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.

Reckless racing

A couple of weeks ago, I received some very concerning news.

Don’t worry, it’s not cancer or anything. Although if I’m being perfectly honest about my health, I will divulge that a recent routine health screening revealed that I, Brooke High-Strung Andrus, suffer from high blood pressure. Shocker.

No, this particular bombshell came not from a medical professional, but from the infinite Internet time-suck known as BuzzFeed. The undisputed king of trivial lists, laugh-out-loud GIFs, and snarky commentary recently ventured into new territory: interactive quizzes.

Now look, I am fully aware that these quizzes are the epitome of meaningless frivolity—a digital metaphor for everything that is wrong with America. But like KFC, Lunesta, and Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, these silly little questionnaires are habit-forming. Eventually, you simply won’t be able to go on with your day until you know BuzzFeed’s opinion on which Girl Scout cookie you are or why you’re single. They’re basically the Generation Y equivalent of newspaper horoscopes, and most of the time, the results are pretty harmless. You might think, “You know what? I am a Tagalong. Thank you for enlightening me to this very important analysis of my personality, BuzzFeed!”

But every once in a while, you’ll get a result so horrifically appalling that it will stop you dead in your tracks and force you to completely reevaluate your life. Such was the case when I took the quiz titled “Are You Ready to Have Kids?” Here’s was BuzzFeed’s advice to me:

 Image courtesy of buzzfeed.com

Yeah. Scary. Obviously, I had to take BuzzFeed’s two cents on this particular matter with a grain of salt. I mean, let’s be real for a second: I live in an apartment with a hot water heater the size of a beer keg and shoddy electrical wiring that prevents me from running the dryer and the microwave at the same time. I put off removing moldy, rotting leftovers from my refrigerator in hopes that a tiny fridge fairy might come along and take care of it while I sleep. Perhaps worst of all, I believe it is 100-percent acceptable to wear socks that look like this, because come on, the rest of the sock is still totally fine:

 As you can plainly see, approximately 99 percent of the sock remains intact.

Also, I have to question the accuracy of any quiz that doesn’t offer “Every Taylor Swift Song” as possible answer to the question “What’s your relationship status?” Still, even with such glaring fallacies, I knew the quiz couldn’t be completely devoid of meaning. I just had to read between the lines a little bit.

Clearly, the BuzzFeed powers that be didn’t just take my quiz answers at face value; they used them as a series of tiny windows from which they caught a series of tiny glimpses into my very soul. And from the sum of those glimpses, they drew the only logical conclusion they could: “Here’s a woman whose idea of a great Friday night is a bottle of Yellow Tail and a shitty David Duchovny movie on Netflix. Seriously, could she be any more uncool? Jeez, lady, go lease a Dodge Grand Caravan already!”

After noodling on it a bit, I concluded that the quiz geniuses at BuzzFeed weren’t actually telling me to have a baby; they were merely telling me to stop acting like I’m about to have a baby. To stop being so predictable and responsible. To go out on some limbs and take some risks more daring than buying clearance meat or parking in a spot marked “For Jimmy John’s Customers Only” before walking straight through the doors of Chipotle. (To be fair, I really did feel like I was living on the edge of the law. It said violators would be towed at the owner’s expense!)

So, as an answer to BuzzFeed’s desperate plea for me to stop wasting my youth, I pulled the most insanely reckless move that a straight-laced distance runner could possibly pull: I signed up for a 5K race mere hours before start time. Okay, okay, look: I’m never going to be Justin-Bieber-drag-racing-crazy, or even Tom-Cruise-couch-jumping-on-Oprah-crazy. But check this out: I didn’t taper at all, I drank multiple beers the night before the race, and I ate a pre-race dinner most competitive runners would consider pure suicide: spicy Italian sausage pizza.

If I still haven’t convinced you of how coco-bananas my spontaneous race sign-up truly was, take a look at this flowchart depicting my normal decision process for race entry:

But I didn’t limit my new, more carefree lease on life to the registration process. Oh no. When I arrived at the race to find that there were approximately 12 available toilets for a crowd of nearly 2,000 runners, I made the quick—and spontaneous—decision to forego my warm-up in favor of evacuating my bladder. When I caught myself waffling over whether to wear my long-sleeve top in the race—chilly morning, no warm-up jog—I promptly shut down the internal debate that was raising my blood pressure more and more by the second and spontaneously ditched my pull-over. And when, about a half mile into the race, I noticed that my forearms were going numb from the cold, I shrugged it off and thought, “Meh. Give ’em another mile.”

With about 1,000 meters to go, I zeroed in on a woman in the distance—the female leader, as far as I could tell. Instead of hemming and hawing over whether my legs had enough gas left in the tank to catch her—as my former, baby-ready self might have done—I picked up the pace without allowing a single “Should I?” to cross my neural pathways. And when I surged past her with the finish line in sight, instead of stressing over whether she would come back to edge me out in the end, I thought, “Let’s wrap this thing up so I can get my free pancakes.” (Yes, there were free pancakes—I didn’t throw the decision chart completely out the window.)

And as I consumed said pancakes while enjoying a bit of entertainment at the expense of the poor soul who was conned into wearing a plush pancake costume—again, the decision chart still applies here—I felt content with both my performance and my newfound personal philosophy of spontaneity.

Even during the awards ceremony, when I found out that I not only did not win but was, in fact, beaten by nearly a minute, I just shrugged my shoulders, nodded my head, and clapped my hands for the badass runner lady who was so fast that I didn’t even see her during the race. (Hey, at least I didn’t take yet another page from my girl T-Swift’s book.)

To be honest, I was kind of impressed with my own maturity. No wonder BuzzFeed thought I would make an excellent parent. Clearly, any children of mine would be perfect pictures of poise and sportsmanship—even if they had a few holes in their socks.

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.

Medal head

Over the past few weeks, I have made a concerted effort to spread my wings and step outside of my comfort zone—my “comfort zone” being Netflix and microwave cooking for one (although let’s be honest: that’s a good-ass Friday night right there). So, when the opportunity to participate in a big 10K race presented itself, I nudged—nay, forced—myself to accept.

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:

The perfect predicament

My college coach always taught her athletes to focus on the positive qualities of each racing experience. In her eyes, a bad race was, if nothing else, a valuable learning opportunity. Over the years, this approach to race evaluation has yielded many important lessons: Fudging your entry time is not always a good idea. Pop-Tarts are not an appropriate pre-race meal. Official lap-counters cannot always be trusted.

A couple of weeks ago, I raced a 5K in Arizona and learned that there is, in fact, such thing as a “perfect” race—one that does not require any sort of post-race effort to identify the “positives,” because the entire affair is, from start to finish, one big, sweaty bundle of positivity.

Last weekend, exactly seven days after my perfect 5K, I decided to push my luck by entering another race. Considering that the second race occurred in Montana and was double the distance of the first one, I’m not really sure what I was thinking; I can only surmise that the thin mountain air compromised my brain function, severely impairing my ability to think logically. I mean, honestly, what are the chances of hitting the jackpot two weekends in a row?

“Slim to none,” you might say.

Somewhere between the freezing temperatures, icy wind, high altitude and aggressively long hills, “slim” got thrown out the frost-covered window. Before I even finished my warm-up, I knew there was exactly “none” chance of repeating the flawless race experience I had achieved just one week prior.

And…I was right. I know, I know, this story would be so much cooler if I told you that through the power of positive thinking and sheer determination, I was able to overcome the odds and pull out another perfect race in spite of decidedly imperfect conditions—or, at the very least, that I found five dollars. But alas, unlike Mary Cain—who can expect a perfect race pretty much every time she toes a starting line—I am human. (And in this economy, people are much more careful with their five-dollar bills.)

The problem, I have realized, is that once you find perfection, it is very difficult to replicate. Now that I know what perfect is, no other race will ever measure up. This is at once immensely satisfying and immensely depressing—like getting a surprise upgrade to business class only to have every subsequent flight for the rest of your life ruined by the memory of fully reclining seats, excess legroom and complimentary cocktails.

Similarly, even though I ended up winning the 10K outright by nearly six minutes, I did not feel entirely fulfilled. There was that lingering feeling that it could have been better—if it had been warmer, if the wind had been calmer, if the course had been flatter, if I’d had more competition, blah, blah, blah…

Not to mention that my prize as the overall female winner was a pair of size 9.5-11 athletic socks. But hey, let’s focus on the positive: I’m sure they’ll come in handy somewhere down the road—if I unexpectedly turn into an exceptionally large man, for example.

And now, because I just couldn’t resist, here is a crude artistic rendering of myself as an exceptionally large man:

The real Brooke Hogan

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.  

Liar, liar, spandex shorts on fire

Fifty percent of runners admit to occasionally fudging their PRs, and the other half are liars.

Actually, I guess that makes all of us liars. Which is why it should come as no surprise that my opening sentence was, in fact, a lie. I totally pulled that statistic out of Sarah Palin’s brain thin air.

Some might argue that lying is simply part of human nature. When was the last time you made an honest statement about your weight? What about your age? Your salary? Average number of drinks per week? The number of fun-size Milky Ways you’ve eaten today?

But seriously, how many times have you rounded down a race time when someone asks you how you did? I remember the day I finally broke 2:14 in the 800 meters for the first time. Well, technically I didn’t break 2:14. I ran an altitude-adjusted 2:13.98. But that didn’t stop me from telling anyone who would listen that my PR was 2:13.

I ran my first half-marathon a couple of months ago. My real time? 1:28:34. But that didn’t account for water stops. Or my infamous Porta-Potty fiasco. Or time lost on turns. So really, my time was closer to 1:28. And if you adjust for heat and altitude…

I’ve learned that all Facebook statuses relating to run/race times must be taken with a grain of salt. I’m sorry, but when you claim to have run three miles in 17 minutes when I know for a fact that you gave birth two months ago, I’m going to call bullshit.

When I see you at a local 10K three weeks later, a teeny-tiny-intsy-weentsy-itty-bitty part of me will wonder whether your claim was legit, and I will momentarily fret over the possibility of being beaten by someone who, mere weeks ago, was carrying a full-grown human infant inside of her body.

Then I will beat you by four minutes and feel good about it. Later, I will feel guilty and stupid for celebrating my victory. (Although the real victory is that I can celebrate with a post-race beer without having to worry about it tainting my breast milk.)

The bottom line is that numbers are a slippery slope. But there are certain people in this world who aren’t afraid of testing that slope, even if it means collecting a few mud stains along the way. And those people are politicians.

Political figures are always up for a good lie. I think it’s their way of gauging the intelligence of their constituents. Some lies are vague and inconsequential. Nobody seems to care when politicians vow to “do the right thing,” or “fix the system in Washington,” or “create new jobs.” We all know that these guys, if elected, won’t make much headway on any of these promises.

Instead, they will probably father illegitimate children, misappropriate campaign funds or have extramarital relationships with White House interns. And then they will lie about it.

So, by way of deductive reasoning, if runners are liars and politicians are liars, then politicians who run must be ultra-super-duper-mega-liars.

When vice-presidential candidate Paul Ryan claimed that he had run a “two-hour and fifty-something” marathon in a recent radio interview, runners everywhere perked up their ears with great interest. And skepticism.

If you’re reading this blog, you probably know why Ryan’s statement raised so many eyebrows: because running a sub-three-hour marathon is hard. I mean, I barely dipped below 1:30* in my half-marathon, and I’m a pretty good runner**.

Unfortunately for Ryan, confirming the falsity of his marathon time was even easier than confirming the paternity of the Schwarzenegger housekeeper’s son. If Ryan really were a sub-three-hour marathoner, he probably would have been aware of a little thing called race results.

Why he thought he could get away with it is beyond me. Contrary to popular belief, runners are interested in lots of things besides running—including presidential elections. It didn’t take long for the government watchdogs at Runner’s World to call shenanigans on Ryan’s claim. All they had to do was dig up some old race results.

What really gets me is the degree to which Ryan exaggerated his time. Knocking off a minute or two is one thing. I could even forgive rounding to the nearest five minutes. But misstating your PR by more than an hour? That’s just plain dumb!

Ryan’s only saving grace is that (1) most Americans don’t give a hoot about marathon times, and (2) his lie has been overshadowed by even more egregious fabrications, such as Rep. Todd Aiken’s imaginative take on the female reproductive system.

Ryan might lose a few supporters in the running population. He might even inspire a new vocabulary word in the running jargon handbook. (“You ran a 19-minute 5K last weekend? You’ve got to be Pauling me.”)

But, for most voters, Ryan’s stretch of the truth probably won’t be the deciding factor when they cast their ballots in November.

* Has been confirmed by documented evidence.

**Questionable at best.

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.

This, not That

Five months into my half-marathon training, I have come to a terrible conclusion: I’m turning into That Lady.

You know the lady I’m talking about—we’ve all seen her, or her male counterpart, That Guy.

They’re the way-too-serious recreational runners who cruise down the local river trail dressed in head-to-toe tech gear: compression socks, arm sleeves, moisture-wicking visors, GPS watches, hydration belts, Breathe Right strips.

In college, my teammates and I used to make fun of them. Of course, most of us were too poor to afford any sort of gear to supplement the oversized sweats and T-shirts we were issued at the beginning of the season. But come on, nothing makes you more legit than running a Division I college cross-country workout in a grey cotton T-shirt that was made for the world’s fattest cross-country runner.

So anyway, now that I have a real-ish job, I have been able to add to my gear arsenal. When someone suggested that I try GU in order to combat the “ugh” feeling that I experience at around mile eight of my long runs, I went to the store and bought a whole bunch of GU packs.

And just like that, I became That Lady who stuffs GU packs in her shorts before long runs.

The only problem was that ingesting the GU mid-run caused an unfavorable reaction in my GI tract. My first thought was, “Shit—did I check the expiration date on that mayonnaise?”

Turns out, Best Foods had nothing to do with my mishap. I had completely overlooked the fact that GU is supposed to be consumed with water. Otherwise, you don’t digest it properly. Rookie mistake.

Soon, I was That Lady who stuffs GU packs in her shorts and plans her runs around designated water stops. I even considered planting water bottles along my routes.

Maybe you’ve been there, too. If you’ve ever Googled “Public water fountains in [insert your town here],” then you most likely have played the role of That Lady or That Guy at some point in your life.

Right around the time when I was researching algebraic equations that could help me determine the water and GU intake intervals that would maximize my energy levels, I realized that I had gone too far.

When I started training for this stupid race, the goal simply was to finish. Once I got a couple of long runs under my belt and realized that I was definitely capable of finishing 13.1 miles, the goal was to crack the top 10.

By the time I was crunching numbers like a tax accountant with a meth problem, I was determined to win at all costs.

The thing is, I’m the kind of person who can drive herself insane over the most minute details of a race—stuff that has nothing to do with fitness or preparation.

The 800 meters was bad enough. During my warm-up routine, my mind was usually consumed by a continuous stream of ridiculous worries. Should I wear tights or not? Is my ponytail too high? Do I have a visible panty line? Is Dancing With the Stars on tonight?

And that’s only for a two-lap race. Multiply it by, oh, 26, and you can see why I so vehemently resist becoming That Lady. My obsessive personality can’t handle That Lady.

Therefore, I’ve decided that I shall henceforth be known as This Lady. This Lady eats GU whenever she feels like eating GU. This Lady doesn’t give a rip about VPL. And This Lady is going to kick some serious ass next weekend.

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:

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.

For the run of it

I don’t know if you, my loyal reader(s), have noticed this phenomenon, but the other day I realized that we runners have a totally sick and twisted self-reward system.

Last weekend, for example, I had a lot of writing to do. (Not the blog kind—the reporter kind that I am [poorly] paid for.)

As I hit the save button on my first of four articles, I thought, “If I can finish the second one before noon, I’ll reward myself with a run.”

I instinctively punched “command + W” followed by “command + N” as quickly as I could and got to work on crafting a passable lead for a story on the high school cheerleading camp.

With thoughts of spirit fingers and pompoms swirling through my head, I abruptly stopped typing and threw my brain into reverse. Had I just promised myself several miles’ worth of pain and suffering in exchange for several hundred words’ worth of pain and suffering?

Most normal Americans reward themselves with things like Starbucks lattes, pedicures or episodes of Toddlers and Tiaras. (OK, I reward myself with Toddlers and Tiaras too, but only because I feel obligated to do something productive in order to justify throwing away an hour of my life.)

But since runners generally get some sort of deranged satisfaction out of punishing their bodies for extended periods of time, we choose that over a cute new pair of shoes. (Unless said shoes happen to be the latest Asics Cumulus model.)

We do the same thing with our weekends. Everyone else spends the week slaving away at their jobs so they can cut loose Friday night and have some well-deserved fun. But what do we do? We get our TGIF on by enjoying a full eight hours of sleep so we can wake up early and—you guessed it—run!

I mean, think about it—how many times have you had the following conversation:

Friend: Oh man, it’s been a reaaalllllllyyy long week. What do you say to a pitcher and a few games of pool?

You: Actually, I was planning to have an early night. I have to get up at 6 a.m. for that half-marathon.

Friend: [Speechless with face displaying a look of utter bewilderment/disgust]

You: Sorry dude. See you Monday.

On that note, since I’m finished with this blog post, I think I’ve earned a nice five-miler. If I run fast enough, maybe I’ll reward myself with a bonus core workout.