Everything about the race itself was awesome: fast course,
decent competition, ideal temperature, adequate number of water stops. It was the
post-race process that puzzled me.
Because even though the finish-line chute basically dumped my
fellow competitors and me directly into the post-race expo—where apparel
booths, nutrition stations, and Jazzercise (yes, it’s still a thing) dancers
could keep us occupied for hours—there was NO AWARDS CEREMONY. I repeat: NO AWARDS CEREMONY.
In
my opinion, this represented a huge
oversight on the part of the race organizers. Why? Well, I’m not exactly
proud
to admit it, but my years as a competitive high school and collegiate
runner conditioned me to crave the 30 seconds of fame and affirmation that a medal ceremony provides. Somehow, the high that accompanies the ritual of
having
a medal placed around my neck is enough to magically offset the horrible
agony
I put myself through to earn said medal—thus validating my efforts and
keeping
me coming back for more. So, while Lady Gaga and I might not see eye to
eye on
a lot of things—one of them being acceptable
uses for top sirloin—we’ve got one thing in common: we both live for the applause.
Without the promise of such a high, however, I had no
motivation whatsoever to linger alongside the hordes of sweaty people milling
around the expo. Plus, the lack of public recognition made the whole experience
a bit anticlimactic. I busted my ass to finish fourth overall for women—and second in my age group, thank you very much—but all the
stragglers out there still huffing and puffing away as I cooled down would never know that. So,
after I caught my breath and drank my complimentary bottle of water, I jogged
back to my car and left.
Fast forward to a few days ago when I went to collect
my mail. Underneath mountains of grocery store flyers and a few promising Papa
John’s coupons, there was a small padded envelope. The return address was a
P.O. Box for the Phoenix 10K. My eyes widened as a brief rush of excitement
flooded my body. I tore into the envelope with a zest I have not exhibited
since receiving my last high school report card.
As
I pulled my second-place medal from the mangled mess of
bubble wrap, I smiled with great satisfaction. Holding that medal made
me feel
good. Really good. And then, as quickly as it had come, that good
feeling
disappeared. Because about 15 seconds after I extracted the medal from
its packaging, I realized that it was completely and utterly useless.
Now look, medals might not be my award of choice, but I
enjoy them as much as the next obsessively competitive narcissist. The
problem is, there’s an unwritten rule in the running community that one can
only wear one’s race medal on the day of the corresponding event. Thus, the
value of any medal hinges on timely receipt.
With this epiphany, I suddenly felt very angry.
Why—WHY—would they send me this NOW? Was this the race director’s idea of cruel
joke?
WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS?!?!? I lamented aloud, shaking my medal at the sky.
When I returned to my apartment, I carelessly tossed that
stupid, worthless hunk of metal on the kitchen table. I just can’t deal with
this right now, I thought. I have
too many other things to worry about, and Wheel
of Fortune is about to start.
And there the medal stayed, taunting me day after day with
its hokey logo and its crumpled neck ribbon. I grew to despise—even
loathe—it. Why didn’t they just send me a gift certificate, or a water bottle,
or a nice pair of socks? I would have even settled for a couple of GU packets.
Finally, unable to endure the torment for another waking
second, I resolved to take action. Based on my rudimentary understanding of
human psychology—garnered from my introductory college psych course, the Jodi
Arias trial, and Shutter Island—I
concluded that in order to let go of my debilitating resentment of this object,
I had to live out the experience—or more precisely, the missing experience—that
it symbolized.
Obviously, there was only one way to accomplish this, and
even though I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it, I knew it had to be done. So, I
put on my race outfit, pinned my number to the front of my top, did my hair and
makeup (hey, it’s a re-creation—I’m allowed to take certain creative liberties),
and placed the medal around my neck.
Then I did something that, under normal circumstances, I
would never, ever, ever, ever, never, ever consider doing: I pulled out my iPhone and started
snapping selfies with reckless abandon. (For those of you who aren’t hip to
Millennial lingo, selfies are basically self-portraits taken with smartphones.
And according to this
article, they are “pretty much the most embarrassing photos you could ever
take, and everyone thinks lesser of you because of them.”)
With that in mind, here is the product of my digital
catharsis (Note: I hold the Phoenix 10K 100% responsible for what you are
about to see):
Cue standing ovation:
Cue standing ovation:
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