the I Should Have Stayed Home half marathon

If you caught my last post, you heard about the half marathon I accidentally signed up for this weekend. I want to say, "It seemed like a good idea at the time," but the truth is, it never seemed like a good idea. But you can go back and read about that yourself. Let's just say that I shouldn't have been doing a lot of running this weekend, especially in the snow storm with 20+ mph winds that they were predicting. But anyway...

I suppose I should introduce you to the race: The Loco Half at the Hamptons. The name is deceiving because it was not in the Hamptons, which I think that most people would agree is somewhere in New York (I think... well you know what I mean!), and not a seedy boardwalk in Southern New Hampshire. The Loco part though, well that's what I was for signing up (only I was loca, I hate it when people don't use the right gender in Spanglish).

iframe src="http://js.mapmyfitness.com/embed/blogview.html?r=15b9c6c5ae7c04a17cdd188d2739e39d&u=e&t=run" height="700px" width="100%" frameborder="0">Half at the Hamptons
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The start was abnormally late: 11:00, so I got to sleep in until a decent hour and eat a leisurely breakfast. There were no major dramas in the morning, or on the drive up. I was pleased that the sun was out instead of the nasty snow storm they were predicting. This year was the first time they've put on the event, and when I got out of the car with my usual too-much-water-plus-my-only-cup-of-coffee-this-week emergency, I found the first problem with the race planning: a line for the bathroom about 50 people deep stretching out the door. Uncharacteristically I decided to hold it and went in to get my chip and t-shirt. The shirts were the nicest tech shirt I've gotten this season in a nice blue and yellow that matched the colors of my alma mater perfectly. I got some women to take my picture in my "Warrior Woman Rocks!" t-shirt and went to find an alternative place to pee. I then went back to the car to grab all the stuff I needed for the race and set out to find the starting line.

Something funny happened with the flash. But hey, it's me, what did you expect? This is the home of shitty pictures.

I walked back up the strip away from my car for a few blocks looking for an archway, a timing mat, a clump of runners, or something to let me know where the starting line was. It seemed like everyone was walking towards me, so I turned around and started following them. But then, one by one people started turning back the other way again. What WAS this? When I didn't see any more runners in front of me I turned back, too. I found a line of cones blocking off the street and planted myself there, thinking this was the most starting line-like thing I'd seen so far. Luckily I was right, and people started filling in around me.

I wanted to seed myself somewhere around the 9:00 mile pacer to break my PR of 2:01:27. The pacers were supposed to be wearing yellow hats. The problem was that they were giving away yellow hats at the race and they were all over the place. Eventually I found the 9:00 mile guy and snuggled in close to him. They played the national anthem again, and I think I'm starting to recognize the singer. There's this distinctive thing she does where she goes up about 4 octaves on the last "freeeeeeeeeee". Either there's a chick who tours around doing all of the races in southern New England, or everyone buys the same recording off of racedirector.com or something. Then there was a gunshot, which sounded more like a clap than anything else, and I elbowed my way closer to the pace bunny as we started moving.

I'd never run with a pacer before. They spark up conversation wherever they go. "You wanna hear something really depressing," I heard one woman say, "you just got passed by the 9 minute pacer." Another person said, "I'm looking for the 7 mile per hour guy," and ran ahead. (The pacers were wearing pace signs, not speed. Go back to your treadmill, gymrat.) I tried to stay with the pacer, but he seemed to be dilly-dallying, so I just petered on ahead, figuring I'd hop on with him if he passed me again. The truth was, I wasn't feeling all that great. Friday had been a really, really shitty day at work, and I'd dealt with it by taking it out on the weights at the gym. My transverse abs ached every time I coughed or laughed, and everything from my lumbar spine down to the backs of my knees hurt from some punishing dead lifts that I'd done. I did not feel springy or nimble or any of that stuff you're supposed to feel when you run. I felt more like a mac truck at a Nascar race... or something.

For the first couple of miles I was running behind a woman whose jacket said BLAIR in big, fat letters, and I considered staying with her just to convince her to take a picture with me at the end, but then... you know, I didn't.

At mile 3 we turned onto some back roads and started slopping through about an inch of slush. So much for dry shoes. People were standing in their driveways, though, cheering like there was no tomorrow, so it was pretty fun. I was still passing people, and beginning to hope that once I was warmed up, my hamstrings wouldn't feel like useless pieces of lead. Wishful thinking. By mile 5 I was already counting down the miles. People in weird fashion emergency outfits were beginning to pass me. There was this one guy in a teal early-90's style swishy jump suit with hot pink trim, and another woman whose stretch pants I can't describe, but believe me, they were fashion felonies. A guy wearing a 1-piece tri suit with a lycra shirt and running tights underneath passed me. There was this couple doing a run-walk at about an 8:30 pace and every time they passed me I wanted to scream, "If you're running that fucking fast you're not ALLOWED to walk!" With every weirdo that passed, I convinced myself I must be running 11-minute miles. Everyone knows that the batty runners are in the back.

I'm going off on other people's outfits, forgetting that I looked like a real tool in my "Warrior Woman rocks!" t-shirt. One guy came up behind me and asked in an English accent why I had a .co.uk URL on my back. I sped up for a few seconds to blurt out some PR for my Limey friend, but once I answered in an American accent, I don't think he was as interested in anything I had to say. He dropped me pretty easily, and I dropped back to feel sorry for myself all by myself.

Around mile 7 I was already shuffling and was beginning to feel pretty darned sorry for myself. We crossed an intersection, and then there were all these people running back and forth from what looked like a water station up ahead. The people were all yelling, "911 is coming! 911 is coming!" A woman behind me said to her companion, "Oh, he must have fallen down." But as we drew closer and I could see someone doing CPR, it became pretty clear that he hadn't just fallen down. A few feet away a woman stood sobbing into a man's chest as he hugged her tight. The runner had been lying there long enough for someone to have gone and pulled a blanket out of somewhere, and a knot of about 20 or 30 runners had gathered around him. How do you just run past something like that? But there was nothing I could do. The man pounding away on his chest was the only one saving this guy's life, and the two dozen rubber neckers could only be getting in the way. I ran on feeling worse than ever.

By mile 8 some of the people who had stopped to stand uselessly around the guy with the heart attack started to catch up with me again. So many people passing me at once was so disorienting. I felt like when you're trying to get out of the ocean when there are big waves, and while you were moving forward a second ago, suddenly the wave is washing out and now the water is sucking you back and you're not moving at all. It was so draining being passed by all those people! Then it started to snow, big fat flakes that flew right into my eyes and made it hard to see. Aw shit, this is just what I needed.

It snowed harder and harder for the next two miles, and when the 9:00 pacer passed me at about mile 9 I knew there was no way in hell I could catch him. I just kind of gave up. I wanted to quit this stupid thing. I wanted to walk, but it was just too cold. I knew I should eat something, but I just didn't feel like pulling my shot blocks out with all the snow falling. My fingers might get sticky. So I sullenly settled into feeling sorry for myself as more and more people passed me. Looking at the gaits around me, I could tell I was running like shit because everyone else was running like shit, and they were passing me. Then, around mile 11 the snow turned to rain. Freezing, cold, wet, salty-smelling rain. Fuck this! I thought, and slowed down even more in order to eat some blocks. EEEEEEW!!! I had some black cherry Shot Blocks they'd given away at the Mid-Winter Classic last week, and they were revolting! It was like Robitussin with a bitter dark chocolate aftertaste and maybe something that tasted like burnt coffee (I don't like fake cherry flavor or chocolate). Blech! And because they were cold and I was breathing hard it took forever to chew them up and I had that nasty taste in my mouth forever.

The fucked up thing is that the only climb on the course was miles 4 and 5.

I was still plodding along, having a pity party for myself, trapsing through the rain next to the breakwater where the waves at high tide had deposited this nasty-looking seaweed in the gutter that looked more like vomit than anything else, when the 9:30 pacer passed me... going too fast for me to keep up. Screw him! I thought. And screw those fucking photographers popping up every 2 minutes. With my luck this would be the race where they don't lose all the pictures of me. I knew I looked like a drowned rat going through rigor mortis. It was all I could do to keep running. Screw everyone! Where's that damn finish line? What had I been thinking signing up for this stupid thing anyway? And when I get home I'm going to give Angry a piece of my mind for convincing me to do those stupid dead lifts! I spent most of mile 12 trying to find a way to blame Angry for my suffering. I don't know how, but somehow those stupid dead lifts were his fault. Jerk.

Finally, finally I got to the finish with a kid who looked more like a pothead than a runner grunting to my right, and a girl I'd talked to at the start and didn't feel like talking to any more on my left. Time according to my Garmin: 2:02:50, and 13.25 miles. Where the heck did that extra .15 miles come from?! That was a lame trick! I leaned down to untie my chip and started coughing. Each time I coughed snot and spit flew out of my mouth and nose onto the ground. If you can't untie your own damn chip, you shouldn't be allowed to race, I thought, jealous of the chick next to me who was having her chip untied by someone else.

I grabbed some water and snacks on my way out of the finishing area and looked around for any post-race attractions. The race was part of the "Will Run for Beer" race series being sponsored by my dear, beloved Harpoon Brewery, so I decided it would be best to just go back to the car before I got myself in some real trouble. My entire body hurt: my shoulders and biceps had cramped up long ago, not to mention my legs that felt like they hadn't even bent in 13.1... nay, 13.25 miles. I knew I should stretch out, but by the time I got back to the car I couldn't feel my fingers and was shivering so violently that I couldn't be asked to stand in the cold any longer. So of course my back and legs locked up in the car on the way home. The snow squalls followed me home, and the fear of driving in the snow tensed me up even further. By the time I got home I was so knotted up and in pain that I thought I would never be right again.

Luckily, after a hot shower, some stretching, and the better part of a box of macaroni and cheese I'm feeling better. I believe I've earned an afternoon on the couch with CSI re-runs, don't you?

PS Bill Paradis, the runner who collapsed on the course, passed away at 1:55 pm, around the time I was blowing sky high at mile 12. Please keep his wife, two kids, and grand kids in your thoughts.