Trail fail

It’s a cold winter day, and you really, really don’t want to run. Somehow, you force yourself out the door and head for your go-to winter running path—you know, the one that’s plowed and, consequently, very popular among fellow diehard runners.

You pass by other trail users, smiling and nodding. With each nod and nod-back, there is a silent exchange of words: Howdy. I see that you’re running, even though you probably didn’t want to. Yeah, I didn’t want to either. But that’s why we’re so much more awesome than everyone else.

Your ego inflates to gargantuan proportions. If your ego were a bubble, you would look like the Epcot ball floating down the path. You feel snug in your runner self-righteousness. Running is definitely the best decision you’ve made all day—better, even, than the whole grain Pop-Tarts you had for breakfast this morning. (Because hey, anything made with whole grains has to be healthy, right?)

In the distance, you see a group of runners heading your way. They’re all bundled up in Helly Hansen half-zips and Under Armour compression tights. Their wardrobe, along with their synched, effortless strides, tells you that they are for serious.

Suddenly, your self-esteem is threatened. These guys are way too cool for you. Your heart skips a beat as you adjust your posture and try to appear as legit as possible. As they draw nearer, you stifle your heavy breathing and quickly try to decide between giving an up-nod or a down-nod. Up-nods are usually reserved for bouncers, football players and Jersey Shore cast members. I don’t want to look like an asshole. But a down-nod implies that we are somehow on the same level, which clearly, we are not…

Before you can make a decision, you give an involuntary full-body up-nod as your legs slide out from under you. Your butt hits the ground on top of a thin sheet of black ice—a booby trap of embarrassment.

Assuming there is absolutely no chance that they didn’t see what happened—and trust me, there is absolutely no chance that they didn’t see what happened—you have three options at this point:

1. Sit on your butt, looking pathetic and helpless, and hope they take pity on you by not ridiculing you (to your face, anyway).

2. Quickly get up, recover, and pretend like nothing happened, hoping they will do the same.

3. Flip a 180 and take off in the opposite direction as fast as humanly possible so that you won’t have to face them.

Not that I would know anything about this, because this definitely did not happen to me recently, but I’m kind of leaning toward option No. 3. If you’re fast enough, there’s a good chance they’ll never get close enough to identify you, which means you won’t have to drive across town to run for the rest of the winter. Also, it’s a good way to mimic the fight-or-flight adrenaline most people experience on race day.

Just make sure you watch out for black ice.

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.)