I finished my C-race today (the third in my spring quadfecta and third on my intended effort scale): an inaugural women’s half marathon in my hometown. The race went well, all things considered. I must have unknowingly offended the Running Gods sometime in the past few weeks. I have not yet determined the nature of my infraction, but as punishment my running life has suddenly become a comedy of small errors, some of which spilled over to the race. To wit, at race kit pick-up I was surprised to find myself seeded in wave two, which in this event was the last wave. Either this was an unusually fast field or something is amiss. The course terrain is mainly narrow foot paths surrounded by trees, so seeding happened to be critical if you ever wanted to get into a rhythm uninterrupted by the constant repeating of on your left, ON YOUR LEFT (headphone wearers = much yelling, in the nicest way possible). Frustration free passing would not often be an option on this course. Better just to start in the right spot. Bib numbers were smartly assigned in expected finish order, with the lowest numbers going to the fastest finishers. According to my assigned bib number my predicted finish position was Dead Last, or very nearly. Now I don’t have delusions of grandeur. I run amongst the commoners, far far far back from the elite. I wasn’t expecting to win the race, but I felt confident that I would not have the police bike following me in. Although that would be kinda neat. Later I wondered if perhaps I entered my predicted marathon time instead of my half marathon time. Which would make the mix-up all my fault. I hate it when that happens. I do, however, think it cool that my marathon time is a plausible half marathon time; a dead last time granted, but still cool.
Asking the volunteers about changing corrals got me nowhere except sent to a race official (which felt like being sent to the Principal’s Office for bad behaviour, “so, what’s the problem here”?), who snarked something about me being ridiculously ”law-abiding” in response to my concern that if I tried to sneak into wave one the over-zealous volunteers would herd me back out. It’s true, I do follow race rules (most rules really, I have bizarrely strong civic sense), especially corral rules because I hate being stuck behind people who should have started after me. Do unto others, blah blah blah. I’m not convinced this tendency is a character flaw. And mine was not an irrational concern; I’ve witnessed corral ejections in other races (and applauded the race marshals for doing so). I recognize that organizing an inaugural half marathon must be a massive undertaking, and that a bib colour mix-up is probably low on the priority list, so I easily forgave the curtness in discourse. The official reassured me that the volunteers didn’t care where people started and that no one would ask me to wait for wave two. But what, I ask you, is the purpose of asking for predicted finish times, sorting people into waves, and giving them specially coloured bibs corresponding to those waves if the waves, as she implied, only mattered to the mock worthy law-abiding suckers like me? In the end she suggested I name drop if forced out of wave one, which fortunately I did not need to do. I’m not the sort of gal who can pull off name dropping. I did, however have to listen to twenty-seven different announcements about starting in the correct wave and was subject to a honour system “raise you have if you have a wave one bib” check before the gun went off. I raised my hand, hid my bib beneath my throw-away shirt, and surrounded myself with a wall of friends. Maybe I’m not so law-abiding after all.
Starting corrals aside, the craziest thing about wearing the wrong coloured bib is that people think you are a dark horse runner, presumably overcoming a five-minute handicap to emerge near(ish) the front of the pack. Well, that’s not quite true. In the beginning the wave one racers shot questioning looks my way, perhaps worried I sprinted out of the gate way too fast and would burn out three kilometres in. The astonishment came about later in the race when it became clear I wasn’t flaming out, as anticipated. My bib was the subject of some attention, as enthusiastic runners on the out-and-back course mistakenly identified me as one of the ”lead” wave two runners, when really I was just another non-lead wave one runner. My finish time would not shock and awe, yet I felt like a sandbagger - albeit an accidental one.
But I’m getting way ahead of myself. Twelve hours before the gun went off I was still contemplating my first ever DNS (did not start). In the three days before the race two medical professionals strongly advised that I not run. One even whipped out his impressive credentials, which he modestly never does, to add weight to his point (I suspect he realized that on the outside I was nodding agreeably, but on the inside I was dismissing his concerns). Runshorts he said (we are on nickname bases), I worked with Canadian Olympic runners for seven years (back in the Donovan Bailey days, for those who remember DB). When they were injured the coach asked me (emphasis on me) if they should run and it was my (emphasis on my) word that dictated whether they ran in the meet. I talked and the coach listened. I’m telling you, don’t run. He’s never said don’t run to me before, which left me feeling rather unsettled. A day earlier another health care professional said basically the same thing, except for that Olympic team bit (they work with the Olympic weightlifters, but it didn’t come up). You see, I have a spine problem resulting from a bad accident and exacerbated by bad genes – and occasionally this problem interferes with my ability to run. And walk. And sit. And sleep. The last week has been particularly bad, such that I arrived at work in tears Thursday when a walk that normally takes 30 minutes lasted more than 60 and caused me much pain. I haven’t stood upright in six days. To say it was bad week would be a dramatic understatement. But my bad weeks are often followed by good, so I had reason to be optimistic. Taking all the medical advice into serious consideration, I decided not to decide right then. I decided to decide race morning. Race morning I woke up feeling a wee bit better, popped some Vitamin I (I know, I know!), downshifted my goals (to finishing), and was off to the races.
The gun goes off, I’m safely tucked away in wave one, and the fun begins. I love the park; it’s one of my favourite 30+K training routes, so 21.1K felt like a break of sorts. The course was easy but not. There were four sharp u-turns and multiple 90-degree turns that completely take you off pace, it narrows sharply in spots, crosses bouncy bridges, sections flooded a tad in recent downpours narrowing the course further, the paths remained open to the biking and giant stroller wielding public, and the route consisted of multiple out and back portions that required sharing the narrow trails with two-way race traffic. I was lucky to be a bit ahead of the main pack (thank you wave one start), so the congestion did not bother me much; but I’m sure it was a problem for the mid-packers. That said, the trail is scenic and peaceful, shaded in many sections, full of friendly families and, for once, shockingly relaxed cyclists (usually the ones in this area are a little edgy about their pace and follow a don’t stop for anything policy), and has enough small hills and inclines to give your legs some relief from the otherwise flat terrain. I did not appreciate the 60K wind gusts, but I can’t entirely fault the race for that. At least they managed to secure cooler temperatures for a tricky end of May race date. I can’t be too greedy, there’s only so much good running weather to go around.
Surprisingly, two men (out of 1200 participants) ran the race, one running for fun and, in the spirit of the race, dressed as a woman complete with bra (because all women run in lipstick red bras) and skirt, and one man clearly running for his own strange reasons. I suspect those reasons involve ego, but I’m often hasty to judge. An unexpectedly large number of runners wore tiaras, feathers, fairy costumes, and hula skirts (sometimes all at once). I felt positively naked in my ungarnished tank top and shorts.
The wonderful volunteers (including Husband – way to earn us some good running karma Husband – and a most amazing team of men from my running club) were endlessly enthusiastic. The firemen table, which we passed three times due to the loopy nature of the course, was Awesome. With a capital A. The suspendered but shirtless men took their job of motivating and watering the runners very seriously. They also took having fun very seriously. I may have lingered a little and sipped my Gatorade rather slowly, but don’t tell Husband. I lingered at his water station too, and not just because it was at the finish line. I stopped at the 19K chocolate station (marked in advance with a sign “warning: chocolate ahead”, hee). Why run a race offering chocolate and not partake? That would be like running the Medoc Marathon without consuming wine. My post-candy station photos will feature a big chocolate covered grin, you know, the kind in which you appear toothless because the dark food blacks out your teeth? So cute. Either my mouth was dry or that chocolate was abnormally sticky.
The finisher’s medal is actually a necklace designed by local artisans and although it’s not really my look I love the concept (even if it is blatantly ripped off from the Nike Women’s Marathon). Given my recent decision to forgo the Nike Race, this was a nice consolation prize. The women’s (none of this “unisex” crap) shirt is quite pretty and is inscribed with a catchy tag line (women set the pace), but fits me in a style best described as ‘crop top’. I suddenly feel compelled to buy an ab machine. I won’t, because it would just end up abandoned in my parent’s basement along with my Thighmaster. The post-race food was the best I’ve ever received – no stale bagels and bruised bananas for the ladies. So two thumbs up for the goodies. Isn’t it all about the shirt, medal, and food? It is pitiful how easily I’m won over by a bauble and a cookie. Which reminds me of the time (erm, the time last week) I inadvertently offended Cookie Monster. We were sharing an elevator, a full elevator holding not one but two monsters (Elmo as well), and worried about the weight capacity I asked Cookie (I call him Cookie, we’re tight like that) how many cookies he had eaten that day. He hung his head in shame. True story. I still feel bad about that. No one wants to make a beloved childhood character cry, especially one with whom you share an affinity for cookies. I wonder if he’s ever tried post-race cookies? They taste better when sweetened with success.
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