Today's ride was some 55 miles of mostly downhill. Claire's ride wes somewhat shorter than that.
Ever since we arrived in Hemet, everyone had been apprehensive about the weather report for the rest of the trip. Would it rain? Would it hold off? What percentage chance of precipitation indicated just a sprinkle and what percentage a soaking downpour?
In the morning I looked at the weather report, and thought I might be able to outrun the rain if I got started early and shook a leg. I tried to appear helpful, but those in charge took that to mean that I *actually* wanted to help and gave me things to do. By the time I was actually put together and ready to go, half of the riders had already rolled out and it had started to sprinkle. Also, the ride leader was looking at me accusingly. "I helped with clean-up, and I'm not feeling super awesome so I'm going to try to roll out and beat the rain..." I said by way of explanation.
"Have you ever ridden this route before?" he asked.
"No but.." and I waved my cue sheet to finish the sentence.
"Let me show you something..." he said, and proceeded to read the sheet to me line by line. I had already memorized the first 4 turns, but his monologue had obliterated that memory.
At the turn at mile 44 I stopped him. "Trying to hold all this in my head is going to break my brain," I told him, trying to take my cue sheet back. He relinquished it, but not before returning to mile 22 to tell an anecdote and make a pun.
"... so don't go the 'Wong way!'" he finished.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought as I finally broke away. I'd had a conversation with him the night before as one equal to another, and it had been fine but when he had his "leader" hat on he was insufferable.
I had gone back and forth while getting dressed: winter clothes or not? Booties or no? I had settled on a summer weight kit with a base layer and fleece lined arm and leg warmers. I hadn't brought any rain gear, thinking desert rain or San Diego rain would somehow be less wet than San Francisco rain. As I rolled out and felt the icy clammy wind on my shoulders and neck through the jersey, I started to realize that I'd made a terrible mistake. I thought of turning back, but my stuff was already packed and buried under about 100 other suitcases. I was committed and I could already tell it was a bet I was going to lose.
After about 10 miles I started feeling icy rain drops, but it wasn't the sort of rain that made you wet... yet. By mile 15, though it was raining hard. The cold rain stung like needles and made the road slippery. The rain was also making my rims slippery and my brakes weren't working too well. Every time I've tried to ride in the rain lately I've hit the deck and shed some blood, so I was feeling pretty skittish. With the cold and the wet and the slick it was a damned crappy day to be riding almost exclusively downhill.
By mile 20 I was soaked and frozen. I have a policy against finishing any ride or run that is going to make me want to quit riding/running. So when I hit Temecula and saw a Starbucks next to a donut shop, I called it a day. I bought a coffee and called the sag wagon, and then went to buy a donut. Once I had eaten 2 donuts, the rain had stopped and I probably could have kept riding except that the second I stepped back outside I started shivering violently again. There will be other chances to beat the shit out of myself. I got in the van.
From the van I got to see the beautiful oak-lined road and canyon that everyone said, "looks like riding in northern California." It did in fact look like wine country... which is only 2 hours away and easy enough to get to. Not to mention the road looked pretty slick and had plenty of sand patches and crumbly potholes. I didn't feel too bad... instead I felt inspired to find other rides, on other days, when it probably wouldn't be raining...
Last night I found a small office with a door that closed, and was looking forward to a quiet night ALONE with my book. But instead I got cornered by a guy (who really is quite lovely) who wanted to watch the movie together (this ride is a lot like summer camp). Then, he asked me out. So after politely turning him away, I felt like I couldn't just fuck off to be by myself without hurting his feelings. Plus, he had cookies.
So this morning I was more strategic about my exit. I cracked about 2 dozen eggs to help with breakfast, cleaned up a bathroom stall including picking up a used tampon off the floor, and watched a bunch of the veteran riders strategically hang out drinking coffee while others busted their asses to clean up the church we'd stayed in. I decided that I'd done enough.
"Hey, look over there!" I didn't say. And then rode out in the other direction. My early escape was also made possible by the fact that there were only 2 turns on the entire 55-mile route: the one onto the scenic highway, and the one off of the scenic highway. Technically I would be riding the non-official route over the mountain rather than around it, but the only people who would be doing the "official" route were the "less experienced" riders, and flatlanders from out of state. Being around people all the time was really starting to grate on me, and I needed to make sure that I wasn't captured by a group on the 20-mile ascent.
As I pulled out onto the freeway, I passed the rapey vampire triathlete lady ("I vant to suck your vheel!"). I politely and cheerfully said good morning, while making sure to pass her and her much less annoying companion at a pace that did not invite them to follow.
And then I was just me and the road. For about 22 miles the road took me up to about 5,000 feet through the rocky desert moonscape with views down into the valley and across to the other mountains. It was impressive enough that I stopped to take a few pictures. That's saying something.
At the top I had expected the bitter cold of 2 days before, but the weather was sunny and warm with practically no wind. It really was a perfect day. Over the next 10 miles or so I gradually gave back about 1000 ft of the 5000 I'd earned, shooting through wooded areas, campgrounds and meadows... and of course horse farms. Other than the horse farmers and wilderness firemen, it seemed like the sort of place that only a few hundred people a year saw during camping or outdoorsy vacations. Of course, the several hundred cars that passed me on the shoulderless road belied that, but there was only one near-accident that I saw in 50 miles, so let's ignore that...
One car sat behind me for long enough to make me concerned, and when it pulled alongside, I realized that it was the director's car with his family. His wife - who is lovely and hardworking - leaned out the window and started taking pictures. I tried to look badass, but eventually I got sick of posing and stuck my finger up my nose. She lowered the camera. "Don't worry! We got you, girl!"
Wait... did she think I was the sort of person who couldn't wait to pick my nose until I was alone... and there was no camera in my face? I find that I am really confusing to people from the south, and my jokes usually wind up making me feel awkward and embarrassed. Oh well.
I had to climb back up several hundred feet in a couple of miles before I could come down off the mountain, and that's when I realized that my legs were bone tired. Not sore, just really REALLY tired. Luckily it was over quick and all I had was another flowing, gradual, perfectly graded descent where I hardly had to touch my brakes. I tucked and dove down the mountain. As I whooshed along I reminded myself that THIS is why I do all those tough, early training sessions: to be able to come out and have experiences like today. It had been a ling time since I did a run or a ride that made me remember that...
Because of my early start and not stopping for lunch, I was the first one to arrive at the night's sleeping spot. I had already grabbed my stuff, set up my sleeping spot, showered and hung my towel out to dry, and was helping unload the rest of the truck when the vampire triathlete rolled up. "Hey! I was looking for you to keep riding."
"Errr, I'm gonna go get pizza now," I said, throwing the last duffel on top of the pile. I had been back for over an hour. What did she mean "looking for me?" Creeper.
"Is there wifi here?" she interrupted herself. I waited until she was staring down at her phone and just... wandered off. Sometimes when you feel cornered constantly, the old Irish Goodbye is the only thing left in an introvert's tool kit.
This morning I got up early to get an early start. I know about all the science about drafting and shit, but I've been surrounded by people 24/7 for 2 days and I just wanted everyone to leave me the fuck alone! I helped make the coffee, I helped clean up from breakfast, I cleaned up my little sleeping corner, dropped my bags off at the truck and was ready to go. I went up to the ride director, a real pedantic schmu--- gentleman and asked, "Do I go left or right out of the parking lot?"
"We as a group would really appreciate if you didn't leave early because we've still got to clean up and you'll be leaving us holding the bag..." And he continued to lecture me like I was a kindergarten class for another 2 minutes.
"I have already helped prepare the coffee and breakfast, and helped prepare dinner and clean up afterward. And I noticed you didn't do anything to help with dinner, and saw you didn't get your ass up till breakfast was served this morning, you sanctimonious fuck!" I didn't say.
I helped throw bags on the truck, then went to mop the snack room floor on my hands and knees with a paper towel. "Do you want to leave early with us?" asked a triathlete who had said she "wanted to ride with me" in a way that felt a little bit rapey.
"I got called out, so he'll be looking for me at pre-ride announcements," I grumbled. "Go on without me."
As everyone was wrapping up, the irritating director shouted, "I need someone to clean the bathrooms...!" Immediately I headed that way, hoping that if I spent 5 min in the bathrooms picking up TP, cleaning toothpaste out of the sink and taking out the trash I might get to miss his long-winded description of the route. This was a man that I had heard spend 5 minutes describing every inch of the route to someone who had just asked if they should go left or right. He may love the sound of his own blabber, but I sure didn't. If you're going to describe the 5 turns before and after, every market I will pass along the way, and the history of the geological formations 10 miles to the east, then I will not be able to remember if I was supposed to go left or right after all.
Unfortunately, I did not miss the speech. He described every significant feature of the 78 mile route, as well as several insignificant ones. The only thing that mattered was that somewhere up ahead in the desert I was going to have to ride over some REALLY shitty pavement. "It's worse than you think," said a triathlete chick next to me. "And it's even worse than that."
"What's wrong with it?" I asked.
"It's just really poorly maintained." I'd ridden in New England after a bad winter. I'd ridden Morgan Territory Rd in Milpitas. I was sure I could handle a bad road, but I didn't want to be with anyone when I did.
So when the route took us past some iron sculptures of monsters and dragons and everyone stopped for a picture, I rode on. "I'll steal some pics off Google and post them on Facebook later!" I shouted as I turned around. Buuuut... I missed a turn, and wound up hooking up with the back end of the group with 5 extra miles added to my route. Damn.
I could see a clump of neon up ahead, and dropped the hammer to catch them. For 15 miles I chased at my top speed, turning myself inside out to catch first one and then another rider who'd dropped off the back. I had about 500m left to close when I heard someone behind me, "CAR BACK!" I looked behind me: one of the first guys I'd caught had been sitting on my wheel for at least 10 miles and hadn't come up for a single pull. I mean, I probably wouldn't have let him, but the gesture would have been nice!
I passed the group in the most unsatisfying way when they all stopped to shed layers. While I had been chasing, we'd ridden over a few miles of consistent and aggressive frost heaves, so I was sure the terrible road was behind me and I was probably okay to be a little more sociable. I hopped on a few pacelines through the desert. I'm not comfortable in packs at the best of times, and after one particularly aggressive pull I decided that I really didn't have the power to keep laying down efforts like that, and I would rather spend this ride watching the scenery than staring at someone's back wheel.
It's a good thing too, because a few miles later the bad pavement started on a downhill. It was so much worse than anything I had ever ridden. It was worse than chip seal. It was worse than when they score up the road for repaving. It was worse than frost heaves, plus patches, plus potholes. It was worse than cobblestones. There were some cars up ahead doing some dodgy driving pulling out of a turnout and I thought, 'You'd better figure your shit out, because I'm pretty sure I can't stop.' I slowed to a crawl and did my best not to let the road kick the shit out of me for the more than 3 miles it took to get through it. I felt like I was getting beaten up. Some jackass passed me and said, "So this is what it takes to get you to slow down!" I killed him.
Shortly thereafter everyone stopped for lunch at a gas station fas food branch (the Blimpees at the chevron in Saltan City - where all champions dine!), and I grabbed some fun sized Almond Joy bars (like a grown-up who knows how to take care of herself) and went on alone. The sandy and rocky desert was still all around me, and the Saltan Sea of to my right, but I was on a 4-lane highway with only so-so pavement and tons of road debris, so let's fast forward through the next 20-30 miles to Coachella. I knew I was in Burning Man and (obviously) Coachella territory, so I thought I would be in a remote desert that would be friendly to hippies and drugged out professionals escaping responsibility for a few days. What I was NOT expecting was a town dominated by miles and miles of lush green polo fields in the middle of the desert. You know: polo. Where rich white people ride on horses with croquet mallets while other rich white people in funny hats eat unpalatable snacks with made-up names. That is Coachella for the other 49 weeks out of the year, I guess.
Then I got to Indian Wells, which I thought I recognized from Badwater or Furnace Creek or one of those other rugged back-of-beyond events held in terrain that kills people. What I was not expecting was Disneyland for old people: golf courses, fancy restaurants, gated communities, an antique store with a marble archway that looked more like it might be the sort of place where the queen of England would buy a tombstone... and more of those lush green lawns between the road and the sidewalk, tended by friendly Mexicans. Fucking Disneyland for old white people!
I was the second one in, and as I dismounted a station wagon pulled up with the pedantic fucker's tandem on the roof. So instead of sitting down and eating snacks and drinking buckets of water, me and the Mean Girl from the first day helped unload the truck of 100+ suitcases. I didn't even throw any of the heavy stuff at his rotten daughter whose constant stream of consciousness chatter amounted to her shouting, "look at me! Look at me! Look at me!" over and over, and getting underfoot.
It's funny how life brings things back around. In 2010 I drove down to
San Diego and spent my first Christmas in California riding Mt Palomar followed the next day by this incredible descent called The Glass Elevator. In 2010 I was a broken soul on my way to healing. Now, exactly 6 years and 1 day later I found myself back on the Glass Elevator, at the end of another relationship and yet firmly established in California and much healthier in my soul as well. It seemed especially fated because for 5 of those years, I had been off my bike. I hung up my bike literally the day before I met Richie Porte, and started riding again a few months ago... almost 6 years to the day after I arrived in California. I'm telling you, this sort of timing only happens in novels. It seemed fated.
Everybody (or nearly everybody, anyway) left together this morning, but all the potholes and shit in the road washed there by the snow made me antsy to have open road ahead of me. So after a couple of miles I just rode away from everybody up a hill. I would ride a few miles with others here and there for the rest of the day, but for around 6 hours I was completely alone.
The route took me up and over a mountain with snow-covered meadows and icy winds. I was wearing one of those fancy wind-stopper kits and thick neoprene gloves that I could never afford when I used to ride, and I constantly wondered at how I used to ride in Boston through snow storms and in freezing temperatures without a second thought. How the hell did I do that?!?! If I didn't have all the best gear on, I would have been miserable!
Actually, with the heavy winds, the snow and the long climb I was surprised I wasn't miserable anyway. As it was, I was practically euphoric. Sure, I would have liked a lot less snow and wind, but every time I got grumpy all I had to do was look up and the grouchiness just fell off me. You should know (if you don't already) that this cheeriness is not my natural disposition.
I stopped for lunch and 2 Companions that I'd shared a few miles with yesterday materialized. We discussed taking a side route that added a few miles, but cut out a dangerous and non-scenic road. I said I was going to take it. Male Companion said he would stick to the cue sheet. Female Companion shivered and thought about triathlons. Or that's what I guess she was thinking about because when we parted ways a few miles later I heard he shout, "IS THIS THE WAY?!?!" Aw shit. Come on.
I had been enjoying my alone time, and didn't really feel like babysitting someone who wasn't paying attention. I especially didn't feel like spending the next 12+ miles playing the triathlete dick measuring game. After a few minutes of climbing and polite conversation I took a pull and went to my happy place alone in front. After a few minutes she pulled up next to me, "So where should I go if you drop me?" I went back and forth with myself for a few minutes. Do I do the nice thing and wait so that we can ride together, or give her directions and ride at my own pace? I gave her directions. She had Google Maps. She had a cue sheet and a route map. She could distract herself from triathlons long enough to find her way home... right?
A minute or two later, I heard her call out "car back!" Once the car was clear, I looked back. She was already about 30 yards behind me. I slowed down so she could catch up. She didn't. I figured we were on the same page and rode on, back in my solo happy place.
I dropped down off the side road and rejoined the highway. After a few minutes, I saw a sign that said "Hwy 76." Hey, wait. Am I dyslexic? I thought I was supposed to be on 79. I pulled over, pulled out the map and breathed a sigh of relief. 76 would meet up with 79 in a couple of miles. So I kept riding... and riding... and riding. I thought something might be wrong but the wind was at my back, I was on a slight downhill, and I kept convincing myself the intersection would be around the next bend... or the next... or the next? I had gone 5 miles in the wrong direction, downhill and downwind before I finally looked closer at the map and realized I'd gone the wrong way. Well shit.
And that was when the low battery beeps started on my Garmin. I had gotten lost, my Garmin wasn't going to make it to the last climb, let alone all the way to the finish but I was still ebullient. I started making up songs and singing them in funny voices to keep myself entertained.
Once I was back on track I did turn into a vicious crosswind that threw me a few feet across the shoulder, and then into a sucking headwind that could have stopped my bike short if I'd tried to coast. But eventually I turned up the final climb and even the headwind couldn't bring me down. I climbed for 12 miles singing (to the tune if If You're Happy and You Know It):
I've got 8 or 9 miles to the top!
I've got 8 or 9 miles to the top!
I've got 8 or 9 miles then I'm really gonna drrrrrop... (sung in funny dramatic voice)
I've got 8 or 9 miles to the top!
With about a mile to the summit, I heard a shout from the side of the road. "You want some water?!" Shouted one of my new friends waving a jug above his head from the stoop of one of those mini marts that you find in towns with only a handful of residents in the back of beyond. It looked like the sort of place where Yosemite Sam would do his grocery shopping when he couldn't drive the 2 hours out to the Wal Mart.
"I'ma push through to the end!" I shouted. I could see where the road dropped off the edge of the world.
The Glass Elevator is a 10+ mile descent that drops off the plateau thousands of feet above straight into the desert. It is perfectly paved and perfectly graded so you hardly have to touch your brakes, and you get expansive views of the valley and the boulder-covered mountains. Once I started the descent, nothing could dampen my spirit. No shit. I was singing "If You're Happy and You Know It" at the top of my voice. I didn't want it to end.
I wish I could bottle up today -- every minute of it -- and uncork it every time I felt down on myself. Moments like today on that mountain are what life really is all about. I'll forget that when I'm back in the real world. Remind me.
It has been so cold this winter. Okay, not Boston cold, but cold for a place where the same wardrobe usually gets you through the whole year. In the Bay Area it usually doesn't go below 45 degrees at night, even in the dead of winter. And it might only go below freezing once or twice a year. This year it has been in the high 30's/low 40's every morning for weeks. I have already run out of fingers (on one hand) to count the times there has been frost on the ground. When it's not freezing, it's raining.
I sure picked a crappy year to try to stop driving to work. My workouts this year have consisted of outdoor (always outdoor, so the dog can come) runs, riding my bike to/from work and outdoor 5am swims. I am so sick of being cold all the time!
So when I had extra vacation time to burn and I saw a listing for a 6 day bike ride in the desert east of San Diego, I thought, Awesome! Sun!
I am often wrong about such things. But I forgot that I don't know everything when I decided that it would probably be warm at the start at the University of San Diego. But the weather didn't know how it was supposed to be making warm, so when I got to the start (in SAN DIEGO I remind you!), it was in the lower 40's. Luckily I was wearing everything I owned, so I was warm. But if I had to pee I was screwed.
Eventually after about 20 miles of riding through neighborhoods and strip malls I was able to ride for long enough between lights to warm up. For a second. But then someone had to pee, so we all pulled over at the next gas station.
I was wearing bib shorts, under a base layer, under 2 jerseys so I wasn't going to pee unless it was an emergency. I saw a couple of people sitting by the gas station entrance, and one more twerp riding around in circles "for Strava" and rode up to them. "Hey, are you guys going to keep riding?" I asked.
"WE are..." said the female one, in the voice that Mean Girls use to let you know that you're less than dog shit, and should probably just douse yourself in gas down at the pump and set yourself on fire.
"Ummmm... okay," I said and started riding. But they were in fact NOT leaving just then, so I stood alone on the side of the road and ate a snack bar. When the Mean Girl group finally rolled I got to ride with them for about 100 yards down a hill, most of which I spent clipping in. Then they all flew through a yellow light at the bottom of the hill. I was the caboose, and it turned red on me, so I stopped and watched them go. Whatever. I didn't want to be their friends anyway.
I made new friends, and together we decided to skip lunch and decipher the cue sheet. A good stranger to ride with won't make you sit down for a 3-course high-fiber meal before a 20-mile gradual climb. A great cycling stranger will look at the cue sheet with you to make sure you're reading it right, they won't just blindly follow you, then blame you when you find yourself on the shoulder of the freeway lost and alone.We had decided on every turn while looking at the cue sheet together, which is why I felt okay when I led my two buddies onto the freeway. We had all read the line out loud, and agreed "Left onto Hwy 8. Stay on the shoulder. It's legal," meant that the only way we were going to get to a warm shower was to ride 3.5 miles uphill on the interstate. "Alright... single file... here we go!" I said as I pointed my bike onto the onramp. "It's legal!"
Wind be whipping like...
Once on the freeway I almost forgot about the 70mph traffic when I felt the crosswind. There are gentle winds that stir the leaves, then there are heavy winds that bend boughs, and then there are What the Fuck winds that make plants fly in all directions like they're running around in a blind panic. This was a blind panic wind, the kind that can pick you up in a gust and throw you over the guard rail down the 300-foot cliff-slope. And I thought all that was fucked up until I reached THE BRIDGE. On the bridge I could look at nothing but my front wheel to stave off the panic attack or else I kew that I was just going to do every time I'm in a high place - lie down flat on the ground and refuse to move.
"Hey, I think we dropped Male Companion back there," said Female Companion.
"Should we stop and wait?!" I asked, trying to hide my panic. I wanted desperately to stop, but wanted even more desperately to get the hell out of there. (Did I mention I was hit by a car a few weeks ago? So, while the situation was terrifying, my tunnel vision may have been a little exaggerated.)
"No, I think we can just slow down," said Female Companion. Noooooooooo! That didn't involve stopping OR getting the hell out of there. I used every ounce of willpower I had, and slowed down. And stayed slow. Finally, at long, long last we pulled off. No road trip pee-mergency will ever make an exit ramp such a relief ever again.
On the freeway we passed 3,000 feet. When we got off the freeway, we also crossed the snow line. The fucking snow line! In San Diego! The jackets that had come off briefly before the freeway, now came back on. For the remaining 12 miles, I had to ride around snow patches. I realize that I was on top of a mountain. And I realize that it is late December. But there were kids having a snowball fight! 50 miles outside of San Diego. That's just not right!
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.
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!”
