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.