love Charles "Big Chuck" O'Donellson

One of my buddies in high school was 195 and ran 16:10 that year.

Also, one of my other buddies, who had run under 4 in college, ran a 15:43 track 5000 at about 185.

That is so boring, it must be true.

I ran 17:53 at 5'9", 183 lbs. in a large local 5k. I was blowing by skinny HS kids like they were standing still over the last 100m. I ran just over 4 mins for the mile in college.

You could make a career out of this.

With that same aerobic capacity, but weighing 45 pounds less, you'd be looking at about a 14:00 - 14:15 for 5K. What was your actual time in the mile? How much did you weigh?

I am a female, I weight 156 lbs at 5'8". I just ran 18:49 for 5k. Good or not?

I ran sub 17 in college when I weighed about 140.

Some of these responses are pretty encouraging. I wanted to see where I could get. I'm a guy who is 5'9" and about 200lb. Last fall I ran a 34 min 5k. Now this spring I ran under 30 min. I figure if I drop about 4 min about every 4 months, I should be able to run sub 18 in about a year. It wasn't too hard to drop that much in 4 months last time, so it seems pretty doable. Just wanted to see how many other heavy guys had gone that fast. Thanks for the replies!