Fool's gold

There’s nothing worse than running an entire race believing you are in the lead, only to find out upon crossing the finish line that you not only did not win, but in fact had your ass handed to you by a margin of more than two minutes.

OK, so maybe there are worse things. Like passing a kidney stone or being the photographer at the Jessica Simpson nude pregnancy shoot.

But trust me, it really, really sucks to be fooled into thinking you won something that you actually lost, as I discovered this past Saturday during my second attempt at the local St. Patty’s Day race.

You might recall that last year, I out-kicked a 15-year-old girl for a hard-fought-but-slightly-embarrassing 5K victory. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments, but what can I say? I’m a slave to my hypercompetitive nature.

This year, I decided to attempt the newly added 7-mile distance. Why? F@*% if I know. I generally run 4 to 6 miles a day, so I was in no way prepared to race 7. But what great moments in history were borne of preparedness? Do you think Lewis and Clark practiced traversing the entire American west before they set out on their famous expedition?

When I got to the starting line, I took a position approximately four rows back. My lack of confidence prompted me to go out very conservatively—like behind-a-dude-in-a-plastic rainbow-cape-conservatively. (On a side note, this spirited gentleman was dressed as the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, which in my opinion is pretty much the most rad St. Patrick’s Day race costume ever.)

So while I was busy weaving through leprechauns and giant shamrocks, apparently there was some badass runner lady at the front of the pack who was working up an impossible lead over me and every other normal human female in the race field.

I finally got to the point where all of the runners in my immediate vicinity were men. Squinting my eyes, I could barely make out a few fast-moving figures in the distance. Naturally, I assumed that they, too, were men.

But you know what they say: when you assume, you end up losing races without even knowing it.

By the time I had made my way to the front of the man-pack, the leaders were so far away that I couldn’t even see them anymore. I came up on a couple of guys who were holding a decent pace. I hung behind them for a few minutes, testing the waters to see if they would accept me into their group. I felt like that weird shy kid on the playground who slowly edges his way into the sand box, hoping the other kids won’t notice. Before long, I felt comfortable enough to run right in the middle of these guys, unashamed of my labored breathing and intermittent grunting.

Around mile 5, my legs started to feel a little heavy. I knew that based on my training, I had reached my limit. I also knew that no matter how much I wanted to fall off pace, I couldn’t let myself falter because (a) if I let these guys go, I would have to suffer alone for the final two miles and (b) I was winning!

My breathing and grunting grew louder and more annoying. One of the guys in the group—probably tired of being distracted by my pathetic sounds of weakness—put on a surge. I watched the round sweat mark on his back get smaller and smaller as he moved farther and farther ahead. I knew I couldn’t let that sweat mark disappear. If I did, the next thing I knew rainbow cape guy would go flying by me, and that simply could NOT happen.

The sweat mark became my target. I gradually picked up my pace and moved closer to that moist, translucent splotch. With about a half-mile to go, I had made up most of the distance. As I listened to myself gasp for air, I wondered if it was acceptable for me to try this hard in a St. Patty’s Day fun run. Little did I know, there was someone sipping water at the finish line who had tried much harder than I did. Like two-and-a-half-minutes harder.

The finish came into sight just as I was beginning to experience some worrisome chest pains. I tried to quiet my breathing for the sake of dignity. Thank God I did not have the energy to do one of these as I crossed the line:

Photo courtesy of koadmunkee/Flickr

I smiled at the crowd as I stumbled down the finish chute. Some dude came up to me to collect my timing chip, and as I handed it over, I heard him say, “Great job! Second woman!”

Whoa, whoa, whoa, I thought. Did he just say “second woman?” Is he mental?

I limped through the crowd, desperately trying to find someone I knew and trusted—someone who could clear up the confusion and reassure me that this gentleman was obviously mistaken. No such luck. Instead, I heard snippets of conversations that confirmed my worst fear: I had lost without even knowing it.

Thankfully, all finishers over the age of 21 were entitled to a free beer. I whipped out my ID and gratefully accepted a cup of the best post-race recovery drink in the world (which also happens to be the best post-disappointment recovery drink in the world). Within minutes, I had forgotten the whole ordeal. The main thing was that I had successfully finished a 7-mile race without barfing or breaking something. Plus, I added this awesome beer mug to my sweet collection of fun-run swag:

Kilts & kilometers: the movie

As promised, here is the race video from Saturday's Run For the Luck of It! If you have trouble watching this embedded video, click here to find it on YouTube.

Enjoy.

The race that puts the "kilts" in "kilometers"

As I stepped out of bed this morning, every joint in my entire body produced some sort of snap, crackle and/or pop. My whole being was consumed by a single, all encompassing ache, and I wondered if this is what Charlie Sheen feels like every morning.

My hangover, though, was not of the hookers-and-cocaine variety. No, I had done something far more outrageous. I raced a 5K.

As you might remember from my previous post, I entered the race in hopes of reawakening my competitive spirit in a fun, friendly atmosphere. Well, that is exactly what happened…sort of.

In my college racing days, my pre-race ritual involved focused race visualization, an extensive stretching routine, a stomach-approved meal of plain noodles and water, and of course, an early bedtime.

After several years and countless repetitions of this boring regimen, it grew unbearably tiresome. I just couldn’t bear putting myself through it again, so I decided to establish a new ritual.

It involved thinking about the race as little as possible, eating a dinner of lamb stroganoff and beer, and ending the night with a concert fundraiser, another beer, and a scoop of ice cream. I went to bed feeling full, happy, and completely ignorant of the possible consequences of my irresponsible pre-race behavior.

I awoke feeling rested and calm as a cucumber. I ate breakfast, read the newspaper, played the free online version of Bejeweled—you know, all the stuff I’d do on any regular morning. I got dressed, laced up my shoes, and pinned on my race number. And that’s when—da dum (think Law & Order)—panic set in.

I started freaking out. I wondered if I could call in sick. Do people call in sick to races? My mind was spinning. I wasn’t ready for this. It was going to be a huge embarrassing failure.

I pulled myself together enough to drive to the starting line. When I got out, I felt an immediate sense of relief. How could I get worked up about racing people in green tutus and leprechaun costumes?

Then I spotted an old friend. She was completely hammered and slurring her words as she (loudly) proclaimed that she and I were going to “totally kill this thing.” So I would be racing with drunks, too. More relief.

She pulled me to the back of the crowd, where she introduced me to some of her friends, who I assumed were also drunk. Before I had time to push my way to the front of the pack, the race announcer was counting down to the start.

During the first few hundred meters, I cautiously jogged around men in kilts and women in sparkly shamrock skirts. By the time the crowd thinned out enough for me to settle into my normal pace, the leaders were well ahead of me.

But instead of panicking and attempting to make up all of the distance in one fell surge—as I might have done in the past—I just stayed calm, cruised along at a quick but manageable pace, and enjoyed the beauty and splendor of Missoula’s north side.

I was having a ball picking people off, when out of nowhere I heard a familiar voice calling my name. I looked to my left and was startled to see my parents driving next to me in their barely audible Toyota Prius. Electric hybrids might be good for the environment, but to unsuspecting road runners, they are really just a low-emissions accident waiting to happen.

Anyway, my cheer crew showed up periodically throughout the second and third miles, which provided me with a much-needed mid-race boost. “Go get those guys in front of you!” my mom squealed.

I was momentarily embarrassed, as I was sure “those guys” had also heard my mother’s comments. As I came upon them, I apologized for my vocal but well-meaning family. I moved past them, but as we approached the pedestrian bridge, one of them initiated a response-pass.

This guy—let’s call him Arm Sleeves, since he was wearing a pair of removable compression sleeves—blew by me as we started climbing the ramp to the bridge that spans the rail yard. As he made his move, he said something that was probably meant to be friendly and encouraging.

But I hate being passed, so it didn’t matter what Arm Sleeves had actually said, because to me it sounded like, “Ha ha, see you at the finish line, sucker!”

And just like that, my competitive fire was lit—and burning hotter than ever. In that moment, beating Arm Sleeves became the single most important thing in my life. As we spiraled down the ramp on the other side of the bridge, I took a moment to regain my composure. Then I moved in for the kill.

The final quarter mile was all grit and muscle memory. I ran faster than I’ve run in weeks. As the finish line came into view, I sprinted away everything I had left, convinced that Arm Sleeves was right on my tail.

When I finished, I spun around and realized that he, in fact, was not—but in my dash to cross the line before him, I had edged out a high school girl by a couple of seconds, which made me feel like a real bully.

Still, I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t excited about earning the women’s title in the 2011 Run For the Luck of It. And in the process, I learned that racing success has nothing to do with eating plain noodles. It’s more about mental control, patience, and fabricated rivalries with otherwise friendly competitors.

Coming soon: RFTLOI race video

Mmm...dark beer and marshmallows

Attention everyone: I have an important announcement to make. I’m about to pull a Brett Favre.

No, not the kind that involves inappropriate text messages and an embarrassing national scandal. The kind that involves coming out of retirement mere months after hanging up your uniform.

The truth is, as much as I have enjoyed eating real food for lunch and being free from the obligation of daily practice, I have missed the thrill of competing. With outdoor track season rapidly approaching, the itch to race is stronger than ever. Online Scrabble tournaments just aren’t enough to satisfy my competitive urges.

Luckily, I have found the perfect event to kick off my post-collegiate racing career: an Irish-themed 5K in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day. The only problem is that the race is this weekend, and I suspect that my fitness level has dropped significantly since the last time I crossed a finish line (at the Division I Mountain Regional Cross Country Championships last November).

To finish this race, I will probably have to rely heavily on muscle memory and the underlying threat of public humiliation. But since this is a St. Patty’s Day race, I will have one important advantage: my Irish family heritage.

You might find it hard to believe that I descended from the land of potatoes and leprechauns, considering my golden-brown complexion, long-legged physique and apostrophe-deficient last name. I anticipated your skepticism, which is why I took the liberty of conducting a meticulous scientific study to prove that my ancestors indeed hailed from the Emerald Isle. As you can see from the results, I was successful in my endeavor. I also inadvertently uncovered the reason behind my uncanny Chewbacca impersonation.

First, a pie graph representing my ethnic makeup:

Second, a photo of my shower. Yes lads and lasses, I even smell Irish:

So with the luck o’ the Irish on my side, I think my semi-pro debut has great potential. For an extra boost, I plan to eat a hearty pre-race breakfast of Lucky Charms and Guinness. I will also wear as much green as possible—perhaps an old Favre jersey?