Okay, first off, I got lost. I got really lost. This is one of the top three things I hate in life. I HATE being lost. Worse, I was lost in some of the officially scariest parts of Massachusetts. Double-hate being lost in places where liquor stores and pawn shops outnumber other businesses four to one.
Then, I arrived with 3 minutes until the start of the race. Just enough time for a confused (but glad she’s there to help) woman to find my number, proceed to forget to hand it to me, and get embroiled in a conversation with some other volunteer who’s only marginally less confused. By the way, I seriously have to piss.
The SIREN goes off (what a fokking annoying way to start a race), and I hump along behind a bunch of people to the first 1/4 mile or so, and then a huge steep hill. Not that I’m being bitchy, but you know what? Try to design the course so that the killer hill is there after a slight warmup, perhaps, okay? Anyway, I have a motto at times like this: play the game they give you. So whatever, I go up the course.
I feel like crap the entire time. I’m way high up in my heart rate. I’m running faster than I normally do. And I still seriously have to piss.
But hey, I’m out running on a trail, and it’s a beautiful day, and everyone is being really nice. We’re all having fun. And then around four miles in, I *really* have to go. Forget it. I run off the trail, stop, and whizz into the forest. I hear a guy huffing along from behind. I’m thinking, gotta finish before this guy catches up, which of course is no way to talk to your bladder at a time like this, right? But whatever, I get it done.
Then, at the last 1.5 miles, there’s a really nice guy (looks like the head vampire from The Lost Boys) telling us all, ‘it’s only 1.5 miles from here, and it’s all either downhill or flat.’ For whatever reason, the guy behind me goes WHOOSH upon hearing this and shoots past me like I’m a discarded drink cup. (I feel exactly like a discarded drink cup).
But I play along, and I run a while. Then people start saying (and man, there were people EVERYWHERE on this course, which was a nice touch), “It’s just a little over a half mile.” Followed by, “It’s just a little UNDER a half mile.” I’m thinking, okay, maybe I won’t cancel my November marathon. Maybe I *can* run six miles without dying, and then a while later, some other guy says, “It’s just about a half mile or so from here.” I’m thinking, “ONE of the three of you is fokked. I’m going to pretend it’s YOU, mister last guy.”
I boot it up the hill, catching sight of that guy who whooshed past me (did I mention he had a border collie in tow?), and I run through the gates.
1:00:04. Not bad, considering I took a full minute off for whizzing, and I was at the very back of the pack upon starting. I’m calling it an even hour.
But man, what a sour mood I’m in. Happy for the race, and thrilled with the course, but just small, and bitter, and petty. I’m hoping it’s an incurable disease or something, because I’d hate to think I’m just that kind of a crappy person. 🙂
(But oh yeah! There was a boston cream donut at the end of this race, too. Wuf!)
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