A Race Report

May 28, 2010

What's that? You hate running? You'd rather swoosh your head around in a freshly pooped port-o-potty than listen to another word about the most boring sport on earth? Well don't sweat it too hard--this was an extra short race, a mile to be exact, so you'll get an extra short race report.

Ladies and gentlemen, I haven't raced a mile since high school and that was, what, three (or maybe twelve) years ago now? Make no mistake about it, it's been a busy twelve years, and between two kids, one husband, a c-section scar, and hundreds of millions of candy bars, these legs don't turn over quite like they used to.

When I signed up for this race, I really had no idea what to expect from myself. I filled out the race application, and in the Estimated Finish Time slot, I shakily wrote 6:30.

When I walked over to the starting line, there were two distinct groups of people: high schools kids and douche bags. The high school kids were obviously there because their track coach told them to be. And the douche bags? Well? As far as I could tell, they were there to prove that their balls hadn't disintegrated to dust at their bachelor parties.

When I nudged myself into the starting corral, the douche bags piped up without a second of hesitation. They were all, "Ohhhh, woops! I forgot to wear my marathon shirt!" and "I actually ran twenty-five miles to get here today."

As for me, I was just standing there thinking, "What the @#$% is your problem?!"

Then I glanced down at my chest and realized, not only did I have fabulous looking boobs, but I was also wearing my finisher's shirt from the White Rock Marathon. Perhaps I was looking a little douche baggish myself.

I turned to my fellow douche bags and said, "Oh geeze, don't let this shirt fool you. I bought it at the Goodwill for a dollar. I don't even know how far a marathon is!" Then without thinking I added, "And I'm wicked hung over."

They liked that. They snickered, made a couple jokes about penises (or something), and when they were too busy to hear me I was like, "I'm gonna hand you your ass on a shiskabob stick."

When the gun went off, I felt like I was tripping all over myself. I hadn't run that kind of a pace in a long, long time and I was getting absolutely smoked by most of the field--douche bags and all. When I got to the quarter mile mark the clock read 1:24--that's a 5:36 mile pace. I glanced around and noticed two things: lots of gasping for air, and lots of people with side stitches.

I dialed back my pace and kept on trucking. I hit 2:52 at the half mile and 4:28 at three-quarters. I was getting progressively slower as the race went on, but I was still upright, and most of the field was behind me, so I just hung on and went for it.

When I rounded the last corner, I saw Maggie's bright blue stroller and I could hear James screaming "Mom! You're not winning!!! You're not winning!!!"

Thank you, James.

I could just make out the clock, and the first digit was clearly a 5, not a 6. Remember, I might have written 6:30 as my estimated finishing time, but deep down I was dying to run a 5:59--so I turned it up a notch and I went for it.

Now I'm not exaggerating here, I could feel almost every single part of my body jiggling for mercy. My butt was was jiggling so hard and so fast, I honestly thought I might lose it right there on Main Street. And my gut fat? Let's just say that my gut flab was slapping me around like an angry Southern MeeMaw.

But guess what? I finished that mile in 5:58.

The douche bags? 8:30. And you can bet your ass I waited around to cheer 'em all on.