It is now a week since we’ve tested the limits of our bodies at the epitomizing Northwest Athletic Association of Community Colleges Cross-Country Championships. Our bodies are still recovering from the torment and wear from the closing season. But, as in tradition, we have made the decision to sacrifice, to test our body’s limits once again in the ultimate test of mental might; The Fifth Annual Root Beer Mile.

It is a tradition at many cross-country programs to celebrate the completion of a season with a run of some degree involving a carbonated beverage. It is in great ritual that a beer mile is performed, but in the interest of the legality of such an affair we elected to use root beer, as is customary in the Clackamas Community College Cross-Country program. The root beer is appropriate in that root beer’s origins identify root beer as “small beers” (Bellis), which could have included or could have been exempt of alcohol. Root beer, originating in “colonial times in America” (Bellis) included many various ingredients, which yield many variations rendering the fact there is “no one recipe” (Bellis). Pharmacist Charles Hires of Philadelphia is said to have “discovered a recipe for a delicious herbal tea” (Bellis) that contained many “herbs, berries and roots” (Bellis) that was then integrated with carbonated soda as flavoring. This version of root beer was introduced “at the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition” (Bellis) to the public and achieved great success and “continued to manufacture root beer” (Bellis) until the selling of the company in 1893. What better way to again exhibit root beer in an exhibition of running paralleling the history and exposition of root beer as it was originally revealed over a century ago.

Like the many participants before us who have contributed to this history, the event looms in the back of our minds. There is no preparation to alleviate the definite pain that will befall our bodies as we consume four cans of store-brand root beer in a humbling four laps of death. Many of us dread the consumption of the carbonated beverage; for many of us it is not a drink we consume regularly, nor is any type of carbonated beverage. We are reminded continually of the date and time leading up to the race by Coach McHone, who is far more excited towards the impending struggle of stomach and stride than we could ever be. Today is the day. We’ve all had our respective lunches and jog to the track with anticipation for the imminent contest.

For distance runners like myself a mile does not bear gravity as an unattainable distance and is rather menial in the whole scheme of running. The mile came about when the “Romans measured their pace steps, of about 2.5 feet, 1000 double paces formed a mile” (Niemi) but I do not believe they raced it with root beer. As does our root beer mile, the mile run has records to accompany its history. The first mile record to be documented occurred in 1865 by Richard Webster of England in a time of four minutes and thirty-six and five tenths of a second. Currently the full mile record, sixteen hundred nine meters, is by Hicham El Guerrouj of Morocco in 1999 in a time of three minutes forty-three and thirteen thousandths of a second ("History of the Record"). By no means comparable but extremely swift is that of the record which is held at Clackamas Community College for the Root Beer Mile, which is a few seconds over the five-minute barrier.

The day is brisk in that the air’s ambiance is crisp and biting as you breath in each stride. We are all adorned in our customary running attire. The group begins to congregate at the start line, encircling the rows of glistening cans that are emitting mists of their contents as Coach McHone punctures their underside in preparation for a swift intake of the root beer. In the excitement of the moment we ignore our aches and pains and that bologna sandwich we had just a quarter hour ago. Our worn bodies are weathered from season and our humbled carriages are harassed by the cold as we stand awaiting the commencement.

With can in hand, we begin with a single command; “Go!” and we are off, frantically chugging away the root beer. The root beer feels insurmountably heavy as I struggle to consume the fizz at such a demanding rate. Finally, the last gulp is in my mouth and I can dash to catch up to the rest of the group who have developed a sizeable lead over several other runners and myself. Within my first steps I immediately feel an unsolicited pressure in my chest and every step is a significant stir to my body and its unwelcome contents. I spit out the remaining root beer from my mouth as I enter the first straight a way. As I look forward two hundred meters I see my teammate discharging a great amount of food. It is difficult to watch as I am attempting to remain mindful of the foreign fluid within my own stomach. His disgorging continues as he makes his way off the corner entering the stretch towards the start where another can awaits him. I now pass over the expelled food, that appears to be top-ramen, but I don ’t want to find out so I swing out into lane two to avoid slipping or the potential splash back.

The pace became very difficult as I could feel the immense pressure from each can of root beer in my stomach. Every step was a great labor as I endured the next three laps. The only assuage to my impediment was the occasional liberation of gasses in the form of a significant burp. In all my experience I have never produced such a burp to the enormity that was occurring in this run. My only motive now, with two laps to go, would be to finish. That final stretch of each lap meant the certainty of another can of root beer drawing nearer. The pressure again began to intensify slowing my pace and rendering my body useless. It was only in burping that I found relief and could trudge onward to the final lap.

With the final lap at hand and the fourth and final can of root beer to be consumed I welcomed the frosty cylindrical container for it indicated the nearing of the end. As I managed the laborious final can I watched as the leaders began to traverse the line of discarded root beer containers. They finished with such grace as their root beer drenched bodies glistened under the autumn sun. But I was merely a footnote to this event for I had four hundred meters left to slog and I was clearly in last position for men’s side. One final burp on the backstretch and I was home free. I was able to open my stride and success the finish line in an unrespectable nine and a quarter minutes. Incredibly relieved both in respects to cardiovascular condition and mental fortitude. I was thankful to have finished but as I surveyed the adjacent area of field to the track, I witnessed my friends hunched over heaving from their depths, probing the inmost cavity of mouth to regurgitate what appeared to be a bologna sandwich that extended the distance from his visage to the frost laid grass of the playing field. The only consolation to my condition was in that I had not eaten prior to this event and I had no content to procure from within.