A Race Report, FINALLY!

That's right! Claire is finally, at long, long last back in action. I was going to stage my comeback last Sunday, but the thought of running 9 miles in the cold was feeling a little bit daunting for my inertia level, and when it started pouring floodbuckets as I was driving to the race, I decided that my time would be better spent in a Starbucks somewhere. (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog!) Instead, I ran a rather pathetic two-mile trail run near the house that afternoon and finished absolutely disgusted with myself. I was tight, tired, and out of breath. It seemed to take so much effort just to start moving that to keep moving was too much to ask. I had no idea what my next big event would be, but I decided that I was going to race myself back into shape, starting this week. That's right! I was very motivated to start moving... sometime soon, but not right now.

So comeback 2.0 was planned for the Brazen Racing Nitro Turkey Trot in Pinole, CA. A client would also be doing this race, so there was no chickening out or I'd never save face. As we made the drive over, I was thinking about how this time last year I was on a plane on my way to Mexico, and the two years before I had PRed at the 5 mile distance. Right now all I could hope for was sub-10's.

I knew I would be running a 10K trail run, but other than that, I had no idea what to expect. What was the course like? How many people? What time did it start? I wasn't really sure about any of these things. Scout (formerly Bobberanne, but that nickname is too close to her real name so I feel obliged to change it) and I rolled into the Point Pinole Regional State Park up near the northern tip of the San Francisco Bay a comfortable 45 minutes before the race was supposed to start. But by the time I'd filled out the race day registration, picked up my chip (that's right, CHIP! For a 10K Turkey Trot!), picked up my t-shirt, and used The Smelliest Outhouse I've ever used in my life (no exaggeration), it was already 15 minutes past the projected start time. Luckily, there were so many late arrivals, that the race didn't start until about half an hour after it was supposed to. I wasn't worried. I had a feeling that there would be suffering involved in this, so I wasn't in any particular hurry.

At the Salem Wild Turkey Trot, I had never seen anyone run dressed up. Dressing up is for Halloween runs and charity activists at spectator marathons. Half the people at this race were dressed up as pilgrims, turkeys, or Indians. One woman was wearing a pilgrim's bonnet, one of those frilly bib-like things that the Puritans used to wear, and a full black ass-tight running outfit. She looked like a giant baby missing her diaper. I tried not to judge the idiots who had dressed up as pilgrims or poultry, but I felt free to judge the people dressed up as Indians because they were clearly loser racist bigots who deserved to sprain their ankles and they had better all be behind me, even though I wasn't expecting anyone to be behind me today. Also, since I was signing up the day of the race, I would have to wait for my finisher's medal to be sent in the mail. Really? A finisher's medal for a 5K/10K?

Can I take a moment to go off about finisher's medals? Call me a snob, but I don't believe that any event that the winners complete in under an hour deserves a finisher's medal. We're coddling our children and we're coddling our adults. Half the girls that participate in our girls' running program are overweight. I traded my t-shirt with an 8-year-old because hers was too small and mine was too big. I wear a youth large. She barely fit into an adult small. These girls could probably run a whole mile without stopping, but they know that they'll get the same credit if they walk, and they know that if the workout has a time goal, that there's no more reward for running than walking. Because it's non-competitive. Okay, I see it. Kids can get really upset when they "lose," but you know what? Losing is a part of life. And now we're coddling out adults, increasing the "acceptable" body fat percentages and trying to sugar-coat the fact that the Surgeon General had to increase the daily activity recommendations (60 minutes most days of the week) because we're increasingly sedentary and inactive in our everyday lives. Now a 5K is treated like some huge achievement. In some countries (even some people in cities like San Francisco) you can't get through your day without walking 3.1 miles. And here we are awarding finisher's medals to people finishing a 5K in over an hour?! It's like saying, "Congratulations! You managed to wipe your own ass AND tie your own shoes!"

No, you know what, I take that back. The people who finish a 5K in over an hour DO deserve a finisher's medal, because they are either so old, so young, so fat, or so out of shape that finishing a 5K really is a huge achievement (see the Biggest Loser lady who inspired me to run a marathon). But for the people who are otherwise healthy individuals, whether they run slow or fast, how good their Thanksgiving brunch will taste after the race should be reward enough. Someday I'm going to run an obesity awareness 5K where everybody has to run with a BMI over 30. If you are of a normal weight, then you have to wear a weighted vest that puts you over 30 (so I, as a 5'2" female weighing 125 lb would have to wear an additional 29-lb vest). Anyone whose BMI is over 30 would get a .1 mile advantage for every point that their BMI is above 30. Then I'll give people finisher's medals for a 5K. And the finisher's medals will be galvanized doughnuts. Hmph. Okay, I feel better now.

I was beginning to see where my $45 race fee was going. I wrote "NO MEDAL NECESSARY" on the address line of my registration form and went to pick up my chip.

"What do you mean, your chip?" Scout asked.

"They make you wear this computer chip around your ankle," I explained, pulling the OTT triathlon-style neoprene band out of the envelope. How much extra had I paid for chip timing? In a race where people were running with turkey waddles hanging from their visors and feathers on their heads, did we really need computerized timing? What ever happened to the days of tying it into your shoelaces or tearing the tab off the bottom of your number? I could feel that I was turning into a grouchy old man.

"What? So if you get lost in the woods they can identify you? Like a pet?" Scout asked.

"No! So they know when you started and finished!" It was funny to see her taking it all in. Scout wasn't familiar with the whole running culture. From the looks of it, neither were most of the turkeys (and pilgrims and Indians) here.

Finally we lined up and the race announcer went through an interminable explanation of how not to run off-course. When I saw how non-technical this course was, the explanation seemed even more preposterous. Most preposterous of all, though, was that the announcer was talking to a sea of ears plugged up with earbuds. Packed cheek-to-jowl with a bunch of white people in face paint, I couldn't wait to get started. I thought I would have to sit through a bunch of faux Indians pulling off their headdresses to sing the National Anthem (at which point I would have thrown up), but luckily there was no Star Spangled Banner in this crowd.

The fog horn went off, and we all started running. The first several steps were on some soft grass, and mere seconds into my comeback I felt a burning sensation spreading through my ankle. It didn't last long, though, and in no time I was darting through the sea of walkers and 13-minute-mile runners (with headphones, of course) who hadn't headed the recommendation to stay back if you were slow. I vowed to think of a way to punish these people someday.

My strategy for this race was just to sit back and listen to my body. I knew that I could finish 6 miles, even in my sad state of being, so this would be a question of just not fucking it up by doing anything stupid. Just run, I thought. I felt like a cyclist trying to run. My back and hamstrings were tight, and I felt heavy, not light and bouncy, like I was trying to muscle my way down the path. I felt like I was stuck in the first 5 minutes of a transition run for six miles. My muscles burned and my hips wouldn't move right.

Me hiding behind probably the only other 2 people in the race NOT wearing headphones.

As I thump-thump-thumped down the trail, I was passing more people than were passing me, ESPECIALLY on the "hills." I couldn't believe it. This was no hard-core technical single-track, it was more like "path running" than trail running and you could run at road race pace (not like I have one of those these days). And yet I was still passing people, even in the second half when things had usually sifted out and my too-fast pace usually catches up with me. Weird, huh? I wasn't running a blistering pace, but this pace felt tough. I tried not to look at my watch in fear that a "tough" pace would be 10-minute miles.

I was enjoying my elephant run; plop, plop, plopping down the trail, even kind of enjoying the burning in my lungs and crankiness in my hips and back that told me I was sorely out of shape. I was enjoying being in the woods, out of the city, and stomping over the eucalyptus bark on the trail. But I might as well have been out there by myself. I didn't breathe a word to another soul for the whole race. At first I thought that this was some serious turkey trotting, that people were too busy racing to offer encouragement or holiday wishes to other runners. Then I noticed the headphones. This sure was different from New England running... I wondered if I would ever meet any straight men over 40 in California if they were all wearing headphones. Who would I ever talk to?

Despite feeling like poop, it looks like my form was actually better than in any race photo I've ever seen. Forward lean, no forward footstrike, high knees... But the strangest part indeed is that strange expression I have around my mouth.

Over the last 2 miles I was closing in on a girl. Once we hit the six-mile mark, I decided that I would try to kick it in. She heard me coming and kicked back. Then my stomach kicked back. That's when I remembered my race strategy to not throw up, and let her go. As I crossed the finish line, a guy kicking behind me didn't quite pass me. The camera caught me just as I looked at him with a great feeling of well at least I beat you!

I left the finishing corral, grabbed a glass of water, and walked back to where I'd seen Scout around the 6-mile mark. As I walked, I saw a girl pull over just yards short of the finish line, duck under the line of flags, and puke her guts out. I'd done that before. I remembered the feeling. It's called a hangover. Despite being as out of shape as I was, I was glad that I wasn't that girl.

Much to my surprise, I'd finished in 52:39 for what Garmin called 6.32 miles. (Splits: 8:25, 8:18, 8:46, 7:59, 8:12, 8:27, 7:47). It wasn't the fastest race I'd ever run, but it was far from the nearly 60 minutes I'd been expecting to take. That put me somewhere in the middle of the pack in 70th out of 263 (top 27% of turkeys, giblets, and racing racists), and 9th out of 24 in my age group (38%).

Sure, sure, it wasn't a great result. I've fallen pretty far (back about 2 years to be exact), but at least while I was plodding along I was enjoying being back out there. Who cared that I was running like a bulldog rather than a greyhound? I had a whole, entire day off, I had food in the fridge, and money to sign up for a $45 race. I guess I had something to be thankful for...

I've got more plans and schemes coming up, but I'll save those for another post. Happy (belated) Thanksgiving, everyone!

I hate passing up free beer.

Dear Furry Man with Fuzzy Shoulders,

Please do not wear tank tops or running singlets anymore. Especially to events where you are going to sweat. It is not sexy. In fact, it is pretty gross. It makes the rest of your fellow runners uneasy at the crowded starting line because we are afraid that you will inadvertently touch us. And, by the way, I know you're the man who gets all nasty sweaty at the gym and then doesn't wipe off the weight equipment when you are done with it. That's gross too. You're gross. May I suggest you find a skilled hair removal specialist in your local yellow pages? Thank you.

Best,
Claire

Question: When was the last 10K I ran?
Answer: Sometime in the spring of 2006. I was living in Barcelona. I still smoked. I had a hangover. Joolie and I got lost on the way to the starting line and missed it by 8 minutes. Once we got close and realized that everyone had started already, we just started running. I set a PR somewhere in the high 50's.

If I signed up for a 10K I was pretty much guaranteed a PR. No matter that I'd already ridden over 130 miles this weekend, there was pretty much no way I could miss a PR. So I decided to switch out my Thursday tempo run for a Sunday 10K PR at the Malden Irish American 10K. I didn't even have to drive far to do it. Malden is only 2 towns away.

The race started at 11 a.m. How different from the races I've been doing the rest of this year! There were kids walking around with race numbers; also different from my usual trend. Most people were standing around in cotton t-shirts. Refreshing. I only paid $20 to enter (what a welcome change!) at the coat check of the Irish American club (a place that smelled like it had had a few too many Guinnesses spilled on its function hall floor over the years), and then wandered around watching everyone smiling, laughing, checking out the giant course map (a mapquest map printed out on a huge piece of butcher paper), doing cartwheels, anything but warming up. You can find more Massholes at an Irish event than pretty much anywhere else in Boston, and the Boston accents don't get much thicker than the ones I was hearing around me. Usually serious runners tend to be a dweebier, more white-collar crowd and don't tend to have the accent. I don't know if I heard an R all morning.

I showed up early. I got bored.

Half an hour before the start I went for a short warmup. I felt sluggish. I let my body pick the pace, and the pace it picked was 11-minute miles. Eight tenths of a mile later I was back and still not feeling warmed up.

I saw a chick stretching out wearing a pink top, pink shorts, pink socks, pink shoes, and a red Red Sox cap. I vowed to beat her. She looked stupid, and she didn't look that fast.

After some confusion over where exactly the starting line was, we lined up and they set us off exactly at 11:00. I was impressed at the organization, how they were able to set us off at the right time, and that the mile markers were dead on.

Running I felt like hell, but I figured I'd try to fake it. I'd set my watch to beep if I went slower than 8:00 miles. I might get tired, but I'm tough, I could handle it. It was only a 10K, a distance so short it almost seemed silly to run it. I followed the people around me, and after a couple of blocks I looked down to see that I was running roughly 7:15 pace. Oops. Better slow down. But it's hard to slow down when everyone around you is going so much faster than you're supposed to be. I consciously let people pass me, but I was still running too fast.

The majority of the first mile was uphill. I ran it in 7:44.

The next mile was mostly downhill, and I did a little bit of a better job of controlling my speed, mostly because it was already catching up to me. This was going to be messy. I ran the second mile in about 7:56. I'd hoped to run 8-minute miles, at least I was on the right track.

The third mile was flat, and I finally managed to get my speed somewhat under control. This was mostly because the first couple of miles, and all the miles on the bike this weekend were really starting to catch up with me. God, it was hot. It felt like it was about 95º (actually, only 80). I felt like hell and felt like I might shit my pants, but it was only a 10K. I could fake it for another 3 miles. I ran the third mile in 7:58, right where I wanted to be.

And then...

KER-PLOW!!!

Pieces of Claire went flying everywhere as I blew up into a million tiny little pieces. No matter what I WANTED to do, my body was going to make me slow down. NOW! No faking it anymore. We were running on a flat out-and-back section, and I saw the stupid-looking chick in the pink. She was about half a mile in front of me. Fuck.

I hit the turn-around and felt the wind in my face. I was thankful for it, since it was cooling me down, but did it have to be so damned STRONG?! For most of the back half of the course we had a 14mph headwind that gusted at times up to 22 mph. I ran the 4th mile in 8:23, exactly enough to undo all the extra seconds I'd bought myself with my overzealous start.

The 5th mile came and went. I alternated between yelling at myself to hurry the fuck up and wanting to go back to those 11-minute miles that my body wanted to run so badly. I ran it in 8:38. It was a compromise.

The sixth mile was more of the same. I ran it in 8:54. The red shirt that I'd been trailing since mile 2 pulled away and I felt like a failure.

In the last .2 miles a bunch of stupid punk 8-year-old kids decided to run out and run right behind me. Nothing makes you feel shittier than a bunch of 10-year-olds sprinting around you like you're a joke. I wanted to punch them. I wanted to push them under a car but there were none around. Then a lady that didn't LOOK like a runner passed me and I couldn't pass her back. And the stupid kids started saying to each other, "Are you still running?!" "My legs are tired." Stupid fucking kids, you've only run 3 blocks. I hope your legs are so tired that you DIE! Right at the last turn they had a bagpipe player playing a song that sounded like a hysterical dying duck. I felt like I was dying too. I averaged 8:00 miles for the last chunk. THAT's what I call a final kick?!

I came into the finishing chute all by myself in 50:37. My garmin said I had only run 6.13 miles for 8:15 pace; they say I ran the full 6.2 in 8:10's. I was over 5 minutes behind the bitch in pink. Whatever, I bet I look better naked than she does. She was kind of chunky and I don't think she had enough neck. At the end of the chute they took a look at my face to try and figure out if I looked over 21 and then held out a couple of drink tickets for me. "No thanks, I don't drink," I said. The last thing I wanted right now was a beer, I thought I might puke.
Then she said something like, "Oh, SHE'S the picture of health," that could have been taken as a compliment or an insult. Whatever, bitch. We're both here because we got the Irish drinking gene. The difference is that you come here to drink, and I come here so I won't.

I went to my car and changed into some flip flops (I still have gaping, raw sores on the backs of my ankles from my unfortunate sock malfunction last weekend - it's hard to take pictures of the backs of your own ankles, by the way) and came back to check out the results. Wow. I'd made the first sheet of paper! And somehow I'd managed to pull off third in my age group. I was going to get hardware in a road race! Alright, there were only 10 chicks in my age group, but I beat 7 of them. I got 6th woman overall, which sounds impressive until you see that only 23 women participated. Clearly the really fast girls didn't have the Malden Irish American 10K on their race calendar, but it was their loss. No free beer for them. And if those other two chicks had stayed home, I would have won.

It took them almost twice as long as it took me to run the race to begin to hand out the awards. I listened to the bad Irish band do jarring covers of Johnny Cash and Jimmy Buffet as well as some traditional Irish drinking songs. I seemed to be the only one getting irritated by the wait, since most of the freckle-faced participants, volunteers, and spectators were enjoying the $1.00 cups of Michelob Ultra made available by the race's generous sponsor. The race was to benefit the American Lung Association, and it kind of made me snicker to see how many people were lighting up once they got a couple of beers in them.

I got my medal, and then I went home, and that was it.

The end.

Anti-climactic? Yeah.