Otherwise known as...The Week of Races
I discovered something about myself this past weekend. I might have known it before, but it became evident to me on Sunday.
I'm not crazy about races.
As
a runner, this is a bit of heresy. You train, putting in the mileage,
the time, the sweat... and the race? The race is supposed to be the party.
You're with thousands of other people who love running as much as you
do. When you're done, you get the medal, the space blanket, the banana,
the joy of knowing you completed the race and hopefully PR'd. (In the
running world, PR means "personal record", besting the time of your race
at the same distance.) You eat your celebratory meal and feel no guilt
whatsoever about any kind of indulgence.
It's awesome.
A
race is also getting up at a God-awful time in the morning (usually
after a miserable night of sleep because you know you're getting up earlier than anyone should be) on a weekend morning, waiting to start
in the frigid cold, and then once beginning, dodging the people in
front of you that you are trying to pass, getting the occasional elbow
in any manner of places, and trying like the dickens to PR. You breathe
hard, you sweat, you question whether or not you used the bathroom enough before the race began.
It's miserable.
This
past weekend I participated in the DC's Cherry Blossom 10-Miler with my
dear friend Robin, an old friend from college. It was my first
experience running in a race with a friend. Every other race I've ever
been in, my friends and I have split up after the event began, so that
we could run our own race in our own time. This time, Robin, who is
much faster than me, has been nursing a leg injury, and asked if we
could just run together. She planned to slow down to match my pace.
And that's what she did.
It was cold.
Barely 30 degrees cold. So cold that I wore full length yoga pants,
which look like slacks, to race in. So cold that I wore my jacket the
entire race, covering up my new cute pink Under Armour tech shirt. So
cold that I wore borrowed gloves and an ear wrap from Robin. So, so
cold for this Florida girl.
It was windy.
So windy that in the middle of the night I thought a tornado was tearing
up Robin's neighborhood. So windy that in the last two miles of the
race, even though I was running hard, I felt like I was standing
still. So windy that the race organizers took away all of the mile
markers, and clocks, and two-thirds of the water stops. So windy that I
secretly hoped the race would be cancelled.
The race was not cancelled. And I am glad.
Despite the frigid cold, and the dreadful wind, I still PR'd, running three minutes faster than I did last year. Because I had trained, and I was ready. Robin encouraged me, and I encouraged her, and we got through the pain.
And
that's what racing is about. You've put in the time, and you fight the
good fight, and you do your best in spite of the misery. As a runner,
that is what it is to race.
It's really kind of amazing.
This week, I'm running not one, but three races.
Thursday I'll be participating in the Corporate 5K, at a failed/not
failed attempt at team-building with my colleagues in my new school.
Failed because although people said they'd sign up, they didn't in
actuality. Not failed because my assistant principal is running the 5K
with me, and encouraged others to do the same in the eleventh hour.
We'll have a merry little group running and walking together on Thursday evening, and that's a start.
Saturday
morning I'm running in the Super Mom 5K, even though I'm not a mother,
to spend some quality time with a good friend who is also a runner. By 9
a.m., I will have concluded my week of races in 2016. It wasn't
planned, it's just how life sort of happened this week.
I'm going to try for a 5K PR this Saturday. That's how life should be. Fighting the fight, and doing one's best.
As I drove home from dinner with a friend after picking up my race packet at Track Shack for the Corporate 5K, Walk on the Wild Side came on the radio. And I thought... walk? Why not run?
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