Michael D. Davis

Last year was my first year with the paper. I didn’t have any schoolin’ on bein’ a reporter nor much trainin’. All of my learnin’ was boiled down into two things, helpful tips from my newspaper brethren and black and white movies where the reporter talks out of the side of his mouth and solves the dame’s murder.

Suffice it to say I made a few mistakes along the way. This is the story of one of my most ridiculous.

It was Saturday, March 18, 2023, winds were gusting at upwards of 30 miles an hour, and the wind chill was below zero. It was the first year for Tama’s Irish Stampede, a 5k run that started at The Eagles and ended at The Pump. I was there, but as you can guess, I wasn’t runnin’.

Everyone congregated inside at The Eagles before anything started. I met my fellow reporter at the time, Johnny the Kid, and his dad there.

The kid was warmin’ up outside, which to me sounded like an oxymoron, but I ain’t no runner, so what do I know? The kid’s dad had decided to walk it; he and I did our warmin’ up inside with some idle conversation, like smart people.

When it started to kick off, the runners all lined up while I stood across the street, takin’ some blurry pictures. They jumped, shook, rattled, then took off like a shot. I stayed for a moment takin’ a few useless pictures of their backsides as they headed down the street. When I was done, I turned around, and started towards The Pump.

I did not run. I did not speedwalk. But yet I did not dawdle either. I just walked at my own pace, which granted being a fat asthmatic is, by other people’s definition, slow. I will admit, on occasion, I have been passed by the odd crawling child or walker using hoary old blue hair, but nevertheless.

By the time I reached The Pump, I was frozen. My skin was starting to frost over because it had reached the temperature of a well digger’s derriere. But I was determined.

I stood to the side, trying to best shield myself from the wind, and waited for the first runner. However, after a minute or two, one of the men running the event kindly said I could step inside The Pump to warm up. Since I felt frostbite setting in amongst my weak will, I quickly went inside. I made sure to stay by the glass door, though, so I could see anyone coming.

It couldn’t have been but two minutes, I was inside sending a text when a man walked in out of breath. I swore.

He was the winner. The first one to finish the 5k. Instead of getting his picture crossing the finishing line, I was inside, warmin’ my buns. By the time I got outside, number two had crossed the finish line as well. Number two happened to be the kid. I floated the suggestion of them acting like their crossing the finishing line again so I could get a picture, but they just wanted to go sit down and rest — which, ya can’t blame them.

Infuriated by my incompetence to take a simple picture, I was then determined, no matter what, to stand out there so I could get a pic of the kid’s dad comin’ in. So, I stood out there, and I stood out there, and I stood out there. I searched my vest for gloves because my fingers were starting to hurt holding the camera in the cold.

Thankfully, I had a pair of gloves. Stupidly, they were a pair of bright pink nylon clown gloves with pom poms on each finger. Nevertheless, I wore them.

After, I don’t know how long, the kid came out from The Pump and said I should come in. I relented. Five minutes in The Pump, and the kid’s dad comes in the door, having just finished walking the 5k. Apparently, he’d stopped off at the Legion for a drink halfway through the race.

That night, when I told my Ma this story, she laughed so hard I thought she was gonna hurt herself. For weeks after, she’d bring it up. Sometimes giggling to herself, she’d simply mumble, “Photographed a race, and missed the winner!”

I’m comin’ prepared this year. Two cameras, a flash, a harness, a new inhaler, and a proper pair of gloves are just some of the things I’ve already got in place. I may never live down missin’ the winner last year, but I can make sure no one gets past me this year.

Granted, sayin’ all this makes me think I just jinxed myself, and that on Saturday, it’ll happen again. Yeah, that’d be my luck.