I really am getting too old for this

I just can't help myself. I really can't. There was no good reason for me to run another marathon. I hadn't run more than 13 miles all year... except the other marathon I had no business running (or were there 2 of them this year...? I forget.) In fact, I hardly think I'd run more than 10 miles all year, and I only made it to that distance once all autumn. But that never stopped me before, right? So when a vague feeling of dissatisfaction with my life coincided with my friend telling me that she wouldn't be running CIM after all, I just couldn't help myself. I offered to take her number off her hands. Hello, for the morning of December 4, my name is Caitlin.

CIM is the site of my best-ever marathon (a day when everything went right and I finished in 3:25). And two years later it was the scene one of my worst ever marathons which sent me through a dozen doctor's appointments to find out why I could no longer run faster than a 10-minute mile, nor string more than 3 of them together. The jury's still out on why my body suddenly quit on me, but the most likely explanation is that I'm just too old for this shit. Or too old to get away with the kind of high-volume, low-rest training that brought me to that incredible season of PR's in 2013. Now that I was starting to get my body back, it seemed predestined that I should run CIM yet again, although I didn't know what the moral (or punchline) to that story might be.

It's called
"Walgreens chic,"
and I'm rocking it.

So that's how I wound up back in Folsom, yet again on the coldest day of the year so far, hunkering down in a gas station parking lot. I'd learned my lesson from previous years and was wearing every stitch of warm and ill-fitting clothing in my closet:

• $8 Walgreen's hoodie that I'd bought before this race last year (one size too big)
• $8 Target sweatpants from the boys' department that I had bought for some other race (I thought Boston, but it must not have been because those sweatpants got donated to charity with an iPod still in the pocket, making them a good deal more expensive) 
• $5 Walgreen's thermal shirt that I had bought just because it was a good deal, and has now become one of my new favorite shirts 

Doing your everyday clothes shopping at Walgreens, and cherishing your purchases with the same fervor as you loved those trendy and chunky platform Mary Janes in 6th grade is an indication that you most certainly are getting old. Usually I don't use the gear check. It's just another thing between me and food at the finish. I would rather freeze my ass off at the start or throw away a perfectly good Walgreen's sweatshirt that I could cherish forever than deal with gear check. But I had become attached to my bargain sweats, and so I waited until the last possible moment, and then started stripping in the gas station parking lot, lovingly putting my $20 "outfit" in my clear gear bag and hoping I would see it again.

This is a picture I found on the internet, not one I took myself.

Luckily, the 11,999 other runners also had the same idea, and it was nice and toasty warm in the crush of people trying to get to the gear trucks. Picture the mob outside the Soylent Green trucks, or an overdue food delivery at a refugee camp and you'll have an idea of what it was like trying to get to that gear truck 5 minutes before the start. In the 40º morning, it was wonderful! Like cuddling with the love of your life in front of a warm fire on a chilly evening.

I wasn't quite sure what I'd feel like on this run. My preparation had basically consisted of taking a day completely off of training the day before, and then eating a week's worth of breakfasts in one sitting. Breakfast was a mistake. The oatmeal had turned to a cinderblock in my stomach, and I spent the first 5 miles trying to relax my way out of the side stitch it had given me. Once the stitch finally passed, I noticed that my hamstrings and calves both felt particularly tired and tight. That's another thing that's come with age: an awareness of my body, because now pretty much everything aches. Around the 10K mark I started to realize that this whole race wasn't just a "concept." I was actually going to have to run 26 miles today, with my legs. These legs with the painful ankles and hamstrings and calves and glutes. I started to really wonder how was going to finish this thing. I mean, I knew I could get there. But what mental reserves was I going to draw from to get me from here to there. I honestly had no frigging clue. The worst races (and experiences) I've ever had are the ones where I wrote a check that my body could cash, but my inspiration could not.

By mile 10 I had a pretty good idea of how it was going to go: not well. As I may have mentioned, I'm getting too old for this shit. I used to be able to sign up for a marathon and on very little training gut my way through it. But ever since I blew out my body, I have acquired an inhaler and quite a bit more mortality.

I never used to run with headphones. I used to like to enjoy sharing the experience of the race with those around me. But ever since smartphones everyone seems to be running with headphones. Even those nasty old coots running in cotton race t-shirts from 1987 that are so stinky and threadbare that you can see their back hair through the material wear headphones these days.  Since 2010 I have spent entire marathons where I don't exchange a single word with another living soul. For example: around mile 9 I looked over to the side of the road and saw something strange. "Are those goats on leashes?!" I asked the guy running next to me (who was not wearing headphones). He looked at me and said nothing. As we came closer, I confirmed that they were in fact goats being walked on leashes like dogs. I turned back to the same guy, "They ARE goats on leashes!" This time he didn't even turn his head. I live in a world where not even goats on leashes elicit a shared experience with those around me. So now I wear headphones.

This is another picture I found on the internet. Enough options came
up when googling "goat on leash" to convince me that
this is actually a thing that people (and goats) do.

Back to the race: I'm at mile 13, the wheels are starting to fall off, and I'm listening to music to distract me from my lonely existence. I decided that after every mile marker, I would finish whatever song I was listening to and then I could walk the next song. Once that song was over, I had to run until the next mile marker, then finish the song before walking again. For the first 2 or 3 miles it was pretty brutal. Instead of figuring out a way through, I started trying to figure out a way to drop out. I was serious, too. For those 15 or 20 minutes, if I had been racing under my own name I probably would have turned off course at the next intersection and called an Uber back to the hotel. (More on this later.)

Great job, Mason. Daddy's totally going
to get to the finish line because of your
inspiring art... Okay, that's a lie. But
your scribbles really will be the thing
that turns it all around for a complete
stranger with a fetish for drugstore sweats.

Then, in an instant something changed: A grandmother and a toddler were sitting on beach chairs at the side of the road with a sign that said, "Run like a T-Rex, Daddy!" Behind the clumsy block lettering, the sign had a really little kid's nonsensical scribbles. The lettering was all off-centered and unevenly sized, some of the scribbles were over the writing, and the whole thing had the effect of making it the jenkiest, ugliest, least inspiring sign I'd seen all day (including the woman who had painted "Go Marvin" the cardboard from the bottom of a flat of soda cans).

I don't know what it was about that T-rex poster, but I got a flash of what had gone into creating that crappy-looking sign: Grandma and toddler toiling away at their crime against graphic design, and the toddler genuinely believing that his scribbles would help Daddy. Grandma surely knew that the sign was crap, but she wanted to cheer on her son, and knew her grandson wanted desperately to help. Two-year-olds are pretty useless at helping with anything, so the people that love them channel their destruction into any old stupid thing and then congratulate the kid for on a job well done. Usually that annoys me about kids, but in that moment I understood that love just means pretending convincingly sometimes. When Daddy came by, he would know that his son had done the most useless thing ever and so would stop and pretend convincingly that he felt good because of Junior and his dumb sign. Daddy would pull his shit together for his family, they would all be happy to see each other, and they would all share in his marathon experience for a few seconds, and for the next mile Daddy would forget that he was pretending and actually feel a lot better.

Being a voyeur on that moment that had absolutely nothing to do with me (and that I didn't even see) turned it around for me. As lame as it sounds, that sign made me remember why I love big races and particularly this race. For the rest of the day, I never once had the wish that the race were over already. At Mile 16 I recognized the spot where I had borrowed a cell phone from a spectator the year before to text Richie Porte that I wanted to drop out. This year I felt possibly worse than I had the year before, but if Daddy could run like a T-rex for his family (honestly, what does that even fucking mean?!) then I could pretend convincingly and grit out 26 miles. I pretended so convincingly that I think I actually enjoyed myself the rest of the way.

It's a good thing that I had a good attitude, because I was destined to finish the rest of that race all alone, surrounded by people. The only human interaction I had was a woman yelling at me to get the hell out of the way as the 4:08 pace group overtook me during a walking break. (Fuck you, lady. Did I mention I ran a 3:25 here 3 years ago?) Coming through a relay point, I saw a "guide" for the visually impaired runners that was a dead ringer for Scott Jurek. I looked around me, and there wasn't a soul without headphones that I could say, "Was that who I think it was?!" (In fact it was Scott Jurek: I saw him at the finish... while I was at gear check).

On I went, leap-frogging with a woman I called "Pants" and a man I called "Jewish Santa Claus," in my head of course because no one would talk to me. Before I knew it, I was within the last mile. I'd sucked off my inhaler again around mile 23 and was starting to feel okay, so I thought I would pick up the pace. That's when I got a muscle cramps I've ever had. I never get muscle cramps, but my right hip shot through with pain as I swung my leg in front of me, and it nearly didn't hold my weight once it struck ground. For the rest of the run (about 3/4 of a mile), my leg threatened to collapse if I tried to lengthen my stride enough to run faster than a 9-min pace. I imagined all of the spectators at the side of the road thinking that I looked particularly pathetic. "Oh lord," they would think, "that one really is a sad sack. Some people just shouldn't run marathons, or should prepare better... Quick! Does anyone have an ugly sign with scribbles on it? I think she might die." I wanted to scream at them, I ran a 3:25 3 years ago! But of course, they were right. I had no business trundling down this finishing chute. I hadn't prepared. The 4:17 I ran proved it. It was slower than the race that had sent me to the litany of doctors' offices. But I can accept a 4:17 that I didn't train for far more easily than a 4:07 I did train for.

I still had a problem: Hotel check-out was at noon, and it was now gone 11:15. I saw Scott Jurek and his wife at Gear Check, and then called the hotel to let them know I was going to be late. The night before they had told me that I couldn't request a late check-out until the morning, and when I called at 3:45 in the morning, they said that they'd already awarded too many late checkouts. "Okay, well I'm going to run as fast as I can. I'll do my best..." I warned them. Seriously, what did they expect me to do? Drop out at 15 miles once I saw that I might miss my hotel checkout time (this was an excuse that I had actually considered a couple of hours before). I suppose that I'd broken my promise to the Marriott front desk; I hadn't run as fast as I could. But at least I was doing better than the guy over there puking his guts out while a cop stood over him and waited for EMTs to show up. That guy was definitely going to miss his checkout deadline. So when I called the hotel to let them know I was on my way, and they threatened me to be out by 12:30 "or else," I thought, You don't know how lucky you are to have a conscientious and responsible rule-breaker like me staying in room 406...

I put in a request for an Uber and... my phone switched off. I have that battery bug that makes your phone commit seppuku if you have an emergency with less than 40% power, and if I try to revive it, it only works for about 10s before it dies again. I spent 10 desperate minutes on the verge of hysterics telling my phone, "I hate you, you stupid fucking thing!" and then "That was all a lie. I'm so sorry, I love you! I love you! Please come back!"

Let me take a moment to thank Uber for the tremendous foresight to keep your ride request active even if your phone has committed honorable suicide, because after seeing my life flash before my eyes a nice retired woman named Cynthia came to pick me up. And the gods were really smiling on me, because Cynthia had been in a car accident in the 70's when she lost her sense of smell. So I sat in her warm front seat and emitted odors freely all the way across town as she told me her life story. I limped through the hotel lobby and up to my room at noon. Part of the reason that the bubonic plague spread so widely was because medieval Christians believed that anything that felt as good as a bath must be a sin. This was the kind of shower that would send a prudish 13th-century European straight to hell, and I honestly considered paying the fee and whatever else the hotel's "or else" entailed in order to stay in that shower past 12:30. It was torture pulling myself out of that bathroom. But  I'm a conscientious and responsible rule-breaking guest, and I was down at the desk at 12:26 checking out. I had even remembered to leave a wet, sweaty $10 tip (which had traveled the entire 26.2 miles in my bra) on the dresser next to the key. Yes, I am courteous guest indeed. Just ask Cynthia, she gave me 5 stars.

The way it should have been

You may remember that Trouble and I signed up for a series of three half marathons for an uber-mega-medal with lots of glitter on it. The first of these 3 races was the Golden Gate Half in San Francisco. Based on the 2 awkward guys with adult acne at the picnic table where we signed up, we thought that this would be one of those little podunkville races with us and like 200 other people. Then, this week Trouble and looked at the website for the first time. “Whaaaa? Race packet pick-up is at the expo the day before.” I hate it when I have to go to an expo the day before anything shorter than a marathon. “Where is Fort Mason?” Trouble asked. Arggghhh! Fort Mason is about 47 stoplights from the nearest freeway. And it’s San Francisco, so you KNOW there’s no parking nearby. Trouble decided to pay $40 (in other words, 60% of the registration cost of the race) to be able to pick up her packet on race day. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

The expo was nothing to speak of; you’ve been to one small race expo, you’ve seen them all. But in the event space next door, there was a hipster expo which was way more interesting. We walked around and looked at ironic t-shirts with octopodes on them, ironic tea towels that said “A doughnut is just a gay bagel,” and coffee microroasters auctioning off a 1 gallon Ohio fermentation crock. Whatever that is.

Running in San Francisco means start times early enough that the road closures don’t cause traffic for people trying to get to brunch. That meant that Trouble was at my house by 5am. Do you know how early 5am on a Sunday is? So early that the first Starbucks we went to wasn’t even open yet! I don’t mind waking up that early by myself, but with someone else, that hour just seemed uncivilized. We got to San Francisco right on time, but because it was San Francisco there was a road closure on the most direct route, so we had to take a giant detour, to get to a parking garage that wasn’t all that convenient (but was open), and walk just far enough that there was no way we would be able to get back to the car before the start if we needed to. On the way, we passed a police station at 6am on the nose and saw a meter maid pulling out in her little golf cart. Bitch! Where are you going?! I thought. Only San Francisco would be shitty enough to have meter maids out on the street at 6am on a Sunday.

Then we had to face the age-old question: which to do first? Pick up Trouble’s race number, or get in the porta-potty line? There never seems to be time enough for both, even if you do wake up before Starbucks opens. We elected to go for the porta-potties. If I were ever un-lazy enough to put on a race, I would have more than one bank of porta-potties. And I would have Purell in my porta-potties. Each line curled back on itself 2 or 3 times, until the whole area just looked like an unruly mass of people, and as always every person in my line was taking a long, leisurely poo.

Now we had to find Trouble’s packet pick up. And gear check. We didn’t have time for both, so Trouble went and ran up the hill and half a mile away to pick up her packet, while I got in the 200m line for gear check. That’s right: there were about 5000 runners, and two high school students grabbing gear bags. Soon enough, people started coming up the line telling us that all we had to do was pin our numbers to our bags and dump them at the truck. So I took our reusable shopping bag with Trouble’s wallet in it, tied the handles in a knot, tied my number on with one of those arm bands that they give you at an 18-and-up club, and hoped for the best. With less than 2 minutes to go, we made it to the start and started elbowing our way forward in the crowd. We almost made it to the 2:30 pacer before we could go no further.

The beginning

Luckily, after a brief 2-block incline, we started to drop down toward the Marina, which is flat as it comes. The trouble was, that Trouble and I were stuck 2/3 of the way back in the pack, and once we were on the Marina, they squeezed the whole race onto the sidewalk. Trouble and I spent the first few miles ducking and diving through tutus and waddling meatballs before we could even find our stride.

San Francisco is known for the hills, but you could run 5.5 miles that looks like this:

Or you could run 5.5 miles that looks like this:

If I were arranging a race, I would choose a course that incorporated a couple of humane hills, but let runners get into a groove and test themselves. I wouldn't have them keep doubling up to approach every hill that my permits covered from every direction, but that's just me...

To the bridge

Because we were in San Francisco, they just had to run us up over the bridge, which is fun and exciting, but the Golden Gate bridge is at the top of a hill. The most direct way up to the bridge looks like this little 1K climb:

But we ran right past the most obvious route up to the bridge and ran up the back way. Which was fine. From sea level, I looked up the hill and saw people running away from the bridge. “Who are those people?” I said to Trouble. The bridge is 1.7 mi long in each direction, so there’s no way they had already gone and come back. Once we got to the top, I found out we were those people. We’d just run up 200 feet, only to run back down to the beach, and then run back up the same hill the longest way to the bridge.

As we made the final approach to the bridge, Trouble fell behind me as I slipped through two tall guys’ elbows as they closed in from each side. I kept waiting for her to catch up so that I could say, “Was that woman wearing two scrunchies?!” but I never saw here again.

I’ve ridden and run over the bridge countless times, but every time I’ve ever run across in a race, they had always shut down 2 lanes for us to run across. As we came up to the bridge, we headed toward the road… and then they turned us onto the pedestrian walkway. You know, the one that people jump off of. The one that’s only wide enough for three people abreast, except when there is an emergency call box, maintenance equipment or bridge tower to run around. Then it’s narrower. 6 miles into the race, I was still ducking and dodging around people trying to find the right pace. Every time I started to find a rhythm, I got stuck behind some asshole taking a selfie. One guy I swear was face timing.

Marin

The most direct way to turn around on the bridge and run back the other way is to run around the parking lot, go through the underpass, and run up a slight incline to the pedestrian walkway on the other side. The elevation profile looks like this.

Instead, they directed us off the edge of the hill onto an unpaved path that dropped us down toward the water and under the bridge. Trail running! The elevation profile of this route looks like this:

The Bridge… again

Then we ran back over the bridge. There were more selfies. More bottlenecks, but it was finally taking me some time to catch people, and they were staying with me longer and longer.

The humidity that had been in the air at the start had congealed into fog as we had come up to the bridge almost an hour ago. And now that fog had condensed further into a misty, dreary rain.

The mist

I already have a tendency to slam my feet into the ground and figure out the balance part later, so as the misty rain slicked up the sidewalk all I could think about was what would happen if my feet slipped out from under me. Perhaps I would fall forward and break my teeth on the concrete. Maybe I would slip like on a banana peel and crack my tailbone. Perhaps there would be some spectacular protracted stumbling and windmilling of arms and I would take out other runners like a grabby bowling ball. And if I ate shit, would I get up and keep running or take it as an excuse to walk it in while I nursed my hurt feelings, giving dirty looks to anyone who cheered me on.

As I thought all this through, I heard a scuffle of shoes, then a thump and clatter as a man right over my shoulder tripped over the concrete foot of a temporary barrier as the course again funneled down to a narrower passage. Putz, I thought. You almost took me out like a bowling pin.

I feel awful, I feel awful, I feel awful, I feel awful... When I think about you I touch myself...

We had reached the point in the race where it was starting to get a little old. In fact, it had started to get old at the exact moment when I had finally felt like I could run my own pace. My focus was narrowing and thoughts getting less and less complex. I found myself singing “I Touch Myself” over and over in my head. God knows where it came from, but for the rest of the race my brain sang to me over and over, “I don’t want anybody else. When I think about you I touch myself.” I would try to stop, think about something else, sing another song, but after a few seconds my brain would slip and the pitter patter of my feet would drop the record needle of my brain right back on, “[inhale] I don’t want… [exhale] anybody else… [inhale] when I think about you… [exhale] I touch myself… ooh ooh ooh…”

The flat

Finally we reached sea level again, and I knew we’d run up every hill we possibly could and it would be flat all the way back to the finish. That’s when my legs fell off.

We ran a brief stretch back toward the bridge one final time, and then doubled back. This would be my first chance to see how far ahead of Trouble I was. She was my bad luck charm, and dammit, I refused to be beat by Trouble again. But I was having trouble focusing, and finding it incredibly difficult to keep my balance on the crumbling pavement while I searched for her in the stream of people coming toward me. I never did see her. If I had, I would have liked to find out her opinion on the floral print running tights running ahead of me. Was I really running so slowly that an ass that jiggly could be keeping up with me, or was it just an unflattering illusion and the print hid the ass of a thoroughbred?

With a couple of miles to go, we got off the slick asphalt and onto a packed sand trail along Crissy Field. Normally I would have been happy for the break from pavement, but the sand seemed to be sucking the power out of my legs ever since I’d gained 300lb a few miles back. Running in a straight line was still taking all of my concentration, even though there was no one coming in the other direction now. Then the guy in front of me started texting, or tweeting, or trying to find Eye of the Tiger on his phone or something. He suddenly slowed to a lope and started swerving like a drunk driver as he typed, “Can’t wait for brewskis after this half marathon. #hydrateordie” Suddenly he cut to the left and stepped ½ an inch in front of me. I used my best runner judo block and held up my hands looking shocked ready to push him down in front of me to cushion my fall if I tripped. By some tremendous powers of mental strength and focus I managed to step out of the way with a breathy, “whoa.”

Suddenly, from my other side I heard a girl say, “Get off your fucking phone, man.”

God bless you, I thought as the girl and I ran away from the tweeting Dude-Bro. Then I thought, ...when I think about you I touch myself...

The last mile

Back on the sidewalk for the last mile, I was counting down the inches to the finish. I told myself, I’m not allowed to check my watch again until I think of a positive adjective for every word in the alphabet. Amazing. Beautiful. Courageous… I touch myself… Daring... I got one for every letter but K. There just is no positive adjective that starts with K. Well, as I type this, I just realized “kind,” but that’s beside the point…

Finally I was within view of Fort Mason, where the finish was. But… I couldn’t see an arch. Why couldn’t I see the arch? There were 3 places that the finish could be: they could make us turn left into the shipyard parking lot for a flat finish, they could send us right onto Bay Street for a flat finish, or they could send us up the short steep climb into the park at Fort Mason. I got closer and closer and I still couldn’t tell. Finally, barely 100 yards away from where the road ended, I could see the runners ahead of me…

Oh fuck no!

… they had us finishing up that fucking hill! It’s only a short little 30-foot climb over less than .1 mile, so I told myself to gut it out. I gathered myself and ran fast up the little incline. As soon as I reached the top and saw the finish a mere 30 or 40 yards away, my body went, NOPE! You will walk right now, or you will puke your guts up. 

I’m a puker. This was no idle threat. I did a quick scan of the sidelines and saw people standing shoulder to shoulder. If I tried to run, I would puke all over one of these nice people. With a nauseous, “wuh-oh” I started walking, and walked my ass right over that finish line. And just like a slap in the face, the announcer called out my goddamned name. Jerk.

Later, Richie Porte berated me for my decision. “But if you’d thrown up at the finish line, you would have been spewing magenta beet puke in your finishing photos! You missed your chance.” She’s right. That would have been the best thing ever

Gear

I waited a couple of minutes for Trouble to come through, and we started wandering around looking for our stuff. We crossed the park and went down the hill on the other side to where we’d dropped our stuff off. It wasn’t there. We climbed back up the hill and asked a warm-looking runner where she’d found her stuff. She pointed in a general direction and we followed her finger. We found 2 different signs pointing to gear, but pointing in opposite directions. Finally, we found an area barriered off. “Is this the gear tent,” we asked a guy inside.

“Yeah,” he said. “But there are a couple of guys checking ID’s at the entrance.” That was the stupidest thing I ever heard. This road race security was really taking it too far, especially with the lack of security at gear drop-off. I told the security guy as much, and that no runner runs with their fucking ID; that my ID was in my bag. He shrugged and let us in. We walked around in circles for a few seconds, looking for the piles of bags, but there was only the one tent…

“Trouble,” I said. “This isn’t the gear tent. It’s the BEER tent!”

A really dumb thing to do

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

. It took us a while of staring at it to put together that the medal was supposed to be a Willy Wonka style chocolate bar. That’s stupid, we both thought. But look at the cool jacket! screamed the display. We turned away.

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!