And so, you would think I had some sort of advantage. You would think this race would be easy for me. But, it is trail running and trail running is never easy. And now I am convinced that trail racing is a different beast entirely. Trail racing is just plain tough. I crossed the finish line bloody, sore, stiff, exclaiming with my final breath, "Man, that was freaking hard." Trust me, I wanted to say worse, but my catholic uprising, God-fearing guilt kept the bad words in.
This year, the Valley Crest Half Marathon was freaking hard. The first 200m of the race start up a 15% grade, single track and technical. 300+ runners jockeying for position, just to get started on a 13.1 mile adventure. I reached the top with heavy, leaden legs. It was okay, though, for I expected that. What I didn't expect was what happened next. Once you reach the top, you descend. With tired legs, still getting warmed up and waiting out the pain while lactic acid slowly began to flush out, I raced my way downhill. Until... I ate it. Tripping, I slammed to the ground, sliding and skidding against ragged rocks, brand new handheld bottle flying, top off and smashed, water gone. Adrenaline rising, my biceps pushed my body right back up, I grabbed the top of my bottle and prepared to toss it to my husband and three babies whom I knew would be right around the bend anticipating my passing. Bottle empty, I knew I was in trouble with little aid on the course. Oh well, what can you do? Fall seven times, get up eight, played on repeat in my head. I don't know who said this or in what frame of thought, but I recalled reading it on the backs of many fellow runner's shirts during the LA (1/2) Marathon. It was enough to get me going again.
A few turns later and less than a mile up and I would reach my family's cheer station. Alan had planned to rush out of the house after breakfast with the kids in the triple to cheer for me. Afraid of them seeing me bloody and dirty, I wiped my open cuts against my dirty and dusty 3 inch shorts. What would they think? Would they think I was intense or just crazy? Clumsy? Or all of the above? I dusted myself off and kept on going. Shortly down the trail I spotted them. Shouting in as few words as possible to offer a simple explanation while not wasting the little breath I possessed, I tossed my bottle to them and continued on running.
And then I just kept on running and running and running. Honestly I was red-lining it for the entire 13.1 miles. At times the realization went through my head that I didn't have to be out there suffering. I didn't have to be out there red-lining it, on the blink of collapse at any given moment, toughing it out and just praying that the end was near, trying to ignore the fact that we still had another 2 miles of uphill before we even neared the finish. Some people can run a race for fun. I am not one of those. As much as I wish I could be one of these people at times, I can't. When the gun goes off, I'm out there suffering. And so I suffered hard that day.. through diarrhea mid-race, twice having to duck off course and clear my bowels just to keep some dignity as I crossed the finish line bloody and dusty. The second potty stop cost me 2nd place (female), but so it goes.
After 13.1 miles of pain, I crossed the finish line in 1:43, good enough for third place woman and sprinted straight to the aid station to get my open wounds cleansed and bandaged. I was done in every sense of that word. Done with trail running. Done with trail racing. For 1 day, at least. By Monday, I was out there again running and signing praises to Mulholland. By Tuesday, I was registered for my next trail race: Bulldog 25K in late August. Next time around I could put myself through 15 miles of pain on an even tougher course in the mountains of Malibu.
Trail running is freaking hard. And this was Week 0 of Chicago Marathon Training. Why do I do this to myself?
And then I just kept on running and running and running. Honestly I was red-lining it for the entire 13.1 miles. At times the realization went through my head that I didn't have to be out there suffering. I didn't have to be out there red-lining it, on the blink of collapse at any given moment, toughing it out and just praying that the end was near, trying to ignore the fact that we still had another 2 miles of uphill before we even neared the finish. Some people can run a race for fun. I am not one of those. As much as I wish I could be one of these people at times, I can't. When the gun goes off, I'm out there suffering. And so I suffered hard that day.. through diarrhea mid-race, twice having to duck off course and clear my bowels just to keep some dignity as I crossed the finish line bloody and dusty. The second potty stop cost me 2nd place (female), but so it goes.
After 13.1 miles of pain, I crossed the finish line in 1:43, good enough for third place woman and sprinted straight to the aid station to get my open wounds cleansed and bandaged. I was done in every sense of that word. Done with trail running. Done with trail racing. For 1 day, at least. By Monday, I was out there again running and signing praises to Mulholland. By Tuesday, I was registered for my next trail race: Bulldog 25K in late August. Next time around I could put myself through 15 miles of pain on an even tougher course in the mountains of Malibu.
Trail running is freaking hard. And this was Week 0 of Chicago Marathon Training. Why do I do this to myself?
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