My Inner Bitch

Many people say that an Ironman or any endurance race will show you what you're made of and/or who you really are. Today, I ran the Rochester Half Marathon and unroofed a part of myself I was surprised to find.

I signed up for the race mostly because I was sick of doing my long runs with a Fuel Belt loaded down with Gatorade Endurance and water and carrying gels in my sports bra. I figured the $50 entry fee was worth paying just for the aid stations. Besides, I had not run an open 1/2M in 6 years and wondered how I'd do on relatively fresh legs. The plan was to take it easy for the first 15 minutes then try to keep M-pace for the rest of the run.

I showed up at the Start Line carrying only my car keys. I made the wrong assumption (and you know what happens when you assume!) that each aid station would be the sumptuous buffet present at all the Mdot races' aids stations. The first 5 aids stations had only water. The only aid station with gels was the one at Mile 6. The rest of them had only water and what tasted like diluted Powerade. Can you see I'm setting you up for a tale of calorie and more importantly, salt intake woes?

By the 2nd aid station (right around the time when I'd like to take a gel), I'm getting the idea that this may be a race free of nutritional support. I do the Richard Strauss OODA loop thing (Orient oneself to the problem, Observe, Decide, Act). I am to be an emotionless decision making machine. So I figure the run is just a couple of hours; I had a big breakfast and a gel before the start--I should be just fine. How's that for OODA? Maybe the D is for Denial in my case today.

Just as I start to increase to M-pace, a female runner in a blue shirt runs right behind my left shoulder. A quick glance over to her and I notice that she's wearing make-up. The emotionless decision making running machine immediately thinks,"I'm not gonna let some bimbo wearing make-up pass me in this race." So I pick up the pace and lose her on a slight uphill (the course was quite flat). At that moment, I decided I'd set a time goal of breaking 2 hours. "Yeah, that'll show that make-up wearing girl what's up!" I thought.

Now, I'm not sure why I found make-up at a 1/2 marathon so unconscionable. Maybe it's my deep-seated resentment of the stuck-up popular girls in high school--who invariably always wore make-up (even at a 1/2 marathon?). Who knows? It was completely illogical, but that painted woman would show up hovering around my left shoulder for the rest of the race pushing me to pay attention to maintaining my pace.

By mile 10, my plans to kick into tempo pace--"NO!" said my ego, "Your balls out 5K pace!"--had seized up like my left calf and muscles on the bottom of my left foot. I really needed some salt and the "A" of OODA was kicking my own Ass for not bringing salt tablets. The day turned out to be warm and humid. I sweat like Shaquille O'Neal in volume and like a salt lick in sodium content. Every left footfall brought on excruciating pain. I had slowed to my E-pace though I had plenty of cardiovascular reserve to run at least tempo pace.

About 500 yards from the finish line, a female runner passes me that I recognize. It's Kitty Cantwell! I've met her in and outside of work at least 8 times in the last 5 years, but everytime she sees me she acts like she has no idea who I am. In fact, she's just sometimes downright unfriendly. I say to myself, "I don't care if you cripple yourself. You are NOT going to let f@*king Kitty Cantwell beat you!" So I pick up the pace and run by her. The pain in my left leg, foot, and now my right hamstring is blinding. But I beat her. HAHA.

Aside from learning that I should bring my own salt tablets on a hot and humid run. I also learned that I've got a mean-spirited, catty side. It's not that I've considered myself utterly sweet and always thinking of others with compassion and love in a Dalai Lama sort of way. I just don't get to look at that side of myself in a full frontal way very often.

After the race, Make-up girl came up to me and congratulated me on finishing. She told me that this was her first 1/2 marathon and that having me run along side her really helped push her along. She was so nice---I felt bad for thinking unkind thoughts about her. Maybe she just wanted to look nice for her first 1/2 mary. Maybe Kitty Cantwell just has a memory block with asian female surgeons. I'm still glad I beat her though. MEOW!