Race report: A rifle-toting turkey at the Gobble Wobble

Lots of thoughts flit through my head while I’m standing at a starting line. Did I train enough? How bad is this race going to hurt? Am I really the only runner dressed in a cycling kit? But never before have I found myself wondering: Is that guy in the turkey suit going to blow the head off of that 4-year-old girl with that shotgun?

The dude with the rifle was the same gray-haired guy who starts the Gobble Wobble race every year on Thanksgiving Day at Lake Quivira, a gated golf course community built around a lake outside of Kansas City. Usually, he stands around chatting with friends until he realizes it’s a few minutes past 9 a.m. and time to get the runners going. Without bothering to call everyone to the starting line or going through the usual “On your marks…” routine, he just thrusts the rifle in the air and fires it. Bang! Jeez, this is America after all. There’s no reason to warn folks you’re about to discharge a firearm.

This year, I kept an eye on the guy because I didn’t want him to scare the bejeezus out of me again. The first time he tried to shoot, the rifle just went, “click.” He pointed it toward the ground as he checked the trigger and safety. He swung the barrel from side to side until it was pointed at the head of the little girl who was standing in front of him, with her hands over her ears as she gleefully waited for the gun to go off. Growing frustrated, the man popped out a shell and loaded another, but that one didn’t work either. Finally, he just turned to the crowd of runners and yelled, “Gooooo!!!!” We took off running and as soon as we got about 20 meters down the road, I heard a “Bang!” I jumped a bit and thought, “Damn, he got me again.”

What a wonderful new custom, the Thanksgiving Day races held across the country. I love the opportunity to do something physically challenging before I spend the rest of the day stuffing myself with classic American comfort food: sweet potato dishes with a crispy top layer of gooey mini marshmellows, the tangy sweet flavor of jellied cranberries from a can, stuffing that meets my monthly sodium quota, Bavarian sauerkraut made by my brother’s mother-in-law, and, oh yes, plenty of turkey meat. When the weather is cold (not this year, though), I finish the race with a phlegmy, hacking cough from breathing in the frigid air during the race. The cough usually stays with me throughout the day, a hardcore fitness badge of honor.

The Gobble Wobble at Lake Quivira is more of a fun run than a race. There’s no registration or clock or results or mile markers. I’m not even sure what the distance is. Between 4.5 and 5 miles, or thereabouts? I love the course, though. The first half mile takes you over the damn, an exposed stretch where the wind usually tries to pull you apart. The next couple miles go past lakeside McMansions and in and out of coves. The last half of the course is a roller coaster.

The event is popular with my high school cross country team, the fighting cougars of Shawnee Mission Northwest, a perennial powerhouse in the state of Kansas. This year, the boys placed second at the state meet and the girls won first. At the Gobble Wobble, my initial goal was to hang with a group of four of those state champion women racers. Their graceful, effortless shuffling stride made me recall how I used to run with such ease when I was a high schooler logging insane mileage. It didn’t take long for the girls to pull away from me, though, so I went back to my original goal: beat anyone who seemed to be the same age as I am. I was generally successful until the last two miles when two guys cruised by me. My excuse: It has been too long since I ran the course, and I was holding back for any surprises. The reality: I just wasn’t pushing myself hard enough.