Plastic Plates and Race Buckles

I used to think that when I quit drinking for running, everything would change. It would look like growth. I’d become a better, stronger person… taking control of my life. And it would feel like progress.

One day I was looking at the finisher medals hanging on my wall, and I remembered another collection of finisher's medals I had chosen to forget. Three plastic, fake gold plates I had hidden in the garage after I quit drinking. I used to think they had nothing to do with each other. And when i realized they had more in common than I had thought, I was left wondering what to do with that.

I don’t think this is really about running. Or drinking. It’s something else.

To see photos of the plastic plates, my wall of finishers medals, and other photos visit my new web site: www.exploitsofanobody.com

Music and sound effects used in this episode:

acoustic guitar melody #011 by GuitarStringTheory -- https://freesound.org/s/735192/ -- License: Attribution 4.0

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wandering remix of excerpt of Tim Kahn's freesound #796235 by Timbre -- https://freesound.org/s/796818/ -- License: Attribution NonCommercial 4.0
sanxm by tim.kahn -- https://freesound.org/s/796235/ -- License: Attribution 4.0

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Silent Hill inspired out of tune guitar by Destructo20 -- https://freesound.org/s/718498/ -- License: Creative Commons 0

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Heartbeats 61.wav by patobottos -- https://freesound.org/s/369017/ -- License: Creative Commons 0

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crowded bar chatter by leaving.february -- https://freesound.org/s/706352/ -- License: Creative Commons 0

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cinematic remix of audiomirage's freesound 547966.wav by Timbre -- https://freesound.org/s/548257/ -- License: Attribution NonCommercial 4.0

The-Sluth-714 by audiomirage -- https://freesound.org/s/547966/ -- License: Attribution NonCommercial 4.0

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Vintage Microwave Timer Bell Ring - 26 November ‎2011, ‏‎11:39:00 P.M. by crz1990 -- https://freesound.org/s/135873/ -- License: Attribution 4.0

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Midwestern style riff by Destructo20 -- https://freesound.org/s/647385/ -- License: Creative Commons 0

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Pinkish remix of ChristmasKrumble666's freesound 825397 by Timbre -- https://freesound.org/s/826863/ -- License: Attribution NonCommercial 4.0

TC Birthday Song.wav by ChristmasKrumble666 -- https://freesound.org/s/825397/ -- License: Creative Commons 0 

Visit us at www.exploitsofanobody.com for photos, and episode deep dives.
Follow me here: https://www.instagram.com/exploits_of_a_nobody/
and https://www.instgram.com/shutter_se7en

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Hey everyone, welcome to Exploits of a Nobody. Here, I tell stories pulled from my journal entries about running, addiction, sobriety, fatherhood, and the stuff I internalize and struggle with. The thoughts I don't say out loud, the ones that come from shame, obsession, and control. The kind that make me question what's actually going on in my fucking head sometimes. It's what I call rough draft radio. Now, I'm not here to teach anything and I don't have any answers. Because honestly, I'm still trying to figure this shit out as I go. And everyone, that I'm here to say the quiet parts out loud while I'm still in the middle of them. This is Exploits of a Nobody, an experiment in rough draft radio. And everyone, just a note for this episode, my voice may sound a little rough and weak and even sick. And that's because I I recently had a double hernia repair surgery, and I think I got sick while in recovery. So I've just I've been kind of battling with multiple things recently, but I really wanted to get this episode out. March 18th marks seven years of sobriety for me. I used to celebrate thinking I knew exactly what that meant. But I'm not sure anymore. I'd hear stories of others constantly struggling with relapse and addiction. They seem to be perpetually trapped in addiction's bear hug. Yeah, I had my share of struggles and relapses early on, too. But once I quit, I dropped the label of alcoholic as fast as I could and moved on. Once an addict, always an addict? Wrong. Not me. I'm fucking different. But was I? I'm experiencing a little imposter syndrome as I write this. Once I quit drinking, it felt as if the urge to drink shut off instantly. But why was it so easy for me? My wife used to say she didn't think I had as much of a drinking problem as I was making it out to be. Was she right? Was I truly an addict? One time, during a conversation about running, someone commented. Sounds like you replaced one addiction for another. Running in pain replaced your drinking habit. And I pushed back. Oh no, that's that's not it at all. I gave up addiction for a healthy habit, running. I knew exactly what he was saying, but I couldn't allow myself to admit that he was right. By doing so, I'd have to face the fact that I had never recovered. I had never changed. I was still the one thing I had tried so hard to separate myself from. The truth is I was rationalizing, protecting the story and the identity I had created, the one I so desperately needed to feel at that time. I wanted to claim I had beaten addiction and had healed so badly that I lost sight of what addiction really was. A whisper in my head always had me looking over my shoulder. Something's coming for you. If you don't change, it's going to catch you. You'd think that would be enough to make me quit. But no. I needed something else entirely. And that was trail running. In order to quit drinking, I dedicated all my time and effort into training for a hundred-mile race. The dream of finishing this race would guide me through sobriety. I owned that story. Dude, you need this. There was no can I finish this race? Only I will. It's all I have. My sobriety, my everything is hanging on this race. And with that, everything alcohol had once provided, running now, replaced with something better and healthier. I never questioned it. Not once. It wasn't until years later that something I had totally forgotten about resurfaced, challenging me to see things differently. One afternoon, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, looking at the wall of bibs, medals, and buckles I had earned over the past 17 years. From my first half marathon in 2009 to my most recent 100k in 2026, bike rides, road runs, trail races, each was a shell holding a story, reminding me of my journey and what I had accomplished. My mind wandered off, distracted. Wait a minute, do I still have them? I went out to the garage and I started rummaging through boxes of junk. I know I wouldn't have thrown them away. Standing there, I found three plastic gold plates that were hidden under some junk on a shelf. They were cheap plastic plates painted to look like antique gold varnish. Each plate had a colored label stuck to the center of the plate with information that no longer meant anything to me, and a beer-related quote. I had spent many hours trying to write in hopes anyone at the bar would read it and nod in approval. Each plate represented a challenge completed, a set of finishers' medals that I had deliberately chosen to hide. I thought back to when I earned my first plate for drinking 200 different beers. I was so fucking proud. I was given a plate reveal party at the pub. I brought my family and invited the few people I knew. My plate was revealed in an awkward place on the ceiling, only viewable from an obscure second floor table. Not exactly in the public eye like I was hoping for. But there it was, my gold finisher's plate on the wall, with a black label stating it was my first, my name, club ID number, date, and a Homer Simpson quote. No, sweetie, you don't want to drink beer. That's for daddies and kids with fake IDs. It was dated June 9th, 2016. What are you going to do now? My wife asked. Are you done or are you going to keep going? I casually gave her an answer I knew she wanted to hear. Eh, I got my plate. I don't need another, I'm done. But I knew myself better than that. I had other plans. Get as many fucking plates on the wall as quickly as possible. I I knew I knew I wasn't going to leave it at one. No fucking way. Why stop now? The brew pub chain in Houston had become my second home. It had also become the place that kept me in debt, patted my waistline, numbed and spiked my depression, while giving me something I could call progress. The drinking club was simple. Every day, scan my club card, check my progress on the screen, choose a few beers from a catalog of beers I hadn't drunk yet, print slips of paper with a beer barcode, the server scans the code, serves the beer, I drink, eat, and repeat. After my buddy introduced me to the club, whether he knew it or not, it became a race, and he was my competition. And once I passed him, my only competition was with myself. This had quickly turned into a new identity, and I wasn't just drinking anymore. I was winning at my own race. This gave me structure, direction, and identity. I was so deeply driven by the thought of having my plate on that fucking wall. The party, applause, and confirmation that I had done what I said I would do. And each day I got three beers closer to reaching my goal of 200 beers. This was fucking addiction disguised as ritual. And I loved the ritual, and I loved the challenge. Once I hit 200, the counter was reset, and the challenge for the next plate began. I ate lunch there every day. Thirty-five to forty dollars per day. And that included food, beer, tip, and parking. Sometimes sitting at the bar, I wondered just how much each plate was actually costing me. Then I'd stop because knowing that number would make me question my priorities, and I couldn't have that. That threatened the goal. And sometimes, sometimes I'd drink a fourth beer. But I'd feel guilty because I was wasting money on extra beers that didn't count toward the plate. I'd have to ask myself why I wanted the extra beer if it didn't move the needle. Sometimes I'd have to let it go. Other times I'd say fuck it and indulge, thinking of ways to somehow buck the system and make the extra beer count. I was so invested in the challenge that any time I felt like going out to eat, I went out of my way to go to the beer club. Because, well, drinking beer anywhere else felt like a waste because it didn't advance the fucking goal. I went there every day. I got to know the bartenders and servers, and I began noticing the other regulars like myself. There was an obese man who always sat at the long end of the mahogany bar from me. I'd also see him occasionally at brewery cycling rides. I learned he was one of the originals to the plate challenge, and he was now working on his umpteenth plate, and I was so jealous, but it also gave me something to aspire to. But one day, I sat at the bar and I saw him sitting there alone. He looked tired and lonely. I was actually feeling the way he looked. Fuck man. That's me if I don't quit. Just keep exercising. Remember, ride to drink and drink to ride. You'll be fine. I had been gaining weight since starting these challenges and beginning to feel like shit. That'll never be me. I ride a bike. As if that was a shield protecting me. Well, but the doctor told me my cholesterol's high, my blood pressure's on the rise. Dude, you're overthinking it. And then there was the money. We were already struggling financially. But I had to find creative ways to keep my relentless forward progress towards the next plate. Every day I would carry a debit card and multiple credit cards to ensure that my ritual was maintained. Some days I'd get all the way downtown, and when I tried to pay to park, all my cards would decline. Fuck! I drove all the way here for fucking nothing. Now what do I do? I'd walk around for a bit making photos, or sometimes I'd just go back to work, and sometimes I'd say fuck it and just go home. Other times, I'd get to the pub, perform my ritual, and pray the transaction would clear. Sometimes it would. And sometimes I'd have to spread the tab around multiple cards. I felt so fucking desperate, as if I was an addict looking for change between couch cushions. I had sat at the bar many times wondering what would happen if I couldn't pay. Could I could I ask for an IOU? Would I have to wash dishes? There was no way in hell I would ever call my wife and ask her to help me pay for this over the phone. I would not let myself drop to that fucking level. And then one day, it didn't work. I was at the bar alone like normal, working on my second or third plate. I forget which now. I handed the card to the server like I always had. Please let it go through. Please let it go through. Please, please let it go through. She brought it back. Um, it declined. Can you can you try again? I I literally just deposited in a check. But I knew the truth. Um it it declined again. Um okay, okay, let's try another. I was getting nervous. I had stopped checking balances on my credit cards a long time ago. Sir, this one declined too. Wow. Um, that's strange. Here's another. She looked at me as if this happens all the time. That one declined too. Hey, we have an ATM right over there if you need it. My heart began racing. What the fuck do I do now? Hold on. Let me check on my phone. Something's not right. I told her this to buy some time to think. But I already knew the truth. I rummaged through all my credit card accounts online, anyways. Overdrawn. Overdrawn. Late fee. I sat there with my finger hovering over the button and called my wife. I really don't want to do this.

unknown 16:11

Fuck.

SPEAKER_00 16:12

I need to. Yeah? So fucking what? You made this shitty situation happen. Now you need to fucking fix it. Be a man. Fuck. I won't be able to show my face here for a while. The seconds felt like hours. I felt like everyone was watching me. I couldn't delay it any longer. I had to call my wife from the bar. I got the server's attention. Um, hey, excuse me, if if I call my wife, can she pay the tab over the phone? Sir, I have to make sure that's okay with the manager. I watched her walk away. I saw the manager look over at me from across the room. I recognized him from my first plate ceremony and other passing chats at the bar. He gave a nod to her. She came back and said it was okay. I called my wife. Hey, everything okay?

unknown 17:21

Yeah.

SPEAKER_00 17:22

Um, yeah, everything's okay. Um, oh, okay. How's your day? How's your day going? I'm at work. Where are you? Sounds kinda busy. I'm over at the pub. The plate place. I thought you were just there yesterday. Yeah, I was, but a buddy asked me to go to lunch today. Your drinking buddy from work? Yeah. I thought I'd be sociable. I sat there, my heart racing. I feared the words I had to say. I had been so good at taking care of myself. I never had to ask my wife for fucking anything. Um, hey. Um, my debit card declined. I can't pay for my lunch. And I don't have any other cards. Do you have a credit card?

unknown 18:31

Oh shit. Please.

SPEAKER_00 18:34

Please have a card. Please have a credit card. Yeah. Luckily, I do this time. Oh. Can you give the server the card over the phone so I can clear the tab? Yeah, okay. But you're lucky I had a credit card with me today. What would you have done if I didn't? I have no idea, but can we talk about it later? I handed the phone to the server. She cleared the tab and handed the phone back to me. Hey, thanks. You're welcome. I'll see you later. We hung up. I can't believe I just did that. I walked out of the pub heavy with fucking shame. I will never let that fucking happen again. And you think that would have stopped me? It didn't. I'd end up making that call again. I was so obsessed with earning plates. Any opportunity I could use to add to the plate count, I would take it. On days I had off where my wife was working, I would take my daughter to the pub. I'd tell her how good the chicken strips and fries were, and the ritual would continue. Now, with a new addition, my daughter standing with me at the computer as I printed beer chits. We'd sit down at a table, the servers would recognize me, and they would come to the table and chat with me and the kiddo. She began to learn the pub by name. She also began to learn that if she mentioned the pub, whether I felt like going out to eat or not, she knew that me hearing her say it, I would take her. But hey, at least I'm not hurting anyone. I'm spending time with my kiddo. Now I had a reason to go that I could easily justify with my wife. What did you guys do today? We took a drive and went out to eat. Where'd you go? Let me guess. The plate, please. Yep. The kiddo asked for it. I felt both scared and curious as I stood there in the garage holding the plates in my hand. Fuck man. After all these years, I thought I had changed. Dude, you never stopped being an addict. But I left that ship me. Don't you get it yet? You never will. But I thought I had healed.

unknown 22:00

Fuck.

SPEAKER_00 22:02

What if the pattern never changed? But the ritual did. Well, you have said that you feel like you have an addictive personality. But but not like this though. Wait, should we hang these on the wall with the other metals in the bedroom? Fuck. No, I don't wanna be, I don't want to ever be reminded of this shit. I returned the plates to the box. I walked back into the house to my room, and it felt as if something was following me. I sat down on my bed looking at the wall of metals and bibs again. Why, why'd it take me this long to see it? All the bibs, the metals, the plates, they're all the same fucking thing, just wearing a different mask. Fuck, man. I traded beers for races and plastic plates for metals. Nothing's fucking changed. Races became my new plates. I signed up for as many races as I could schedule and afford. And for a while, I was signing up to run trail races weekly. Because, well, because that's what runners do. The Strava app replaced a club card I scanned every day to log beers and confirm mileage. A training plan replaced the beer list, and daily runs replaced the three beers. Training runs so I could finish this hundred-mile race not only brought sobriety, but it had also become a fucking obsession. I looked at the three golden Leadville lottery tokens on my shelf. It hadn't just been another mountain race. Dude, the universe gave you three tries and you wasted all of them. You put so much pressure on yourself and made it more than it ever needed to be. Yeah, it was my salvation. I needed it to become sober. No, you didn't need a fucking race to get sober. You just made it like that. Leadville became the purpose, the proving ground, the thing big enough to suck all the air out of the room, leaving nothing for the alcoholism. I had made it the container holding my identity. If I finished, it meant I had changed. If I finished, it meant quitting drinking was worth it. And if I finished, it meant I had become the man I said I was becoming. I had prioritized running over everything else in my fucking life. If it didn't coordinate well with my running schedule, then it would be postponed, modified, or canceled. And as far as I was concerned, if I wasn't running, I was risking my goal and failing. And just like drinking, I began looking for any excuse to justify and protect it. It's my religion. It's important for my mental health. Running keeps me productive. I don't know what I'd do without it. I had an excuse ready for anything that challenged my running. I kept telling myself, stay focused. This is what you need to do. You don't have a choice. You're going to finish this race. Everyone understands and supports you. Running every day is so much better than drinking every day. How everything revolved around my running and how it just felt like everyone adjusted to me and my needs. We get into arguments about our kids. Depressed, I would complain that the kids never want to do anything with me. Yeah? Because you're never home. You're always out running. But I I try to get them to run or ride their bikes with me. But they're not interested in doing those things. Have you ever tried asking them what they want to do? But I usually don't have the time because I'm always running. So I try to incorporate them into what I'm doing. But Andre, I'm always taking them out on the weekends to do things while you're out running. And when you do get home, you take a nap or are too tired to do anything. So they talk to me. I know what's going on with them. That's why they always come to me first. Hearing this fucking killed me. I was reminded of my dad. He always sat in his little studio on the weekends and built airplane models. That was his thing. That's how he coped with the shit in his life. He would give me and my brother models to build. Just like I use drinking and running. What kind of dad am I? Dude, don't be hard on yourself. You're protecting yourself and staying healthy, man. And you can't help your family if you're not healthy. But my kids don't know me besides dad's always gone running. You're just like your fucking dad. Don't you see it, dude? Well, I guess they do come to my races. But and then you get upset when they don't cheer or appear to be excited about being there and seeing you. But I thought I was giving them an example of their dad doing something hard to make himself better. But don't you see? It's still all about you. You're making everyone bend to you and your wants and your needs.

unknown 29:06

Oh fuck.

SPEAKER_00 29:13

Looking back now, I see something I couldn't see then. I thought I was transforming. I feel like I needed the illusion that finishing Leadville would prove something about my sobriety. It's like I needed the buckle to prove something, a container holding the proof like some religious artifact. And when I didn't finish the first time, I was so desperate for meaning and resolution that I kept going back, trying to finish so I could become the identity I had built for myself. I remember my wife asking me a question that sounded oddly familiar. So what are you going to do when you finish Leadville? You gonna keep running? At the time I didn't have an answer. Because the truth was, the system already knew. And now I can't stop thinking about it. After all these fucking years, the drinking plates, the bibs, the finisher metals. I wonder if it was ever really about running, or Leadville, or sobriety. Did the pattern ever change or had it just evolved? I can still feel that system lingering. It never really goes away. It just changes shape. And sometimes it makes me look over my shoulder. And that's it for this episode, everyone. Thanks for listening. If this episode meant something to you, or you know someone who really should hear this, please like, share, and comment wherever you get your podcasts. Because someone out there is waiting to hear this and they won't find it unless we share. And you'll find photos of the drinking plates and my trophy wall mentioned in this episode at our new website, www.exploits of a nobody dot com. You'll also find past episodes and other photos there. So until next time, happy trails.