Never Stop (Especially after you cross the finish line because there are 20,000 people behind you)

Ever since I moved to Phoenix, I’ve had some variation of the following conversation with pretty much every local resident I’ve met.

Arizonan: So, you’re a runner?

Me: Yeah. I ran track in college, and I still run pretty much every day.

Arizonan: Have you ever done Pat’s Run?

Pat’s Run—an annual event that raises money for the Pat Tillman Foundation and honors the legacy of a fallen American hero—is the crown jewel of the Phoenix racing calendar. It’s essentially the last major race before the city again descends into the fiery depths of hell (a.k.a. summer) for approximately four months. It’s also the Valley’s largest running event of the year, with more than 20,000 participants.

It didn’t take long for me to ascertain that I would never truly be accepted into the Phoenix running community until I had at least one Pat’s Run under my belt. It’s a rite of passage of sorts—an initiation into the fraternity of fellow crazy people who scarcely bat an eye at the thought of logging several miles in triple-digit heat. So when I found out that my company was sponsoring a team—and offering to pay half of each participant’s registration fee—I took it as a sign from the Universe that it was my destiny to run this race.

By the way, the theme of the entire shebang—and the inspiration for the title of this post—is “Never Stop.” And let me tell you, the organizers of this race really live out their rallying cry to the fullest extent possible—as in, “Never Stop promoting this race until everyone within a 500-mile radius uses it as a go-to topic of conversation when making small-talk with hobby joggers,” and “Never Stop allowing people to register for this event, even when the size of the race field far exceeds the capacity that the race venue can comfortably support,” and “Never Stop running, even after you have crossed the finish line, because there are literally thousands of people coming in behind you and that shit backs up quick.”

All in all, the race itself was fairly uneventful. My performance was neither outstanding nor abysmal: I finished the 4.2-mile course in 25:27 (the distance is a tribute to Tillman’s jersey number as a member of Arizona State’s football team) to nab sixth-place honors in the women’s race. Now, that might seem somewhat impressive considering the massive list of entries, but keep in mind that the vast majority of “runners” in this race were not runners at all. In fact, I would estimate that the true “racing” field—that is, people who actually treated this event as a competition—consisted of about 2,000 people.

Anyway, the real challenge of Pat’s Run is arriving not at the finish line, but at the starting line. Here’s what I was up against:

• 7 a.m. gun time
• 12-mile commute to race site (Arizona State University in Tempe)
• Road traffic from 20,000 race participants (plus spectators)
• Limited parking

Adding another layer of difficulty to the whole ordeal was the fact that I was flying solo. With no support crew to chauffeur me to the starting line and baby-sit my belongings, I had to plan very, very carefully. The night before the race, I hemmed and hawed over whether I should drive to Tempe—and deal with the headache of bottlenecks and parking wars—or take advantage of public transportation. I opted to go public, concluding that I would rather take my chances with smelly train bums than waste my adrenaline reserves contending with road-raging douchebags. With my transportation decision locked in, I chowed down some pasta and turned in early. Here is how it all shook out on race morning:

4:00 a.m. – Alarm goes off.

4:01 a.m. – I briefly consider the possibility that I am merely having a dream in which my alarm is going off, because who in their right mind sets an alarm for 4 a.m. on a Saturday?

4:02 a.m. – The race. I have a race. I have to get out of bed so I can get to the race.

4:03 a.m. – But I don’t really have to go to the race. I mean, I already have the t-shirt. And what’s the point of running when I already have the t-shirt?

4:04 a.m. – I paid $20 to run this race. I am running it.

4:05 a.m. – Then again, what’s the value of restfulness? Can you really put a price on sleeping in on a Saturday?

4:06 a.m. – I remember that Pat Tillman died for America.

4:07 a.m. – COFFEE.

4:10 a.m. – Still drunk with slumber, I clumsily jam a piece of bread into the toaster. I then take dedicate a few minutes to unnecessarily banging around the kitchen, slamming random drawers and cupboards in hopes that I will wake my upstairs neighbors—who apparently feel it is 100% acceptable to vacuum their floors at 11:00 p.m. Every. Single. Night.

4:15 a.m. – I stuff a piece of toast into my mouth. Chewing requires an exorbitant amount of effort.

4:30 a.m. – Clothes on.

4:35 a.m. – Hair done.

4:38 a.m. – Teeth brushed.

4:40 a.m. – Number pinned.

4:45 a.m. – How dafuh does this disposable chip thingy work?

4:50 a.m. – Chip thingy secured (I think).

4:55 a.m. – I gather up my essentials (money, debit card, ID, sticky note with emergency contact numbers written on it) and tuck them all into the tiny zipper pocket on the waistband of my shorts. I make the difficult but necessary decision to leave my phone behind.

5:00 a.m. – Phone-less, I get into my vehicle and drive to the closest metro rail park-and-ride. I realize that, for the next several hours, no one will be able to contact me. I’m basically off the grid. It’s almost as if I do not exist. I am a rogue outlaw.

5:15 a.m. – I purchase a ticket for the metro. I am surrounded by other racers, many of whom are laughing and chatting as if hanging out in downtown Phoenix at five in the morning on a Saturday is a completely normal and in no way insane thing to do.

6:05 a.m. – I arrive in Tempe. There is a sea of Lycra-clad people as far as the eye can see.

6:20 a.m. – I locate the start line. There is literally nowhere to warm up. Claustrophobia begins to set in.

6:21 a.m. – I decide to get in line at the Porta-Potties.

6:22 a.m. – I realize that, as usual, I have picked the wrong line. I refuse to move because I am already too committed.

6:30 a.m. – As I emerge from the Porta-Potty, I notice that there is a track directly adjacent to the starting corrals. I look from the jam-packed staging area—with its dire lack of warm-up space—to the perfectly empty, perfectly good track. Butt-to-butt people. Deserted track. People. Track. People. Track. Oh no, I’ve gone cross-eyed.

6:35 a.m. – I do 20 jumping jacks and slap myself in the face a few times.

6:40 a.m. – I need to use the bathroom again.

6:42 a.m. – Again, I choose the wrong line.

6:50 a.m. – I begin to stress over whether I will make it to the starting line on time. This only intensifies the need to relieve myself.

6:55 a.m. – I briefly wonder if anyone would notice if I just popped a squat behind a bush.

6:58 a.m. – I make it to the front of the line. I then put the “pee” in “speed.” (That means I peed really, really fast, for those of you who aren’t hip to super-funny, super-clever bathroom puns.)

6:59: a.m. – I hastily ditch my warm-up top on the curb next to the starting line.

7:00 a.m. – The race starts.

7:01 a.m. – My body is a skin-bag of pain and struggle.

7:13 a.m. – I snag a cup of water at the first aid station and dump the entire thing over my head in a futile attempt to shock the lethargy out of my muscles.

7:14 a.m. – My body is a cold, wet skin-bag of pain and struggle.

7:20 a.m. – I start to think that maybe running this race was a bad idea.

7:21 a.m. – Confirmed: running this race was definitely a bad idea.

7:25 a.m. – I see the finish line. I’m crossing the finish line. Heave. Gasp. Water!!!!

7:26 a.m. – I am being ushered out of the finish area. The next several minutes are a blur, but I somehow manage to navigate my way through the post-race expo, avoid all of the giant complimentary iced coffees being shoved into my face by a disturbingly peppy group of Dunkin’ Donuts representatives, collect my warm-up top—which, by some act of God, is on the sidewalk exactly where I left it—and make my way back to the metro rail station.

8:52 a.m. – I am awoken from a daze-like state of dehydration and sleep-deprivation by the sound of a robotic voice announcing my stop over the loudspeaker. I attempt to exit on the wrong side of the train. A kind elderly gentlemen politely stops me and points me in the right direction. I try to thank him, but all that comes out is a pathetic grunt.

9:15 a.m. – I collapse on my futon.

9:16 a.m. – Never. Again.

Alright, well, maybe next year.

Eight crazy things that happened at my Turkey Trot

In honor of this year’s rare convergence of Thanksgiving and the first day of Hanukkah—which, as every child raised in the Mountain West learned courtesy of Adam Sandler’s “Hanukkah Song,” lasts eight crazy nights—I have structured this Thanksgiving blog post around this sacred Jewish number. Think of it as a literary menorah. L’chaim!

1.) I won a pie. And in the process, I became enlightened to the immense motivational power of this hallowed circular pastry. Titles, medals, trophies, scholarship dollars—none of these even remotely compare to pie’s exceptional energizing quality. Every time I caught a glimpse of someone in front of me who could potentially stand in the way of me and my soft, buttery, flaky specimen of baked excellence, this was my thought process: She looks like she could be in my age group. Okay, her calves have wrinkles and she clearly reads every issue of AARP The Magazine cover-to-cover, but there is freaking pie on the line, and I’m not taking any chances. What if she’s like the female Benjamin Button? Beatrice Button, prepare to eat my dust. Then, a few minutes later: Hmmm...that’s either a 12-year-old boy with exquisite bone structure or Keira Knightley’s American doppelganger. Either way, I will not gamble with androgyny. Time to surge.

So worth it. 

2.) I embarrassed myself while receiving said pie. Usually, when the time comes for me to accept an award, I am able to reign in my excitement enough to create a façade of maturity and sportsmanship. But when the award is pie, I completely lose my shit. (Which, I’m told, makes other race participants uncomfortable. Whatever.)

Actual video footage of me when they announced that I had won a pie. (Source: i.minus.com)

3.) A dude in rubber foot-gloves beat me. Perhaps my only regret of the entire day was failing to out-sprint the foot-shaped-flipper-wearing asshole I spotted in front of me near the end of the race. But alas, with my pie secured, I simply did not give enough of a hoot to rally my fast-twitch muscles (or what’s left of them) for a kick-driven statement against minimalism.

4.) I was nearly outrun by a “13-year-old” girl. (The quotation marks indicate my doubt of said girl’s given age.) Why the suspicion? For one, I refuse to believe that my athletic prowess is comparable to that of a middle schooler—a high-schooler, sure, but definitely not someone who just got the official go-ahead from the Motion Picture Association of America to watch Dumb and Dumber.

The wrong kind of turkey trots. (Source: photobucket.com) 

But more than that, a recent workplace step-counting contest tainted my trust in the competitive integrity of my fellow humans. Just as one can attach a pedometer to a Fido’s collar for a few hours to pad one’s weekly step totals, one can enter oneself in a less competitive age division in order to increase one’s chances of securing a pie. (Believe me, my running partner and I spent considerable time contemplating whether we could pass for a couple of 45-year-olds.)

5.) I ran a 5K “PR.” (The quotation marks indicate my doubt of the race course’s advertised distance.) As much as I would like to believe that I ran a community Turkey Trot faster than any of my collegiate 5Ks, I am a realist. Pie may be an incredible motivator (see item 1), but it’s not powerful enough to revert my body back to a level of fitness I will never again achieve.

6.) During the race, I burned a number of calories that represented a mere fraction of what I would later consume, but I nevertheless justified my consumption of said calories with the completion of said race. Like a dieter who hits up Dairy Queen for a “reward” after 25 minutes on the elliptical—I broke a sweat, which means I had to have burned at least, like 5,000 calories, right? One large Snickers Blizzard with extra chocolate, please!—I reasoned that my 5K effort would cancel out all the gluttonous activity on the docket for the rest of the day.

Source: quickmeme.com 

7.) I solved all my problems—save for the one above—courtesy of the problem-solving station. Yes, this is actually a thing, which begs the question: Where was it during that whole congressional standoff fiasco?

We got 99 problems, but lack of pie ain't one. 

8.) I inadvertently shed my amateur status by offering my official endorsement of a commercial product. After the race, an Aquaphor rep offered my friends and me some free product samples on one condition: she had to take a photo of us holding them. So yeah, now that my celebrity is being used to market healing ointment, I am, by definition, a professional athlete. Eat your heart out, Mary Cain.

How to get owned in a 5K

Are you tired of always crossing the finish line first? Does the thought of winning another gold medal/blue ribbon/gift card/souvenir mug/pair of men’s running socks make you want to light your racing flats on fire and scratch out the Prefontaine quote you so meticulously stenciled above your headboard? Do you need a swift reality check to cool your ego and crush that ridiculous pipe dream of “going pro?” If you answered “yes” to any of the above questions, then you need to lose a race by an embarrassingly large margin—and fast! Based on my own experience racing a 5K in my hometown last weekend, I compiled the following step-by-step guide for running your way to a fantastically disappointing runner-up finish. Now, get out there and lose like a winner!

1. Train exclusively:

• on flat concrete paths
• at low elevation
• in temperatures above 100 degrees (that way, you’ll never go faster than 7-minute mile pace) 

2. Choose a race course that:

• is mainly dirt/gravel
• features lots of hills
• is located in a cool mountain climate

3. To promote maximum muscle tightness, select an event at least 1,000 miles away, book your flight for the night before, and put in a full eight-hour workday before boarding the plane.

4. When selecting your seat assignment, make sure you are surrounded by a half dozen screaming children whose parents are most likely deaf from years of auditory abuse—at least judging from their disinterest in controlling the volume of their unruly spawn.

5. Do not sleep.

6. To increase the chances of a major flight delay, travel as late in the day as possible.

7. Sit on the tarmac for two hours while engineers troubleshoot a “mechanical problem.” Let your paranoid inner voice convince you that this is code for “imminent engine failure,” thus signaling your adrenal gland to release of a healthy dose of cortisol into your blood stream.

8. Avoid using that tiny, despicable excuse for a lavatory by staying as dehydrated as possible.

9. During your layover, find the greasiest, most flavorless chicken sandwich you’ve ever spent $15 on. Eat all of it.

10. Arrive at your destination well after midnight. Do not go to bed until 2 a.m.

11. Toss and turn for five hours. Wake up unrefreshed and unprepared to compete.

12. Arrive at the race site 15 minutes before the scheduled start, allowing yourself just enough time to register, do three ominously laborious warm-up strides, and seriously regret your decision to show up.

13. Gasp and heave pathetically as you strain to keep up with the teenage girl who is kicking your ass.

14. Ignore the resulting chest pains.

15. Lumber across the finish line nearly 45 seconds after the first-place finisher. Wave awkwardly when the race emcee announces you as a “former star.”

Mission accomplished.

Running “Mom”eries

Back in my competitive running days, I did a lot of post-race interviews of both the formal (i.e., newspaper reporter) and informal (i.e., curious spectator) variety. The question I received most frequently—besides, “Really? There weren’t any other sports you could do?” and “Um, is that a dead bug stuck to your forehead?”—was, “So, how did you get into distance running in the first place?”

The short, gracious response: My mom.

The longer, less endearing answer: I used to watch my mom run when I was a kid, and I somehow developed an unshakeable inner resolve to beat her at it.

My mom hustling like a mofo in a half-marathon a few years back.

Either way, the bottom line is that without the inspiration I gleaned from watching my mother log lap after lap at the local college track all those years ago, I never would have discovered the sport I have come to love so much. So, in honor of Mother’s Day, I would like to present a timeline of running-related milestones I’ve shared with my mother throughout the years. Thanks for always being there, Mom. Even though I can beat you now, you’ll always be a winner in my book.

My Mommy-and-Me Timeline of Running Memories

1994 – I see my mom running laps at the local track and decide that I will stop at nothing to beat her, even if it means wearing out the heel lights in my pink L.A. Gear high tops.

1996 – I enter my first 5K road race. My mom enters the race for moral support. I show my gratitude by totally crushing her. Mission accomplished.

1999 – I run the timed mile in my sixth-grade P.E. class despite having a pounding migraine. After nearly passing out, I call my mom to pick me up early from school. Thirty seconds after we get home, I projectile vomit all over her immaculately clean bathroom floor. She rubs my back and tells me it’s OK.

2000 – I get stuck in a Porta-Potty at the middle school cross-country championships. In my panic to free myself from this poo-scented prison, I cut my hand on the jagged, negligence-suit-waiting-to-happen corner of the metal latch. I bleed profusely, miss the race, and cry like Tony Romo all the way to the emergency room. My mom hugs me and tells me not to worry—there will be plenty of other races.

2004: My mom gets sixth place in her age division at the Governor’s Cup 10K. This gives her legit bragging rights for the next eight years, at which time she discovers that her name is still on the list of the top ten fastest milers of all time at her high school (which is actually pretty badass).

2005 – My mom takes me to Spokane so I can run in a really big cross-country meet that my school won’t pay to send me to. I am driving and forget to check the fuel gauge before we ascend a huge mountain pass. The gas light comes on mid-climb, and my mom nearly has a heart attack as we coast on fumes to the first gas station at the bottom of the hill. She refrains from scolding me until after the race because she doesn’t want it to affect my performance.

2006 – State track is in Butte, Mont., a city known first for its giant toxic water hole and second for its Yukon-esque climate. But I’m an optimist, and as such, I pack like it’s going to be 75 and sunny. When we get there, it’s 30 degrees and snowing sideways. My mom rushes to a nearby sporting goods store to buy me a long-sleeve Under Armour shirt. Even though I know I am a huge idiot, she does not call me stupid. Instead, she lets it go and focuses all her energy into cheering me on. I win three state titles.

2007 – I’m about to make my college track debut in the 800 meters, and my mom has driven two hours to watch me run two laps. I trip and fall 150 meters into the race and get last place by several seconds. My mom hugs me and tells me I did great. It’s a boldfaced lie, but it makes me feel better anyway.

2012 – Even though I am now a full-fledged has-been, my mom continues traveling around the state to watch me compete in fun runs. She and my dad take me out to dinner the night before the local St. Patrick’s Day race. I order a carafe of house wine that I would estimate as one step below Franzia in quality, if that is even possible. The next morning, my mom wakes up with a terrible headache and is unable to make it to the race. Still, she manages to cheer for me through my kitchen window since the racecourse passes right by my apartment. She does not blame me, or my poor wine judgment, for her troubles.

2013 – My mom continues to read my silly running blog religiously and always has something nice to say about each entry. So, it’s about time one of my entries had something nice to say about her. Thanks for everything, Mom. You're the best. Much love.

A perfect 5 (kilometers, that is)

If you’re having a bad day, you should probably stop reading now, because what I am about to say is going to make you insanely jealous of my life.

This past Saturday, I experienced a perfect race.

I used to think of a perfect race the way I might think of a mythological creature—something that simply does not exist outside of fairy tales and Nicki Minaj’s sexual fantasies. In my mind, a perfect race was like a unicorn, or a good Nickelback song, or a bag of microwave popcorn with no burnt pieces—it just wasn't possible.

Granted, “perfect” is a pretty subjective quality. One man’s perfect is another man’s 1994 Toyota Tercel. So, to clear up any confusion about my definition of “perfect,” below I have listed my Personal Parameters of Perfection (oh yeah, that just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?). Obviously, these parameters are tailored toward racing scenarios. I think we could all agree that a general, all-encompassing Parameters of Perfection would include only one parameter: Brad Pitt.

My Personal Parameters of Perfection for Racing Scenarios

1. Temperature between 60 and 68 degrees Fahrenheit.

2. Wind so light it feels like a flock of sparkly fairies continually fanning your face with tiny palm leaves.

3. Flat, smooth course with very few turns.

4. Geographic location at or near sea level.

5. Field that is large enough to warrant chip timing but small enough that it is feasible to make multiple pre-race bathroom visits.

The Litchfield Park Friends of the Rec 5K satisfied all of these criteria. Plus, there was bouncy house at the finish! The only negative aspect of the entire affair was that I had to start behind a shirtless man with so much back hair that I can say, with 95 percent confidence, that he was related to either Sasquatch or the Kardashian family. Unfortunately, I was unable to snag a photo of him, but this detailed illustration should give you a pretty good idea of what I was dealing with:

To top it all off, I felt incredible! Seriously, if you train in a cold, miserable, high-altitude location, I highly recommend racing exclusively in Phoenix, Arizona.

Unencumbered by bulky layers of fleece and spandex, I felt light and free. In fact, I found myself intermittently looking down to make sure I was actually wearing clothes. (Although I would hope that my friend Kim—who, by the way, gets all the credit for finding this amazing race—would quickly alert me to that type of situation if it were to occur.)

I went out fast and worried that my unbridled excitement would end up biting me in the butt sometime during the last mile. Instead, I held my pace and felt invincible. I don’t mean to brag, but come on, how many perfect races do you get?

I sprinted across the finish line in 18:07 to grab first-place honors in the women’s race. To be fair, I have a sneaking suspicion that this 5K was missing a few meters. My pal Kim finished close behind me to snap up the silver medal.

I feel obliged to mention that although I edged out Kim for the win in the race, she later destroyed me in the tan-off that took place by her pool.

So even if you’re on the fence about the existence of unicorns, Sasquatch and perfect races, you now have irrefutable evidence that vampires are totally real.  

Half the distance, twice the pain

I know you are all dying to know how I did in my half-marathon debut this past Sunday. To make things interesting, I’m going to try out a nonlinear approach to my race report, à la Quentin Tarantino:

As I slumped down in the bathtub, awkwardly wedged between the top-right and bottom-left corners, I honestly wondered whether I would ever stand up again—not just because I was soaking my cramping muscles in hot bathwater when a bucket of ice would have been much more appropriate, but because I was pretty sure my internal organs were shutting down one by one.

OK, now let me explain how I got there.

When my alarm went off at 4 a.m., I was 100-percent convinced that it was going to be a glorious day. I wasn’t even tired. I skipped down the stairs like it was perfectly normal to be getting up in the middle of the night. I put on a pot of coffee and popped a piece of bread into the toaster. As I sat in the dark kitchen, sipping my morning caffeine and munching on peanut butter toast, I visualized my race plan one last time.

In my mind’s eye, I saw myself starting out at an easy, relaxed pace—maybe finding somebody to chat up for a few miles before really getting after it. Around the 8 or 9-mile mark, I would suck down a GU pack and chase it with a few sips of water—all without breaking stride, of course. Then I would kick it into high gear, passing people left and right all the way to the finish line.

The thing about life, of course, is that it rarely goes according to plan. For example, I didn’t plan on driving away from the house without my GU packs and subsequently wasting precious minutes turning around to retrieve them. I didn’t plan on getting caught in a bottleneck traffic jam on the way to the starting line. And I definitely didn’t plan on waiting in line for 25 minutes to use a Porta Potty before pushing my way through thousands of people to arrive at the starting line exactly 5 seconds before the gun went off.

I also didn’t plan on running the first two miles in a long-sleeved pullover. But there was no time to ditch my warm-up top before the start of the race, so I just sucked it up—actually, more like sweated it up—until I saw my parents a couple of miles down the road.

Despite all of my pre-race snafus, I was actually doing pretty well. I hit the first mile in 6:45, right on pace. I got a little excited the second mile and sped up to a 6:30, but I was feeling great, so I wasn’t too worried.

Even with the 6 a.m. start, the air was warm and I had a nice sweat going. Based on my extensive knowledge of sweat rates—thanks Runner’s World!—I decided it would be a good idea to hydrate sooner rather than later. At about the 5-mile mark, I grabbed a cup of water and gulped it down like a champ, refusing to slow down or stop.

About a half-mile later, my stomach rejected that water. Emphatically. I slowed down to about 8-minute mile pace and clenched. Hard.

All I could think about was that food poisoning scene in Bridesmaids. (“It’s happening! It happened.”)

I was terrified of re-creating my own real-life version of that scene right there in the middle of the race, which is why I resolved to make a beeline for the first Porta-Potty I spotted. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long.

There was a portable facility at the aid station right before the 6-mile mark. There was also a team of high school football players handing out water and Gatorade. I have never seen so many 16-year-old boys with perfect hair and skin, and I mean that in the least-creepy way possible. I tilted my head downward in an effort to hide the shame and embarrassment in my eyes as I pushed past the group of Justin Bieber clones, swung open the bathroom door and stepped inside to take care of business.

Even though I tried to be quick, I know I lost at least a minute in that stupid plastic outhouse. But I emerged feeling refreshed and 10 pounds lighter.

That feeling lasted for approximately two minutes. Then I was back to feeling like crap, even though I no longer had to take one.

As I plodded along, I noticed that someone in front of me was wearing a T-shirt with the following phrase printed on the back: "Half the distance, twice the fun!"

If I'd had any strength to spare, I would have lifted my middle finger to that shirt. Instead, I grunted and shook out my arms.

By the 9-mile mark, I knew I was on the verge of hitting the biggest wall in the history of walls. When I came up on the next aid station, I tore open the GU pack I had been carrying in my sports bra because I didn’t have enough time to properly secure it in my waistband before my hasty start. (Luckily, my ample cleavage provided the perfect hiding place for my little mid-race energy boost. Yes, I’m being sarcastic. I’m pretty sure it looked like I had some kind of boob deformity.)

I slowed down to power-walking speed, downed my GU with a few sips of water, and tried to settle back into a decent pace. About a mile down the road, the GU finally kicked in, which made running suck slightly less.

I continued on in a daze. By this time, I was running completely alone—a stark contrast to my visions of passing a continuous stream of tired runners as I chased the lead female pack to the tape.

I could barely make out the form of the next woman. She was at least a minute ahead of me, and although I gained on her a little during the final miles, my cramping calves let me know that passing her was out of the question.

By the time I reached the final stretch of road, my form had deteriorated into an awkward loping motion that probably made me look like I was experiencing gravity for the first time ever.

Then I crossed the line, and…it was over. At least, the running part was over.

I felt sick almost immediately. I went directly to the bathroom, where I camped out for about 20 minutes. As The Worst Stomachache of My Life Besides the Stomachache I Got After Eating Seafood at Applebee’s set in, I limped back to my family and told them there was no way I was sticking around for awards. I needed to go home. Now.

And that, my friends, brings us back to the opening scene—which is actually the closing scene. Clever, right?

Obviously, I made it out of the bathtub alive. I split the rest of the day between my bed and my couch. I swore to myself that I would never, ever run another half marathon ever again. Ever.

Then I looked at the results and saw my time—1:28:34. It was a good time, and I was happy with it—mostly. But I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I could have done better. Which is why I know that eventually, I will do another one. And probably another one after that. And maybe even—gasp!—a full marathon.

But next time, I’ll remember to stuff some Pepto Bismol in my bra, too.

Runner up

Forget all of that mental B.S. from my last post—after years and years of racing, I have finally found the key to motivation. It has nothing to do with state of mind and everything to do with tiny hands.

Last weekend, I let myself get roped into running another road race. OK, so I kind of wanted to do it anyway, mostly because I now have some sort of post-career complex that can only be mitigated by periodic racing ventures that prove I’ve “still got it.”

Since my last racing expedition was over two months ago, I figured I was sufficiently recovered and ready to go out there again and show everyone (read: no one who gives a good gosh darn) that I am still a formidable competitor.

Not to ruin it for you, but I ended up having my ass handed to me by over a minute. (The winner was a former teammate of mine and a nationally ranked track and field athlete, so I didn’t feel too bad. But still.)

Anyway, that is beside the point. Normally, I probably would have been crushed to suffer a loss by such an embarrassing margin. And normally, the time that I ended up posting—18:31 for 5K—would have required a fair amount of pain and suffering.

As I navigated the twists and turns of a rather hodge-podge course, however, I couldn’t help but smile. Yes, you read that correctly—smile.

The race was run in conjunction with the college homecoming parade. The gun went off just a few minutes before the line of floats, trucks and farm animals made its way down the spectator-lined streets.

I have to admit, at first I was a little nervous about having such a massive audience. In most of the road races I have run, the only people watching are course monitors and aid station volunteers speckled along the course at sporadic intervals.

But with this race, there were people everywhere. Cheering. Clapping. Foam-finger waving. Every now and then, a group of kids would step off of the curb and line up, arms outstretched, in hopes of getting high-fives from the runners. Hence, my smiling—I felt like a total rock star. Who cares if most of my fans were under the age of 10? They thought I was cool, and that was enough for me.

I didn’t even realize how fast I was running as I slapped hands with my droves of preadolescent fans, feeling like a slightly more feminine version of Justin Bieber.

Before I knew it, I was sprinting across the finish line and having a $50 gift card (hells yeah!) thrust into my sweaty hands as a reward for my amazing second-place performance.

Yep, still got it.

Pulling a fast one

Over the course of my career as a cross country athlete, one of the questions I have gotten most often is, “What do you think about out there?”

I’ve always hesitated to reveal the unglamorous truth, which is that, more often than not, I am simply thinking, “God, this sucks.”

Other runners claim to harbor only positive thoughts while racing. They are liars.

But really, isn’t a cross country meet just one big lie-fest? Do you really believe your mom when she yells, “Keep it up honey, you look great!” when you are 100 percent positive that you not only do not look great, but are in fact foaming at the mouth like some kind of rabid freak?

Unabashed lying isn’t reserved only for spectators.

Cross country runners almost have to be dirty, rotten liars to keep internal complaints (i.e. “I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than continue to subject myself to this agonizing physical and emotional torture”) from affecting external performance (i.e. stopping).

There are many methods of mid-race self-deceit. One of my go-to approaches is the comparison argument. It involves conning yourself into believing that the pain you feel is not nearly as bad as _______ (fill in the blank with the most terrible, awful experience you can think of).

Some runners opt to employ a hypothetical version of the comparison argument—that is, they choose situations that, though obviously painful, they have not actually experienced for themselves. Common themes for hypothetical comparisons include childbirth, crucifixion, shark bites and, due to the recent popularity of the film 127 Hours, amputating one’s own arm.

I prefer to imagine things I have actually survived. It gives the comparison more depth, as I can recall real feelings and images from the selected incident.

For example: “The burning pain in my lungs isn’t nearly as bad as the explosive diarrhea I got after eating Applebee’s seafood.” Or: “If I could live through a night at the Newark Airport HoJo, I will live to see the finish line of this race.”

Once I’ve exhausted my arsenal of comparisons, I usually resort to making promises that I have no intention of fulfilling. Like: “OK, if I keep my average pace under 5:45, I will reward myself with _________ (insert guilty pleasure of choice, i.e. an Egg McMuffin, a Taylor Swift CD, an episode of Kate Plus 8).

By the time I’ve written myself mental IOUs for two dozen Krispy Kremes and a puppy, the finish line is usually within sight, and the only motivation I need to keep myself going is the knowledge that I am within seconds of being done.

After catching my breath, gulping down several cups of watered-down Powerade and pouring cold water over my head, I punctuate the lie cycle with one last fib to ease the anxiety of toeing the line again in the future: Well, that wasn’t so bad.

Spectators need electrolytes too

Last weekend, I had to—excuse me, got to—photograph a cross country meet for the newspaper. As I was scrolling through my shoot, I realized that my photos were basically a fragmented visual chronology of how the race played out. So I thought, what if I applied the same concept to a written account of my experience at the same event?

After several days of drinking herbal tea and not shaving my legs, I was feeling pretty artistic. So here you go—my experimental venture into the world of fragmentary literature:

Boom! There they go. A lot of skinny people. Click, click, click. Did I get him?
OK, where next? Follow the herd. The herd is too slow. This camera is heavy. Leaders already at the turn? Cut across to the hill. Good Lord, it’s hot. Am I sweating? Rhetorical.

“Bill, where do we go to see him next? Wait, I can’t move that fast in these shoes!”

Watch out for rocks. And holes. Bump. Was that a child? Oops, sorry kid. Up the hill—God, this thing is heavy. Hold it out in front. Are you an idiot? Worth more than your life. Three points of contact. Like a football.

Up we go. Am I out of shape? Huff. Puff.

“Must be a lot harder running with that thing! Take it easy!”

Shut. Up.

“I don’t see him! Oh no, shouldn’t he be closer to the front? What’s wrong with him?”

Just in time for the front runners. Click, click, click. They look tired. Hot. Uncomfortable. Tell me about it.

“That’s it, Brian! Right on pace—you’ve got a good one going! Stride it out, now—just like we practiced. 10:25, 10:26, 10:27…Good job, Gabe! Work your way up to Brian, that’s it!”

“Oh my gosh, Dave, do you see the kid in front? How is it possible that he’s that far ahead?”

“Hey camera girl, get off the course! Runners coming!”

Click, click, click. Got it. Side step. Time to spare. Settle down, Mr. Panties-in-a-bunch.

Downhill. Not too fast. Plenty of time. Finish line. Spot? Crap, the other photog stole it. I guess this works. Crouch down. Flags! Overzealous runner moms! Out of my frame!

“Woo hoo! Way to go, all the way through!”

Click, click, click. Boring. Blow out. No expression. Wait for the stragglers. Much more dramatic.

Whoa, turbo. Working hard for 58th place. Right on.

Gatorade? Thanks, I’d love some. Cheers.

There's a map for that

The advent of Garmins and TomToms has made the art of map-reading all but obsolete. Some might even argue—cough, Miss Teen South Carolina, cough—that the art of map-having is equally outmoded.

Much to the chagrin of cross-country runners across the…um…map, young America’s inability to comprehend basic cartographic concepts has led to countless moments of public embarrassment and disappointment.

In high school, we always arrived at cross country meets absurdly early, which gave us plenty of time to walk the course as a team and review confusing twists and turns. (It also gave me extra time to scope out the bathroom situation and look for “secret” toilets so I wouldn’t have to wait in line every time I had to go, which back then was about 25 times in the hour leading up to the start of the race.)

As we navigated each bend and curve, I always found myself making mental notes about various landmarks. Like: OK, remember to make a left at the big aspen tree with the yellow leaves. Or: Hang a hard right at the red tool shed.

Pretty soon, though, all of my directional breadcrumbs started to melt together. Wait a second—I would think—was it left or right after the stinky mud puddle?

Trying hard not to let my mounting panic show through, I would ask one of my coaches, as nonchalantly as possible, if I could borrow a copy of the course map—you know, just to go over everything one last time.

Then I would usually disappear to one of my previously-scouted secret bathrooms, where I would stare at the map for several minutes in a desperate attempt to make sense of the jumbled smattering of lines and arrows.








But alas, I knew it was to no avail. I could memorize the turn sequence all I wanted, knowing full well that in the heat of battle, all would be forgotten. Sometimes I even acronymed the dang thing. For example: (L)iberals (L)ove (R)epublican (L)eaders. But even my catchy-though-factually-inaccurate memory-joggers (ha!) were flushed from my brain as my leg muscles hogged the blood supply.

At the larger races, I could get away with following people the whole way, which took some of the pressure off. Plus, those courses tended to be fairly well-marked.

But at the smaller venues, the course markings consisted of a few directionally ambiguous arrows haphazardly spray painted on the ground. And during my last couple years of high school, there was always a good chance that I would be in the lead—which is how I earned the nickname “Wrong-Way Andrus.” (From my own father, no less.)

It is also how I ended up losing a divisional title to one of my biggest high-school rivals. Out of all my racing heartbreaks, that’s the one I still haven’t quite gotten over. It’s like a cross-country-themed version of the music video for U2’s “Stuck in a Moment.”

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure what the moral of the story is. Pay attention in geography class? Stuff a Garmin in your sports bra? Stop listening to U2 (which you really shouldn’t have been doing in the first place)?

I don’t know. Maybe I should ask Miss Teen South Carolina.

Downward jog

Nothing says “dead meat” like a backwoods taxidermy shop.

So when I got off the bus at the starting line of the 10K I ran last weekend, I couldn’t help but feel like I was standing in the gravel parking lot of a bad omen in the form of a dilapidated, antler-encrusted log cabin. Still, as I made my way to the middle of a two-lane mountain highway in the boonies of Northwest Montana, I had a very exciting realization about the race ahead.

The good thing about driving six (point two) miles up a mountain road to get to the starting line of a 10K is that you will be running those same six (point two) miles down the mountain to the finish line.

“It’s all downhill from here, literally,” I thought as I did my final stretches. It was a stark contrast to the racecourse for my first 10K, which, you might recall, started with a roughly one-mile climb up a freaking mountain.

For my sophomore effort, I knew the key would be starting out conservatively. There was actually one steep uphill stretch in the final two miles, and the last mile was flat. If I abused my legs too much on the downhill, they would be totally useless by the time everyone else was starting their finishing kick.

When the gun sounded (and by gun, I mean some old guy shouting, “Boom!” with his thumb and index finger in the air), I let a lot of people sprint ahead of me. I fought off the urge to go with them, even though it definitely hurt my ego to be running behind someone in a skirt.

I flew through the one-mile mark in 6:10. Whoa. I knew I was running downhill, but dang. I immediately slowed down, afraid that even with my conscious effort to budget my energy, I had inadvertently screwed myself over.

Then I thought back on the rest of my experiences that morning: riding to the starting line in a rickety old school bus; starting the race 15 minutes late because there were clearly not enough rickety old school buses to handle the volume of race participants; peeing in the woods near the starting line and fearing an attack by a bear or a crazed hillbilly.

Obviously, the organization of this little fun-run wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of professionalism. I decided that whatever measuring device was used to mark the first mile was probably about as high-tech as the starting gun. Therefore, I opted to totally ignore my split. Instead, I kicked it up a notch and finally got around Skirt Lady.

I kept my pace even and manageable, slowly working my way up the field. Passing male competitors is my secret guilty pleasure, especially when they act all macho about it and immediately pass me back. This happened twice during this particular race, and I’m happy to report that in the end, I finished ahead of both the Bruce Willis look-alike and the sixteen-year-old cross country runner.

But those two were just the sprinkles on the cupcake. The woman who led the female field for most of the race started to fade on the hill. Before that, I had been content to let her go, but once I realized I was gaining on her, my eyes narrowed as I thought, “Game on.”

Amazingly, I still had some spring in my step after five straight miles of downhill pounding. I finally passed her with about a half-mile to go. I weaved my way down the final stretch, dodging 5K walkers and kids.

After crossing the line, my victory celebration was short-lived, as my quads immediately seized up. I limped around the finishing area in desperate search of electrolytes. Again, I thought back on the rest of the morning: rickety school buses; taxidermy shop; 6:10 mile split.

I was not going to find Gatorade anywhere near that finish line.

As I limped to the grocery store to purchase a sports drink, I couldn’t help but chuckle. Even with all of its quirks, this race was way more enjoyable than most of the races I’ve done. There was no pressure, I was relaxed and I didn’t overthink it.

Who knows—if I can talk my quads into it, I might even go back next year to defend my title.

Buyer's remorse

If you’ve ever been shopping in a supermarket, I know you’ve made at least one impulse purchase in your lifetime. My usual weaknesses generally fall under one of two categories: chocolate and Cosmopolitan Magazine.

This weekend, however, I expanded my repertoire of rash commercial transactions. On Saturday morning, I impulse-bought 10 kilometers.

Actually, to be more accurate, I impulsively agreed to register for a Saturday morning 10K race while (slightly) under the influence of a Friday evening microbrew.

As you might recall, I have never raced a 10K. In fact, six miles is on the far-right side of my normal training distance bell curve. One might even consider it an “outlier.” (That one was for my high school Algebra II teacher, who always insisted that math would eventually come in handy in my everyday life. It took eight years, but there you go, Mr. Hammond.)

What made my decision all the more surprising (and stupid) was the fact that I was fully aware of what this particular 10K race entailed: a roughly one-mile climb up a mountain trail just minutes into the race.

I know that many runners wouldn’t bat an eye at such a course. But I am not ashamed to admit that I am not that hard core. I don’t like dirt. I’m not a fan of rocks. And mile-long hills? Not really my style.

Remember, I’m an 800 runner. (Sorry…a retired 800 runner. I’d probably have to be a few microbrews in the hole before I’d agree to run one of those again.) The point is that I am naturally drawn to flat, hard, predictable running surfaces. Cement, asphalt and rubber are some of my all-time favorites.

Suffice is to say that Saturday’s race pushed the boundaries of my comfort zone. I showed up hoping to see at least one—just one—person at the starting line that I knew, for a fact, I could beat. But unlike my last racing endeavor, there were no old men in kilts, no middle-aged women in sparkly green tutus.

My heart pounded, and I started to feel a terrible twisting sensation in the pit of my stomach as panic set in. Suddenly, I felt athletically inferior to every Vibram-shod, GU-carrying, tech-fabric-wearing competitor in my immediate vicinity. That included the nine-year-old kid in the Transformers t-shirt and the eighty-year-old man in denim cutoffs.

I hung out near the front of the pack at the starting line, careful to allow any runners wearing singlets and/or racing flats to get ahead of me. I knew those people meant business, and I did not want to be the defenseless target of mid-race F-bombs when they had to go off-roading to pass me on the single-track trail.

I started out conservatively. My plan was to treat the mountain climb as an extended warm-up. You know, the kind of warm-up where you traverse several steep switchbacks while testing the structural integrity of your Achilles tendons.

Well, that plan fell apart about halfway up the incline, when I was forced to choose between walking and rupturing a calf muscle. During my walk period(s), I came up with a new plan that involved sucking it up and finishing while maintaining a safe and prudent pace.

On my way down the hill (and by hill, I mean nearly vertical and borderline-unnavigable mountain face) I made a quick assessment of whether I had a realistic shot at a come-from-behind victory.

In the distance, I could barely make out the form of a runner sporting a pink tank top and a bobbing ponytail. Using the basic rules of logic, I narrowed the possibilities down to two scenarios: I was either getting my butt kicked by some kind of badass-renegade runner lady or a dude who was incredibly comfortable with his sexuality.

I crossed the finish line and limped to the end of the chute, where I handed my tag to a race volunteer. (At least, I’m pretty sure I did. Apparently there was no record of me finishing, although I’m pretty sure the unrelenting pain in my back, thighs, glutes and feet provides sufficient proof that I did not imagine the whole thing.)

Then I sat down. Once my legs had stopped twitching involuntarily, I started stretching and massaging my calves. Even though the race had been, for the most part, pure hell, I was glad I made myself do it.

I finished (or at least I'm claiming to have finished) third overall for women, which according to my calculations, makes me 1/3 badass-renegade. (There you go, kids. Another practical application for math.)

Almost doesn't count

I would like to share with you all an actual race ad from my local newspaper:

There are a lot of active people in Montana, and most road races attract a decent field of runners. I suspect the organizers of this particular event, however, might experience some trouble in getting a good turnout.

If you can’t figure out why, I will demonstrate using the following hypothetical conversation:

Runner Guy 1: Hey dude, want to run a race next weekend?

Runner Guy 2: Maybe. What kind of race?

Runner Guy 1: An almost-12K.

Runner Guy 2: A what?

Runner Guy 1: An almost-12K. You know, like 12,000 meters, minus a few.

Runner Guy 2: Ummmmm…how am I supposed to target my training for a made-up race distance?

Runner Guy 1: Well…

Runner Guy 2: Also, how would I post that kind of PR to my letsrun.com profile? I would get totally called out.

Runner Guy 1: Good point. I guess we should probably hold out for a race with a more legit distance.

Runner Guy 2: My thoughts exactly.

In my estimation, such feelings of reluctance would not be limited to veteran racers. Even running newbies would likely hesitate to venture into uncharted waters of road racing. Consider, for example, the following scenario:

Newbie 1: Hey, do you want to run a race next weekend? It’s a school fundraiser, so it should be fairly low-key.

Newbie 2: Sounds like it could be fun. How far is it?

Newbie 1: Almost 12K.

Newbie 2: Huh?

Newbie 1: You’ve never heard of that distance before?

Newbie 2: No, have you?

Newbie 1: No, I just assumed it was a normal distance since it was printed that way in the race ad.

Newbie 2: I don’t know…I’ve only been getting Runner’s World for a few months, but I don’t recall seeing a “How to train for your first almost-12K” article. I’m not sure I’d be comfortable racing a new distance without a step-by-step guide.

Newbie 1: Good call. Let’s wait for that 10K in June.

For the record (mom), it is neither “fun” nor “cute” to use inexact distances for organized racing events. I don’t care that it is a family fun-run. I don’t care that it is a small-scale event. I don’t care that it is a fundraiser for an elementary school. What kind of example are we setting for those grade-school kids? Next thing you know, they’re going to be filling in answers like “almost 17” on their multiplication table tests for problems that read “4 x 4” or “2 x 8”.

So for future reference, if you are designing a racecourse and your measuring wheel comes up a bit short, don’t slap an “almost” in front of your intended distance and call it good. Push back the start and/or finish line. Add a second lap around the playground. Make the park loop a bit wider. I don’t care how you do it, but this “almost” business is unacceptable, and if left unchecked could quickly get out of control. Before you know it, the entire road race system will be compromised and you’ll start seeing ads for “almost-marathons.”

Sound track

Back in my high school track days, there were two voices I could always hear above the noise of the crowd during a race: my coach’s and my mom’s.

In honor of Mother’s Day, I would like to share a story with all of you. It involves my mom, a camcorder and the 800 meters.

Now, my mom is a football coach’s wife, which means she’s had plenty of practice in the art of obnoxious cheering. Over the years, she has developed a superb yelling voice that carries for miles and can be heard above even the most rambunctious of football crowds.

In general, track and field fans aren’t pegged as a particularly rowdy bunch, but my mom always wanted to make sure I could hear her shouting my name over the masses. Especially when I was right on the heels of a distance stud who had a national title to her name and had never lost a race on Montana soil.

It was a nail-biter that came down to the last fifty meters. With 200 to go, I surged ahead, thinking I was about to hand a freaking Montana running legend her first loss inside state boundaries—on her home track, no less.

I heard my mom screaming for me all the way down the homestretch, but in the end my premature move came back to bite me in the tukkis. My competitor lurched ahead of me just before the finish line, and my dreams of statewide running glory were dashed against the rocks.

Still, it was my most exciting race to date, and I couldn’t wait to go home and watch it on film.

My mom was always good about filming my big races despite the fact that she suffers from an acute lack of cinematic photography skills. When she really put her focus into it, she usually did a decent job. But sometimes she got so wrapped up in the action that she completely forgot that the camera was, in fact, rolling. This was one of those times.

Here’s a short synopsis of her footage from this particular race:

Starting gunshot to 200 meters (video): Grainy and shaky, head and body appear in frame sporadically.

Starting gunshot to 200 meters (audio): “Let’s go Brooooookkkkeee!” [Loud but controlled, with the occasional “That’s it!” added in for good measure.]

200 meters to 400 meters (video): Bits and pieces of my moving legs are occasionally visible between infield spectators.

200 meters to 400 meters (audio): “Stay with her Brrroooooooooookkkkeee! Looking goooooooooooodddd!” [Voice growing increasingly shrill, with lots of high-pitched “woooooooooos” added in.]

400 meters to 650 meters (video): Quick, repeated aerial motion shots of grass in sync with arm-pumping as camera handler sprints across infield to better view race action.

400 meters to 650 meters (audio): “Ahhhh! Brooke, you’re right theeeeerrrrreeee! Go get heeerrrrrrrr! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” [Pitch approaching hearing range beyond human capability.]

650 meters to 800 meters (video): More grass and shoe shots with brief finish line shot from behind.

650 meters to 800 meters (audio): Cheering devolves into indiscernible, unintelligible words such as, “Goooooaaaawwwwwhhhiigggggeerrissssiieeeeeee!!!!!”

Back then, it was somewhat disappointing to see my extremely out-of-focus head moving across the bottom tenth of the frame as the camera dialed in on the stadium lights across the track. Now I wouldn’t trade it for all the YouTube sensations in the world.

I mean, I know how the race went—I did run it after all. But while I was running, I only got to hear little snippets of my mom’s earsplitting two-minute-and-seventeen-second shriek-fest. (Yep, I even remember what my time was. Sick, right?)

Now that her vociferous cheerleading performance has been permanently captured for all of posterity, I can go back anytime I want and reminisce about how truly awesome she was (and is).

Happy Mother’s Day, mom. And thanks for cheering.

Yeah, that haPenned

Last weekend, while the rest of the nation’s cable stations were totally consumed by royal wedding recap, ESPN2 cashed in on a prime opportunity to televise a track and field meet without anyone noticing.

But since I couldn’t have cared less about whether Princess Eugenie’s headpiece indeed qualified as a hat, I was tuned into coverage of the Penn Relays.

I’m sure most of you were much too wrapped up in the debate over Pippa’s bronzy glow—was it real or was it fake?!?—to have caught the broadcast of this historic institution of track and field. Here’s the rundown of important things you missed.

My observations from the Penn Relays:

1.) You know that TV show It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia? It’s the one you’ve probably heard of lots of times but never actually watched. Well, I was shocked to see that, in stark contrast to the hailstorm going on outside my living room window, it really was sunny in Philadelphia. A spring track meet with pleasant weather? Hah! Imagine that!

2.) There were a lot of dudes in spandex unitards. I’m talking long sleeves and long tights combined into a single, full-body fashion fail. These skin-tight stretch suits appeared especially frightening in solid Texas Longhorn orange.

3.) Several track event winners, especially the professionals, raised their arms in victory upon crossing the finish line. Admittedly, I’m no elite athlete, but come on—who has that kind of energy after winning a highly competitive race at such a prestigious meet? I think lifting one’s arms at the end of any race longer than 200 meters should be grounds for automatic drug testing.

4.) This actually has nothing to do with the meet, but during a commercial break I saw some ESPN ad about how John Heisman was such an innovator of football because he invented the forward pass. So I got to thinking, if all you have to do to be considered an “innovator” of your sport is make up a new rule, I should really quit wasting my time blogging about running and instead start innovating. Here are a few ideas I came up with during a preliminary brainstorming session: combining “track” with “field” (i.e. the 3,000-meter hammer-throw, in which contestants would repeatedly throw and chase their implements over a total distance of 3,000 meters); spicing up less-interesting events (i.e. the 5K and 10K) with contact elements like slide tackles and jousting; adding a diving board at the end of the long jump runway and replacing the sand pit with a miniature swimming pool or Jacuzzi.

Not a chance in hail

The UM track and field team hosted its home opener (the Al Manuel Invitational) yesterday in Missoula. I attended the meet and, in true has-been fashion, mingled with fellow spectators and offered them my (usually unsolicited) opinions about the day’s performances. I even used introductory phrases like, “You know, back when I was running for the Griz…” and “Well, in my day…”

I sounded like one of those old-timer track junkies who creep around at local meets, stalk the athletes, and try to talk strategy with them before their races. I’m glad I caught myself before I started rambling about my days of running the 440 on a dirt track.

I had left the house that morning fully expecting to have an emotional breakdown at some point during the day. I pictured myself totally losing it as the mid-distance girls lined up for the 800 meters. And yes, I will admit that my eyes were a little misty when the starting gun was fired. But it was the high-speed, hail-speckled gusts of wind—not lack of emotional control—that caused my eyes to well up involuntarily.

I bumped into my former coaches at several points throughout the meet. When I stopped to chat with the head coach, he asked me if it was hard for me to watch and not compete. I assured him that I was decidedly not jealous of the 800 runners who had to deal with a nasty headwind laced with tiny ice shards as they fought their way down the homestretch.

“Ahh, come on,” he teased. “There’s a little part of you that was just dying to be on that starting line.”

Well, maybe a little, teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy, Ryan Seacrest-sized part of me. For the most part, though, I was surprisingly content to stay dry and (sort of) warm underneath multiple layers of clothing as I snapped photos for the Montana Grizzlies website.

After scrolling through my shoot this morning, I breathed an audible sigh of relief at not seeing my own agony-distorted face somewhere among my hundreds of race photos. Maybe I’m just trying really hard to cope with the loss of my status as a hail-fighting-renegade-badass. But seriously, would you be dying to trade places with any of the following athletes?