30,000 Miles Later

“What do you think about when you go out and run for three hours?”

What distance runner hasn’t been asked this question by non-runners? I don’t know about anyone else, but I don’t have a clue what I think about during a long run. Mostly, it’s a lot of fleeting stream-of-consciousness mumbo-jumbo mixed in with some tedious math equations involving dividing miles by minutes. Sometimes there’s the intermittent mental diatribe about speeding cars, 5-across-walkers, fat crabby cyclists, or leashless dogs, but mostly it’s blah blah blah blah. Near the end of a 20-miler, however, it’s blah blah blah beer blah blah beer blah.

The final miles of an actual marathon, however, are a different story. When I ran my first marathon in ‘92, I found that I had to have something focused and simple to wedge into my brain from miles 24-26.2. Otherwise, lots of extraneous instructions and announcements bounced randomly around in my head.  (Examples: “Stop. Now.” or “Don’t hurl. Everyone’s watching.” or “This proves nothing and you look like death on wheels.” or “Your body has now transitioned to eating its own muscle.”) So, from ‘92 to ‘97 I tried to focus on a mantra, a song, or even a visual to get me through the final 25-30 minutes.

Then everything changed in 1997.

My dad was diagnosed with leukemia a week before Father’s Day. It was a terrifying, heartbreaking, and surreal time, of course, for the whole family. But, as everyone knows who’s been through something like this, the worst thing you can do is do nothing at all. So, one of the things I did was to raise money through Team in Training while training for and running marathons for a patient—my dad. Over the course of the year, I raised $10,000 (thanks to generous people, not my stellar fundraising skills), and signed up for both the Disney and Inaugural San Diego Rock-n-Roll marathons. Four weeks before Disney, I gallantly tripped over my own foot, so that marathon was out.

Next, I set my sights on San Diego in June of ‘98. During this whole time, I had watched my dad struggle through chemo, transfusions, bone marrow transplants, endless drugs and visits to specialists. He rarely complained. He lost his hair, his eyebrows, and even his whiskers. He felt like throwing up about 50% of the time. He knew his chances of surviving for more than a couple years were really slim. Still, he pushed forward with everything he had, never even hinting at giving up. He continued to make plans and notes for his classes (an English professor) and cut back only slightly on his endearingly horrible puns and jokes. There was honestly never anything in his demeanor that suggested that he didn’t believe he could overcome this obstacle, this struggle.

Eight weeks before San Diego, though, my dad died. In the haze and sadness that followed, I completely lost track of when the marathon was, though I kept running. Only a week before leaving for San Diego, I realized that this marathon would be held on Father’s Day.

Most of that marathon was a blur. I remember that it was way too sunny (everyone had insisted there would be fog. Not.) and that a man in a red dress handed me a beer at mile 16 and that even though the beer was totally flat, it was oddly refreshing. (Trying to think of when a beer hasn’t been refreshing. Not coming up with any specific memory.) I also recalled overhearing an inane conversation between two men who were debating whether or not running makes your feet bigger. One man insisted that running spreads your feet out about an eighth of an inch a year. I clearly recollect calculating that my feet, then, should have grown nearly three inches since I started running and will be roughly 22 inches long if I run until I’m 65.

However, as I entered the final miles, I thought of my dad. At mile 24, when my legs were logs and I was feeling that pre-wall queasiness, I considered my dad’s struggle. Mine, obviously, was nearly nothing in comparison. I was not in the best of shape for this marathon, and when mile 25 descended upon me, I wanted to stop and walk more than any other time in any other race. Then I thought of the walk my dad took with me a few months before he died and how he walked up the hill by the Congaree River and didn’t complain even though I know it was hard, very hard, for him. I kept on through mile 25. And when I could see the finish, I had the distinct feeling that my dad had been with me for the final miles.

As any runner knows, it’s very hard to run and cry. Still, I have continued to think of my father during miles 24-26.2 of every marathon I’ve run in the past decade as a way to carry me to the end. And I’ve been crying in every freaking finish line photo since 1998. It doesn’t make for a pretty picture, but it always makes for a memorable finish.

The field in Golden Gate Park where I felt superior 22 years ago.

I have a very clear memory of a 10k race back in about 1986. It was held in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, and the finish area was in a lovely grassy field. I was hanging out with a few friends, all of us in our mid-twenties, as we waited around for the awards. I had won something in my age group (even as a sub-40-minute 10k runner back then, I was rarely fast enough to place overall), so I was feeling pretty good and probably just a tad superior to all the peons around me.

As the top awards were handed out, I watched the 40-something Masters winners walk up to get their awards, and I remember thinking what a bummer it must be to be that age. At that age, all their best times are behind them and they’ll never get them back. At that age, they must feel a little sheepish about winning an “overall” award since, after all, they’re not as fast as a lot of people in the race (i.e. “me”). I thought of the Masters division as a sort of an obligatory polite nod of recognition for old people who still exercise. Because, obviously, they couldn’t really compete anymore what with being over 40 and all. Basically, I felt kind of sorry for all those doddering old fartleks since racing could no longer be exciting for them.

Isn’t it fascinating how time changes your point of view (particularly when it’s to your advantage to have your POV changed)? Twenty-two years later, I am That Age. And I couldn’t disagree more with myself.

It’s true that, short of imaginary bionic surgery, I’ll never beat my old times. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard people say that I can run my times of my 20s if I train a billion times harder, take a wheelbarrow full of supplements every day, cut my hair, and wear a running skirt. But let’s be realistic. Running is still a hobby for me—sometimes an obsessive hobby, but nonetheless, a hobby (say “hobby” 50 times. It’s a weird word). I don’t want to become what one of my younger friends refers to as An Old Running Freak. You know the type; he or she most closely resembles a piece of old shoe leather with string arms and legs flapping around. Nothing important exists outside of running. Nearly 89% of all conversation with them begins with the phrase, “I remember the time I ran…” They use Ben Gay as a moisturizer and wear running shoes to weddings. They’ll randomly bark out phrases like “Yasso’s 800s!” in the midst of polite dinner conversations about window treatments.

Anyway, I’m really getting away from the original pleasant and thoughtful tone that I had intended for this blog.

My point is that, at 47, running and racing may have changed in terms of time elapsed from point A to point B, but it hasn’t changed at all in terms of the experience. I feel the exact same fear, excitement, dread, and lightheadedness 30 seconds before the gun goes off in a race that I did back when I pitied those poor all-the-excitement-is-gone Masters runners. I play the same mind games at mile 22 of a marathon and feel the same intense anger at the entire *&%$#* universe at mile 2.5 of a 5k. It’s true that I can’t run as fast as I once could, but when I run as fast as I can now, the feeling is still the same. The joy at the finish line is identical. Recapture youth? Thanks to running, there is a part of my life that makes me feel as though I’ve never lost it.

And then there’s this too: For the past decade or so, I’ve looked at older runners and often thought, “Damn! I can’t believe he/she is 50 (or 60 or 70…).” Regardless of all the warnings about running causing knees to explode, boobs to sag, and faces to hang slackly, it actually makes you look younger as you get older . As a result, I’m honestly looking forward to turning 50 in a few years. (Is it too Old Running Freak of me to look forward to it, too, because it puts me in a new age group?)

All in all, it’s much cooler to be this age than I thought it would be when, all those years ago in Golden Gate Park, I was that age.

Look! No fuel belt!

Recently, the following was posted by a virtual friend (he’s not “virtually” a friend; he’s an online friend. In other words, we’ve never met. But he’s not an imaginary friend, even though I don’t know who he is in real life. Crap.).  Anyway, he was responding to #4 of my 7/1 blog, and he brought up a point I’d never considered, but have always experienced: feeling safer when running.

Like a lot of the things people  yammer on about, it had never even occurred to me that I should be afraid or carry weapons while running. Honestly. I’ve run probably 25,000+ miles in my life in all sorts of places. I’ve run in all the sketchy neighborhoods of Boston. I’ve run in all kinds of cities where I had no idea where I was going and got lost in the hoods of Los Angeles, Oakland, Chicago, Miami, Dallas, Houston, Philadelphia, Tucson, Washington, New York and many others. I’ve high fived gang bangers and traded playful cat calls with hookers doing the walk of shame at 6 in the morning in Atlanta. I’ve run on main streets and back roads. I’ve run on roads, sidewalks, trails, fields, highways, frozen lakes, bridges, tunnels, aqueducts, dry river beds, golf courses, industrial parks, college campuses, zoos, hospitals, military bases, beaches and everything else.

I’ve never once felt threatened on a run unless you include the mostly-harmless random high school kids yelling out the windows of their moms’ cars to try and impress their dumb little buddies in the back seat. I HAVE felt threatened while walking around certain places in street clothes or with my laptop bag over my shoulder. But on the run? Never. Even driving slowly through some sketchy parts of town can get a bit unnerving. But not running

But also–and maybe I have too much faith in my fellow man–I always get a calming sense of running being the great equalizer. Somehow when I run I’m not looked at as “whitey trying to keep the poor man down from the safety and comfort of his fancy car” or anything else. I’m out amongst the people, unprotected, unpretentious. I’ve sometimes felt an almost strange level of mutual respect from the most random people when out running. I’ve had crackheads look me in the eye and nod approval. I’ve had rednecks hoot encouragement from the front porch. I’ve never once felt the slightest bit of animosity. Maybe it’s just me and I’m the naive one, or maybe running puts me in my happy place but for some reason I feel safer when running than doing just about anything else.

So true. In all my years, I cannot recall a single time I’ve felt honestly threatened when on a run. I’ve been yelled at, honked at, had water balloons and beer cans thrown at me, been flashed twice by guys with really tiny weenies (one guy was actually wearing a trenchcoat!), been chased by drop-kick dogs, had snippety verbal exchanges with fatass cyclists in their Flags ‘o The World spandex costumes, and been forced into a roadside ditch due to the moronic stubborn refusal of the 5-across Desperate Housewives On A Walk to make any room for a runner coming in their direction.

Annoyed, amused, or wishing I had a small hatchet? Yes. Threatened? No.

I can think of one time that I felt only the slightest twinge of threat. I was running alone on the trails in the park nearby (the terror!), and I heard a runner coming up behind me. As always, I slowed down a bit and moved to the side so that he/she could pass me. But this guy slowed down and stayed right behind me for a minute or so. I glanced behind quickly and noticed he was wearing tube socks, a button-down shirt, running shorts, and tennis shoes. I won’t lie. This was startling.

We trotted along for another couple minutes like this. Then he suddenly pulled up alongside me and said, “Your stride is pretty good, but did you know you pronate?”  I was too stunned to respond with anything but “Um. Okay.” In hindsight, this was not the snappiest comeback. But then he was gone, tube socks and all. This is the best thing I can come up with that might be considered a “threat” in more than 30,000 miles (Quiz: How many times since this blog began have I gratuitously inserted either how many miles or years I have run ?).

Meanwhile, in boring day-to-day life, I have often felt threatened or concerned.  There are places I have run (mall parking lots, unfamiliar backroads, a trail in Alaska, a yucky treadmill in a scary motel) that I would feel nowhere near as secure if I were simply walking or hanging out. But running seems purposeful enough that the rest of the world will leave me alone while I’m doing it. And I never feel awkward or dorky when running, though I often do in non-running life.

Is this sense of security and confidence naive or delusional? Of course, to some extent. After all, let’s face it— I’m still a dork even in the midst of a 20-miler (come to think of it, I may be at my dorkiest around mile 18).  Even so, I can’t argue with the facts. I’ve never sensed real ill-will from another human being, not once, in all my thirty years of running.*

*Eight times so far for those of you who are curious but don’t want to go back and read every tedious blog.

Ladies, feeling a bit of a five-o-clock shadow? Then stop running!

 From time to time over the course of my thirty years of running, I’ve found that some people just cannot wait to let me know how inherently dangerous running is. Typically, however, these people are unable to announce their warnings as quickly as they’d like since they are often delayed by such things as a slow-moving line at the McDonald’s drive-thru or an interminable wait for their blood pressure meds at Walgreens. Nonetheless, they are determined to impart their pearls of sedentary wisdom. So here I present the Top Five Horrible Things That Can Happen to You If You Run list. The list goes from mildly unsettling (#5) to truly abominable (#1).

To apreciate this list fully, please bear in mind that I am not making this up. All these things have really been communicated to me (some many times) by well-meaning friends and relatives in an effort to save me from running:

5) “You’ll injure yourself during a run and no one will ever find you.” The melodrama here is touching. Still, to be fair, I did actually partially rupture my achilles one time on a ten-mile run….(horror film music in minor key)… alone! The words of this warning echoed eerily in my head …”no one will ever find you…find you…find you..,  as I limped along, the wind whistling through the desolate alpine mountainside and a winter storm nipping at my injured heel. Somewhere amidst the dark trees, a wolf howled and I…. Wait a minute. This was a scene from “Lassie.” I was on West End Ave. and took a cab.

4) “You’ll get mugged.” It’s amazing how many thieves are looking to incorporate a tempo run with a robbery. I’m sure this has happened, but come on! Who carries anything worth stealing while on a run anyway? This was a favorite warning of a great-aunt who lived up near Scranton, PA. In her mind, any young woman who did anything more daring than playing pinochle was just asking to have her purse snatched away. In ‘94 I mentioned to my aunt that I didn’t even own a purse. This gave her something new to worry about.

3) “You’ll destroy your knees.” Please. True, my knees sound like an industrial cheese grater when I walk up stairs, but they can carry me through a marathon and still have enough strength to maintain my balance after I drink 4 beers at the finish line. Knees get stronger through running, not weaker, Beavis. But the “My knees just couldn’t take it any longer!” is still the preferred excuse of lame asses and current presidents (not that those two categories are mutually exclusive).

2) “Your reproductive organs will collapse.” Most recently, I heard this from a coworker who was shoveling a third Krispy Kreme into her mouth at the time. “You can just kiss yer uterus goodbye,” were her exact words when she overheard that I had run a marathon. Aside from that being a really lovely visual, it is one of the more bizarre fears of non-runners. I’ve been warned of this pending internal feminine collapse on and off for decades (always from other women, I should add). At least it’s nice to know that if and when I want a hysterectomy, all I have to do is crank up my racing distance to an ultra.

1) “You’ll grow a beard.” Yes, really. I had a roommate years ago who was certain that excessive running (”excessive” to her meant more than 3 miles a week) led to increased testosterone production in women. This, in turn, would lead to such terrifying aberations as larger muscles, a deeper voice, and a beard. Pointing out the myriad female distance runners who had miraculously avoided looking like Fidel Castro did not dissuade her. When I topped out at 40 miles one week, I could see her eyeballing me suspiciously. Eventually, I bought some Old Spice and a shaving mug just to freak her out.

Above: Sunrise Over the Serengeti on 6/16/08

I’ve just returned from two weeks in the awesomeness of Tanzania, mostly in the vicinity of Arusha, Ngorongoro Crater, and the Serengeti. Before leaving, I fretted and huffed about the fact that I would not be able to run the entire time I was there. None at all. A vacuum in terms of running. Sloth on wheels. I probably haven’t gone two weeks without running since I had a stress fracture in ‘84. Even then, I swam or did something (I can’t remember what. To be honest, I’m sure it wasn’t swimming since I can’t swim). In any event, I haven’t gone two weeks without sweating since I was a dumbass slug in high school.

And so prior to leaving, I feverishly researched just how much fitness I might lose. After much hair-pulling and gnashing of teeth, the consensus was that I’d lose approximately 4%. That’s right—4%.  Of course, I had no idea whatsoever what this really meant, but I didn’t like it anyway. I actually sat with a calculator and tried to subtract 4% of the total number of seconds in my last 5k. This gave me a number that meant absolutely nothing. But it made me a little more worried, so I was satisfied.

Anyway, let me just say that not even 48 hours into Tanzania, the idea of worrying over not running seemed ridiculous.

We drove from Mt. Kilimanjaro airport to Arusha pretty late at night. Off in the distance, you could see the lights of the world’s only tanzanite mine, but that was pretty much the only light around until we got closer to Arusha. Then, strings of dimly lit, dusty, one-room buildings began showing up. In every one, people were crowded in the doorways or sitting around outside. More than that, hundreds of people were walking, running, riding ancient bikes–all going somewhere or doing something at 10:30 on  Friday night. They weren’t sitting inside typing an idiotic running blog or watching TV or eating Big Macs. Everyone was moving. Lots of movement.

I had thought this might be a Friday night thing, but it turned out to be an all-the-time thing. From Arusha to the Serengeti, the Tanzanian people seemed to be constantly going somewhere–mostly on foot, rarely in cars. As we drove up nearly impassable mud roads over mountains the next few mornings, we passed droves of people (from children to elderly women) walking down the mountain with baskets on their heads or carrying heavy containers or pushing carts full of something. Our guide explained that they were on their way to the market in Arusha, maybe 3,5, or even 6 miles away. They’d sell what they had and then walk and run back up the mountain another 3,5, or even 6 miles. This was how 80% of the people lived.

Another morning, near Ngorogoro where the dirt is bright red like Georgia clay, we passed a group of children walking to their dirt-floored, windowless school. Some of the children began running beside our vehicle when they saw us, yelling “white people!” in Swahili and waving. One boy must have run effortlessly alongside of us for nearly two miles. We were driving slowly because of the ruts and mud, and he kept with us, waving the whole time. His bare legs were bright red with dust by the time we made a turn and left him behind.

Then we began seeing the Masai tending their herds of goats and cows. Boys as young as eight tend them all day long. Dressed in the traditional bright blue and red cloths tied at the waist, these men and boys follow their animals for miles, part walking and part running. Miles and miles. Every day. Sometimes they were barefoot, sometimes wearing sandals, but always carrying a large stick, their only protection from the wildlife that can range from lions to spitting cobras.

And so you can see how the idea of putting on a pair of fancy-pants Asics and a Garmin to “go for a run” seemed inane. For two weeks, what I think of as “running” seemed unnatural, forced, ridiculous. To think that we (I include myself in this) actually have debates in all seriousness about whether or not strap-on heart rate monitors are integral training devices seemed atrocious. The recent message board war over running skirts that I witnessed was like the blurry memory of an embarrassing dream.  I was glad and relieved to not run. The entire time I was in Tanzania I never saw anyone intentionally running for the sake of running. Everyone just ran for the sake of movement and living day to day.

And we sit around and wonder why African runners always kick our asses. Sheesh.

I probably gained more insight into running by not running during those two weeks than I have by running in the past ten years. And that’s definitely worth losing that 4%.

Running skirts, fuel belts, Camelbaks, and cell phones. Got an opinion?

This blog should be prefaced by the words of my favorite bumper sticker: “I’m Not Judgin’, I’m Just Sayin’. (Roughly translated, this means: “I’m judging.”) With that in mind, the following things trouble me:

Running Skirts.  A skirt made for running. Why?  The very first time I saw one, I honestly thought that the woman’s shorts had collapsed or something since, clearly, no one would go running in a hot pink breezy nylon mini-skirt if they were sober or mentally competent. Some time later, however, I discovered that these skirts were intentional. Yikes. To me, the wearing of a skirt while running is the equivalent of sitting sidesaddle while riding a horse. It says: “Look! Look! I’m still feminine even if I’m doing something mannish! I’ll never look like one of those sprinters named Helga from East Germany, because goshdarnit, I’m wearing a skirt!”

I have an acquaintance who always wears skirts because, in her words, “It makes me feel pretty.” Certainly, there’s nothing wrong with that—but while running? I expect to feel a number of different things when out in public with my hair matted down, sweat in my eyes, a grimace on my face, and my nose running. Oddly enough, “pretty” isn’t one of them. I do enjoy the occasional skirt now and then when, say, sipping mimosas on a veranda or something, but for training for an endurance sport (or, God forbid, racing), they just seem wrong.

And apparently Putting Down The Skirt can create wrath and public mudslinging of a nature rarely seen outside the Jerry Springer show. (Time to waste? Click it, Sister! http://www.runningahead.com/groups/2000/Forum/b894cefb20b145a580b50ffef3d094d6  ). Personally, I don’t care if you want to wear a sequined ball gown and a pair of Crocs (the only fashion item more heinous than running skirts) out to the track to do interval training if that’s what floats your boat. Have at it. But your running skirt still looks like a pair of collapsed shorts.

Fuel Belts: Yeah, yeah, people need fuel on runs longer than 8.4  miles because blah blah blah. So thank goodness there’s a pink, studded rodeo-style tool belt packed with a dozen miniature plastic bottles full of bright blue fluids to strap around your waist and chafe you for the next two hours. Because stopping at a water fountain would be, you know, too much of an imposition.

I understand that in the ongoing quest to transform marathoning into a camping trip, more and more flamboyant gear is required. After all, how will anyone know you’re a distance runner if you don’t have the gear? Still, the advantages of hauling around a vast array of miniscule bottles with barely enough liquid in them to fill an eyedropper evades me. This being said, I can totally see wearing a fuel belt to dinner at the in-laws, a party, work, or any other destination where small bottles of Old Charter or Smirnoff would come in handy. That’s the kind of “fuel” I’m talking about!

Anyway, short of taking a run across three counties where no water or human life forms are present, a fuel belt seems a tad superfluous. (I just wanted to use that word.)

Camelbaks: Really, I don’t think 70 ounces of water sloshing against your back during your 14-mile long run is enough. I suggest pulling a Radio Flyer wagon behind you with a water cooler in it. Keeping the water cool may prove a bit tricky, but a remote generator could wedge in nicely behind the cooler as long as you limit the cooler size to 8 gallons. If 8 gallons is not enough, you’re probably going to need a fuel belt to supplement your intake.

Cell Phones on the run: I personally don’t know any women who lug their cell phones with them on a run, but recently I was updated on the fact that I am in constant and severe danger at all times as soon as I begin the motion of running. Apparently, there is just a tidal wave of inappropriate and unwanted attention out there waiting to crash down on me at any second. (Not that wearing a hot pink running skirt does anything to encourage this.) In any event, it’s been politely offered that I’m a moron for not carrying a cell phone when running alone whether it’s across the Australian Outback or around the block in Schenectady. A cell phone, it seems, is the ultimate key to safety.

And so it’s alarming to consider all those years I ran before cell phones were even invented! The foolhardiness of it all overwhelms me. When I began running, my parents still had a rotary dial phone—try carting one of those things around on a fartlek jaunt. It’s no picnic, I can tell you that.  In retrospect, I should have probably carried a walkie talkie and a blowtorch with me on those scary training runs around suburban Columbia, SC.

And so there you have it. Four items that I think are either dorky or unnecessary on a run. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to strap on my overblown, Dick Tracy 2-Way Radio-esque Garmin so that I can measure my run even though it’s on a course I’ve run 3000 times.

Okay, as it turned out, I didn’t end up clipping chips off shoes at the Urban City U-Turn Design League International Downtown Nashville 10k (something like that) last weekend after all. At the very last minute, it was panickly discovered that there were no monitors in place along the course…a course that has roughly three million turns. Thusly, I was thrown a map and a big dorky sign with an arrow on it and sent to the wind tunnel known as “Church Street and Fifth” to point runners in the right direction. This spot was about a quarter mile from the finish, so while it was not quite as prime as the finish line for observing agony and accidental candicing*, it was sufficient.

But more on this volunteer experience in the future. I had originally planned to complain about timing chips in this blog and, darn it all, I’m sticking to my plan if even if my plan was changed.

Let’s face it. Everyone prefers chip timing to the Dark Ages of start/finish lines where, unless you were one of the fastest in the race, your “finishing time” could not have had bigger quote marks around it. (i.e. Going to the gynecologist is “fun.” Back in 1979, 25:30 was my “finishing time“ for the Groove Out 5k.) I seem to recall a lot more elbowing and outright pushing at the start. Children were hurled into midair. Elderly people were intentionally tripped.

And finish lines were interesting too. Generally, a few extremely leaden-faced men with crewcuts stood around with clipboards and little clicky things in their hands. Occasionally they yelled at people. They were doing something very serious and important that no one was allowed to understand, but it had something to do with one’s “finishing time.” Just past them, frighteningly happy women stood with hangers that had been unravled into one long wire. As you crossed the finish line, you were immediately shuttled into an endless line where you were instructed to rip off that little part of your race bib with your name on it and hand it to one of the Hanger Women. This was how your “finishing place” was figured out. If you felt that you must sit down, puke, or keel over right as you finished—too bad! Luxuriating in any post-race theatrics meant forfeiting your place.

So, to be fair, chip timing is a dream come true in many ways. These days when the gun goes off at a race, you can be sitting in a port-a-potty trying to remember the lyrics to a Rick Astley song a quarter mile from the starting line, and it won’t make a whit of difference in your race time. Your race doesn’t begin until your chip crosses the magical mat. And when you finish, you can totally overdo the drama for as long as you want just past the finish mat. Feel like collapsing in a heap for dramatic effect even though you feel just fine? Help yourself! Thanks to the chip, there are no obligatory lines, no scary Hanger Women.

But still…

Think about it. The timing chip is a strange and awkward little disc with lots of openings and a tube down the center that may or may not be headed in the right direction once you’ve attached it to the top of your shoe. The attachment procedure, in itself, is a confounding event that involves threading two miniscule plastic ties through certain openings and then under shoelaces and then back through a microscopic tunnel embedded in the ties. Under the best circumstances, this would be trying even for a Preying Mantis. But for sweaty human hands right before a race, it is often pandemonium. And well aware that the chip is the only key to a finishing time and that A Lost Chip Will Result In A $35 Fee, many people weave and entwine their chips so much that the top of their shoes ultimately resemble macrame baskets.

The current “chip retreival” method invloves placing a line of volunteers just past the finish line. We sit on folding chairs with wire cutters in hand, a step stool in front of us, and plastic collection buckets to our side. As racers finish, they come reeling toward us in Frankensteinian fashion, plop a foot on the stool, and wait as we surgically remove the chip. As anyone who races knows, it is no easy task to balance yourself on one foot after hurtling yourself through anywhere from 3.1 to 26.2 miles. As a result, I’ve had runners fall on me, completely knock my chair over, and sit in my lap (not because they wanted to, I assure you). On the flip side, in my attempt to extricate wrapped, wound, threaded, and embroidered chips from shoes, I’ve inadvertently clipped shoelaces, gouged holes in shoes, and stabbed innocent runners.

And, so, this all leads to my question…..

Am I the only one who thinks this whole procedure is somewhat Flintstones-esque? I can’t understand how 300 songs can be stored in something the size of a Chiclet, and yet we still have to attach these weirdo plastic wheels on our shoes in an awkward way in order to get just a little bit of information. Don’t cars go through toll areas at 60 MPH with just a small barcode on their windows? It seems like it would be possible to develop throw-away adhesive strips to go on shoes or bib numbers that could be read electronically as runners passed checkpoints and start/finish lines.  Do I have any idea what I’m talking about or what this would entail? Of course not!

In the meantime, though, I will concede that I appreciate chip timing in spite of the oddity of the chip. In 1992, I ran my first marathon in New York City. While I will never forget that experience, I almost instantaneously forgot what the time on my watch was when I crossed the finish line. My “finishing time” was 3:38, but the wait to get across the start line at New York was roughly long enough to have had a picnic, a dental check-up, and a nap. Who knows what my real time was? So now I forever have to make pretentious and obnoxious quote marks in the air when asked what my “finishing time” was at my first marathon.

For this reason, then, I love chips. But for the macrame embedded extrication process at the finish line? Not so much.

*New to the term “candicing”? Feel like wasting the next twenty minutes of your life? Then progress to  http://www.runningahead.com/groups/2000/Forum/61927e87247b491ba673cf6208d03505   for a riveting description of what it means to candice during a race. Share this word with friends and use liberally! Help us get it into the lexicon of the Urban Dictionary!

Above: The sometimes-unrecognizable-when-not-in-swimwear Danica Patrick

The other day, I was perusing a few race reports (yes, I think this is fun) over at a random running site, and I came across the always-endearing and jovial phrase “getting girled” yet again. The writer expressed his experience in a recent 10k with touching eloquence: Yeah, so it was just sort of more of a training run instead of a race. LOL. I got girled at the finish line, but I wasn’t racing so it’s all good. Ha ha. Doesn’t really bother me, FWIW. LOL. This was capped off with a nice assortment of smiley faces just in case the reader was left with any doubt whatsoever as to the writer’s utter indifference about being beaten in the final stretch by a…um…girl.

Near the end of the race report, the writer unveiled his finishing time (with quite the flourish, I must say) as 48:52–A time within two seconds of his PR, but, you know, not a real effort or anything since some chick cranked by just in time to nip him at the finish. In front of his wife and two children. And three co-workers. One of whom brought along a camcorder. With a great zoom feature. LOL.

A couple of things come to mind. First off, while a 48:52 finishing time in a 10K is fine and dandy, I couldn’t help but notice (okay, I searched for it) that the women’s winning time for that particular race was 38:50. For crying out loud, the women’s masters time was 42:10. Oh, for the love of pete….the women’s grandmaster’s time was 42:35. Dude. You got girled, matroned, and geezered. And when you count all the dozens of women who came across the line between the geezer and you….A veritable stampede of estrogen in running shoes. Oh, the horror, the shame.

Deep consternation over being beaten by a girl is understandbale in, say, the second grade. Boys that age think girls are icky and stuff anyway. Girls must be vanquished in any athletic endeavour from mudslinging to nosepicking. I witnessed firsthand the resulting trauma of boys getting girled at this age last weekend during the Kiddie Run portion at the 5k I ran.*  It was probably about a 100 yard run. The girls, for the most part, were pretty much lah, lah, lah, look-at-me- I’m- running-where’s-the-icecream,  while the boys were deadly serious. As a result, when some of the girls began beating the boys, there was severe panic. Tears, giving up, and stomping wildly about prevailed. One youthful sprinter even marched over to kick the girl who had beaten him. Getting Girled sucks.

Still, I can relate in my own way. Why, just last year I got Man-With-Spare-Tire-Stomached in the last mile of a half marathon. Inconceivable! Humiliating! I mean, I’m supposed to be able to beat someone who looks like the Michelin Man, right? And then a mere two weeks later I got Dorky-Guy-in-RaceReady-Shorts-Wearing-an-iPoded right at the finish line of a 5k. I cannot believe that.  When he passed me, I did everything short of having a coronary in an all-out effort to pass him back since, you know, he didn’t look like he should be able to beat me. To no avail. In my finish line photo, I’m all flailing arms and effort. But I’m directly behind Sir Dorkman. But no biggie. After all, it was only a 5k, not a real race. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Ha ha ha. Doesn’t really bother me, FWIW. LOL. 

 *And in which, incidentally and totally unimportantly, I beat 85% of the men.

Above: Portland, Tennessee. Land ‘o flats of strawberries and flat 5ks.

When the alarm practically blasted me out of bed at 5:00 a.m., the first thought in my mind was, “Why?” Why get up at the crack and drive 53 miles to a small town 5k when gas is $3.75 a gallon? Why not do something more constructive–like sleeping? Why run a distance that I loathe? Why oh why? Nonethless, Cheryl and I were on the road by 6:05 with the radio cranking (oddly approprtiately) “Highway to Hell” happily as the sun rose.

As with all small town races, there were no signs or even remote indications that a race might be taking place any time during this decade. We drove down the main highway straining our eyes to read the teensy road signs. Some road signs were knocked down. At least a couple looked as though they might have been shot down. It brought to mind my days of delivering for Fedex up near this very same town (mostly Springfield and Cross Plains and Orlinda for anyone who gives a rip). Once, after searching forever for an address that didn’t seem to exist, on a road that was not on any map, in a town that was not really a town, I finally located the package’s recipient. When I vaguely mentioned that he was hard to find, he replied (without a shred of irony), “How could you not find me? I done lived here all my life.”

But I digress.

We made out way to Portland High School about 45 minutes before the start. I noted, with some alarm, that they were only beginning to set up the start/finish area. A few construction cones rolled around in the wind. A handful of teenagers were gazing quizzically at the wires hanging out of the back of the official clock. Several crows were pecking at the finish line tape on the ground. 

I picked up my number inside of the school and ran into a few other runners I know from Nashville. Because this is a flat, fast course held at a beautiful time of year, it apparently attracts a lot of the fast 5k runners. I was foolishly thinking that my only above-average 5k time might win the masters division in such a small (200-250 people) race. But alas, down the hallway I spot Amy Barrow. Amy, at 50, can still run a sub-19 5k. She has had both hips replaced. She runs with a limp. And yet: sub-19. Deep hatred. (Just kidding. There are no cheesy emoticons on this site to indicate sarcasm.)

Out to the track to warm up. Truly, it was a lovely day…cool, sunny, nice breeze (note that “nice breeze” will become known as “crippling headwind” within the hour). Cheryl jogged with me for about a half mile as I systematically ran through all my excuses for why I might not run well. I don’t usually do this except at 5ks. Today’s assortment included: slight ear ache, yellow fever shot for trip to Africa received a week ago may be creating a fever, still tired from Boston and CMM half, not “feeling it,” haven’t done any speedwork (as if I ever do), and I had gas (as if I ever don’t). Cheryl listened patiently as always, nodding and saying, “Well, I’m sure you’ll do great.”

We headed to starting line at about 7:50. I moved near the front since there was no chip timing and I wanted my time to be relatively accurate. Margie Stoll moved over to say hello–she’s my hero. More on this fact later.  She asked if I had set my watch, and as I was discussing how I could barely read my watch anymore without my reading glasses and how lovely that would be to wear reading glasses in a race, the gun went off. AAAAGGGHHH! I hate 5ks!! In my mind, a 5k is just one big explosion of blurred vision, nausea, and irritation. So, off we went.

Mile one came in 6:17. May I say two words here? As. If. I haven’t seen a 6:17 mile since I was 32, and I was pretty sure it didn’t just suddenly decide to reappear in Portland, Tennessee for laughs. Nonetheless, my mind was a phantasm of math equations for the next mile, multiplying and dividing seconds and miles like a mad woman. At the turnaround, I saw Amy Barrow in the lead, but Meredith Thompson was close behind. The 3rd woman also looked like she was over forty (cripes), and then I was 4th. I was not close enough to close the gap with the 3rd woman, so as I came back on the turn I checked to see if any other women were close to me. None were. This, of course, is not an incentive to run faster (for me anyway). I fall into the “well I am where I am and this is where I’m a-staying” mindset.

Miles 2 to 3 were along a highway and into a crippling headwind. At mile 2 my time had been 13:40-ish which seemed closer to reality, though the possibility that the first mile marker had been correct and I had slowed down that much in mile two freaked me out. Again, a maelstrom of math equations and angst flooded me. Also, along this highway were more than a few remnants of dead possum and raccoon. These really helped with the ever-present 5k nausea.

Then, suddenly, the turn toward the school appeared. I checked my watch, and I was still on PR time. My previous best had been 22:20, and even with my litany of excuses I had top secretly been hoping for a PR…maybe 22:05. But as the finish line came into view with that .1 k to go, my time was right at 21:00. Short of a meltdown, I was going to break 22:00. Easily. Heading down the parking lot to the finish, I saw Cheryl cheering and looking incredulous and pointing to her watch. I could barely breathe. My stomach was upside-down. My ears were ringing. Then, just like that, it was over. 21:41…a PR by nearly 40 seconds. How was that possible? I don’t know, and I don’t want to try and figure it out. All sarcasm and complaining aside, it just felt good to run fast.

On to the awards. Serious flustercluck on wheels. It took nearly 2 hours (two hours) to compile them. One of those hours was spent outside watching the Kiddie Run and drinking a covert beer. The other hour was spent in the Portland High gymnasium waiting. And waiting. The major upside of this, though, was getting a chance to chat with Margie Stoll. At 67, she is one of the top runners in her age group in the U.S. And never has a top runner been more modest and self-deprecating and softspoken. In a sea of “Look at me! Dammit, look at me!” runners, Margie is a serious oasis. She never mentions her times (hello, 23:something that day) and rarely brings up her national ranking unless asked. In fact, later on that day she was on her way to donate all her trophies to an organization that recycles trophies for kids. As a person who crams all her awards into a hideous display in the garage, I was truly impressed. “Well,” Margie said, “I don’t want my kids to have to get rid of all those trophies when I die.” God bless her. Margie’s my hero. (Read more about her here: http://www.tnrunning.com/articles/agegroupace/Stoll-Apr07.html

In the end, I was erroneously awarded the top master’s trophy. Amy came in 2nd and won Grandmasters. Ridiculous. They should just award top 3 overall and then top 3 masters. Anyway, the 3rd woman was 48, so obviously she should have won the trophy I was given. I didn’t know this until today, so now I’m trying to figure out how to get the trophy to her. I should have just given it to Margie to donate, for crying out loud.

And so, no more races until maybe July. Nice note to end on on a beautiful May day in a town full of strawberries and nice people. Great to be at a race where everyone seemed to be having a good time and cheered everyone on. Lovely to hit a huge PR and spend some time with a hero.

And still…I hate 5ks.