I’ve never really been into the big races with tens of thousands of people, but when I was searching for races that would fit into my training plan, the Rock and Roll San Jose half marathon was on the right weekend, is only about 25 minutes away and registration was still open. That settled that. I was finally going to do my first run in the R&R series (scoff). Doing the huge races means that I have to carve out a few hours on my Saturday to go to the expo. For a half marathon.
Reason no. 1 that I do not enjoy large races: the expo
Seriously? An expo for a half marathon? Double scoff.
A coworker decided last minute to sign up for the 10K race, so I swung by her house and together we drove to the expo. Where we had to pay for parking.
Reason no. 1a that I do not enjoy large races: paying for parking at the expo
We then wandered through the San Jose convention center for about 137 miles before finally finding the expo space. The expo was smaller than Boston’s, but still about 10x larger than either Ironman expo that I did. For a half marathon: A distance any reasonably fit person can finish in about 2 hours. We wandered through the expo looking at pink bumper stickers that said “5K” in gritty fonts, and shirts with lame slogans like “Will run for chocolate!”
My companion and I have promised to do a marathon together, so as we got to the section of tables selling race registrations we slowed down. We stopped at the San Francisco Hot Chocolate Run table, where Trouble (the reason for the nickname will make sense by the end of this post) picked up the finisher’s medal. “I don’t get it,” she said, pointing to a giant blob of gold on the medal that looked like Thailand
We walked on to the next table where two socially awkward running geeks were standing uncomfortably behind a table covered in medals shaped like different alcoholic accessories - a beer bottle opener, a coaster, a glass of wine - and let them start their halting schpiel. “We run a series of 3 half marathons in the Bay Area. The first is in San Francisco in November that starts at Fisherman’s Wharf and goes over the Golden Gate Bridge” (every race in SF follows the same course, so no comment here) “...The second is in Oakland and runs through neighborhoods where you won’t be shot and then finishes at Lake Merritt” (where the homeless people who turn up dead are usually stabbed, not shot) “...And the last one is in Livermore where…”
“LIVERMORE!!!! How exotic!” Livermore is about as nice as it sounds. It’s way out on the edge of civilization, is inhumanely hot in the summer, is filled with cows and industry, and not much else.
“Yes, Livermore. They’re growing into the second largest wine region in California and are becoming a tourist destination. After the race we have a beer and wine tasting event, and if you sign up today you get this jar…” Here he held up a midget 8oz Mason jar.
“I get my own jar?!” I asked excitedly.
“...And if you sign up for all 3 races, it’s only $197…”
“Hang on,” I said. “Seriously? It’s only $197 for 3 half marathons?” I looked at Trouble.
Trouble said, “Looks like we’re going to Livermore!”
I now have a partner in crime: Trouble. As in, “Here comes Trouble!”
Reason no. 2 that I do not enjoy large races: the parking
After seeing the parking situation at the expo, and learning that the Indian Prime Minister would be staying right in front of the finish line that morning (further restricting parking options because of security). I settled in that night to figure out where the heck I was going to park. Rock and Roll San Jose Half Marathon > The Race > Parking… “There will be NO PARKING AT SAP CENTER on Sunday. We have several alternate garages secured. Each garage is $5 and you will require a pass to enter. If you plan to park in one of the Rock ‘n’ Roll secured garages, you MUST stop by the PARKING BOOTH at the EXPO to purchase or pick up your Pre-Purchased Parking Pass.” Well fuck. It looks like I was going to bum a ride with Trouble.
Reason no. 3 that I do not enjoy large races: the tutus and ribbons
Trouble’s brother drove us through the back roads of San Jose, and we wandered into the several-block start area to find a bathroom. We found an out-of-the-way block of porta-potties with a short line, and stood waiting in front of a large office building with about 400 runners standing on the front steps like a church choir (most of them Women of a Certain Age) dressed in the same red singlet. There were tutus. There was glitter. There was curling ribbon everywhere. And there was chanting. If you had to write a chant in the style of The Song that Doesn’t End from Lambchop, it would sound something like this. When Trouble emerged from the porta-potties I whispered to her, “Get me out of here!”
Reason no. 4 that I do not enjoy large races: the famous people
As we wandered around trying to find the starting corrals I saw a fast looking guy run by. “Was that Meb?” I asked. I met with a blank look from Trouble and we continued our conversation. Then he ran by again, “Trouble, I think that was Meb Keflezighi.” Still no reaction. “... the fastest American runner in the US right now?” Nothing. We moved on and separated into our different corrals. It was Meb, by the way.
As I stood in my corral near-ish to the 1:45 pacer, a guy near me pointed up ahead and said, “You see that woman with the sign next to the 1:45 pacer? If you run next to her, you’re running with an Olympian.” I looked where he was pointing and saw a sign that said, “Deena.” No way! Deena Kastor? You’ve got to be kidding me. Sure enough, the announcer said something about Deena Kastor running with the 1:45 pace group the whole way. Oh great. I was hoping to run with the 1:45 pace group, but now I was sure to do something stupid.
The race started, and I wasted no time before beginning something stupid. I wormed my way through all the elbows (reason no. 5 that I don’t like large races: elbows in my face) until I was running right next to Deena Kastor. Everything would have been fine if I’d stopped there. I would have run the whole race with Elvis on my left, and Deena Kastor on my right. But I get star struck, and I had dry mouth and my heart was pumping nothing but adrenaline.
So I passed Deena Kastor, and just kept running.
I ran that first mile in 6:34. The next came in 7:36, and the one after that was 7:45. I’ve run a half marathon in 7:19’s before, but that was years ago, and I knew I’d be lucky to finish THIS race with an average pace of 8, but that wasn’t happening now… I didn’t look down at my watch and realize I was screwed until mile 3, when I thought, my legs are burning. How fast am I going anyway? Oh shit.
Thanks a lot, Deena Kastor.
Reason no. 6 that I don’t like large races: the bands
It’s the Rock n Roll series. I knew that there were going to be bands of questionable vintage, but I was expecting aging hair bands playing covers of “Eye of the Tiger” and “Get Ready for This.” Instead of music, most of the bands seemed more into making noise. Except that one guy who was playing smooth jazz guitar in someone’s driveway. It’s a good thing that I decided to run with headphones (something I almost never do), or else I probably would have just lain down on someone’s front yard and let myself shrivel up like a slug. After passing a particularly depressing Evanescence wannabe band around Mile 7, Deena Kastor came blowing by me at about 6:30 pace screaming, “Great job, guys!” and waving her arm bones like a crazy person. That was when the thought first occurred to me to quit running, not just in this race but for life.
There is really nothing much that can be said for the final 5 miles of this race. It was horrible. I sweat through my shorts. I sweat through my shoes. I gave up on myself. I walked in places. I knew I was running within blocks of Trouble’s house, and I thought of just walking off the course and going back to my car, but my keys were in the start/finish area. I questioned what I was doing in this race. I questioned whether I ever wanted to run another marathon again. I questioned whether I ever wanted to run again. I might as well quit and just let myself get really, really fat.
I don’t want this race report to turn into a Russian novel, filling thousands of pages with ruminations on tragedy and despair. I finished the damned thing. I took my medal, and I went off in search of my stuff.
Reason no. 7 that I don’t enjoy large races: the finish
I waved off photographers who wanted to take pictures of my medal framed by my overwhelming sense of failure. I navigated my way around a sort of ¼ mile circuit to the exit of the runner’s area, ducking my way around reps slinging chocolate-sand bars and dehydrated pomagranite-soy sauce-tarragon-chicken gizzard nutrition lumps and found my way to the exit. Runners were milling around with their families having picnics, drinking beer, buying t-shirts and in general enjoying the block party. But my shorts were stuck to my legs, I was one giant crotch sweat stain and I wanted to go home and take a shower. Where was my stuff? I wandered around for what felt like miles, using my medal as nunchucks on small children that got in my way, and stomping on the fingers of happy people sunning in the grass until finally I found the bag drop. Then I wandered another 14 miles trying to find my way back to a road open to traffic so I could get an Uber back to my car. I felt kind of bad about leaving a wet buttprint in the back seat of that guy’s immaculate Uber, but not bad enough to do anything about it. I was miserable, and wanted the world to be miserable with me. The driver’s name was Jose F; I gave him 5 stars. If you’re ever in the back of his car, that stank is my fault.
Another reason I hated this stupid race: I lost $20.
I had brought a $20 bill to the race to buy myself a snack and a water at a convenience store while I was waiting for my Uber. When I reached into my key pocket where I’d stashed it, it was gone. It was probably still sitting in the old piss at the bottom of the porta-pottie where I peed next to the chanting tutus. What a rotten day.
When I got home, I texted Trouble to tell her how my race had gone and to check on hers.
Trouble: Womp womp. I’m sorry Claire. :( I’ll bet you still kicked the butt of anyone wearing a tutu.
Claire: There was one guy who passed me early. In a tutu.
Trouble: Noooo! A MAN in a tutu passed you?? Just retire from running now.
Claire: AND I lost $20.
Trouble: I think I’m bad race luck for you! (I’ve never had a good race when Trouble was there. Reason no. 2 for the pseudonym.)
Claire: Yes! It’s Your fault! And Deena Kastor’s. But mostly yours.
See you in Livermore!
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