Soggy - Part II

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I feel my head is playing with me when I run. It makes passing time painstakingly slow or starts wandering off in daydreams and stupid ideas while my body loses the pace down to a slow jog. It makes things harder, you know, having to keep your brain on a leash.

I was finishing a long stretch of track by a large basin when the rain finally stopped. KM14. The harm was done, though; large puddles of water were everywhere, mud had poured from the surrounding trails. At that point, I wasn’t even trying to avoid them; it just ruined my stride and I was soaked nonetheless.

The race starts now, I thought to myself, climbing the first upward slope of the course. I’d started seeing some disappointed, suffering runners abandoning. Blue-lipped, shivering. I’d want to help them, put them back in the race, give them the energy they needed to pull it off. It makes me sad, but it also reminds me that this could be my fate at any point if I lose my focus. Nobody wants another Nike run like we did back in 2005.

2005.

One of the most emotional days of my whole life. A 21K ran on a knee and a half. As I recall the suffering and the living hell we went through to cross that finish line, my heart warms up. I think of Joel, Erin. I reach to the back pocket of my running tights and feel through. It sits right there. My Terry Fox dollar coin. I don’t hold dear many material things in this world, but this gift, received in the nick of time, is a personal treasure.

I’d clenched my jaws. Oooh that feeling, I know it so well. I just visualized; I reached inside of my mind to gather some strength and motivation, and did I ever find some. I come out of the hill strong, and I start picking up speed again. This time, I try to save some of the energy for the last stretch. My confidence is rising.

A pair of cops are under a bridge. They’re cheering as I pass, and I’m surprised to think this is probably the first time in my life I’m happy to see them.

Then I start to wonder, after all that “head time”, where in the course I might be now. I’d stopped looking at the markers a while ago and for some reason, I refused to take a single look at my stopwatch the whole race. I’m not gonna start now. Instead, I take this as something to look forward to. Soon enough, a big orange marker appears. Could it be? It says 17.

There’s a sharp turn and a bridge to cross, and a small crowd is gathered there. As I close in, I see a friendly face; Humberto is standing there in his rain gear, brave against the elements. I’d seen him two times already, in the distance, but this time I would pass right next to him. I look up. He’s smiling. He knows. As he raises his hand up for a much welcome high-five, a jolt of energy zaps my entire body. Hands clap. I roar. I feel like I’m flying. Thanks, brother, and can’t wait to be side by side in Ottawa :)

I stay in this moment for as long as I can. My legs are starting to stiffen and I know I shouldn’t be pushing at this point, but the energy’s overwhelming. This is something I’m gonna need to learn to control. It makes my stride uneven and my overall effort level curve look like a strip of bacon. Ooohhh, bacon.

I’m approaching a set of curves. I’m not recognizing the specific section of the track and I’m thinking it’s bad to have designed the last kilometers of the course to be so curvy. How the hell am I supposed to gauge my remaining effort if I can’t see the finish line?

There’s another orange flag. I get my head up. Oh my god. It says 1! This is it. I’ve done it. I’ve not only completed the course, I’ve got just enough energy in store to finish strong. I reach for my belt, grab my last squirt of gel – been saving it – and switch to my Rage Playlist. I’m gonna give it all.

Every step I take is longer, stronger. My arms start to swing frantically as I pass every single runner who’d passed me over the last couple minutes. This is going so well. The end is curvy and filled with large muddy puddles, gravel and loose crap all over and the runners are slowing down, afraid to slip or take a bad fall. I’m not slowing. I’m not afraid. I’m a fucking tiger.

Last curve. The asphalt resumes right beyond it. I expect the finish line to be standing right there, almost at arm’s reach. And then it hits me. Right there, all alone, another long, orange, stupid, motherfucking marker. Says 20. Like a 2x4 to the face, I come to the devastating realization that the “1” flag I mistook for the last marker was a wet, shriveled “19”.

It’s over. My lungs are burning, I don’t have a single ounce of energy anymore, and there’s still a kilometer to go. I think I’m about to cry. As I slow down to a mere jog, every single runner I’d passed so proudly flies by me, cranking up their last bit of energy to finish strong. I, on the other hand, is going to cross that line looking like a wet hungover zombie with concrete shoes.

Funny how thoughts of despair can carry you just enough hundred meters to make you see the finish line. As soon as it came in sight, I emptied of everything but the increasing stomp of my feet frantically rushing forward. One last look up, the arch is there. And a big surprise.

There’s a “gun time” display at the finish line. As I cross, it says 1h54!

At the summit of my adrenaline, after the hugs of victory and the satisfied smiles of fellow runners finishing their challenge, my day gets even better. I get my “chip time”. I double-check it, in disbelief. It says 1h51:30. I just achieved what I hope to be the first of a long series of personal records.

And I haven’t felt so alive in a long, long time.


I'll see you in Ottawa.

Soggy

An account of my first barefoot half-marathon

I’m standing at the starting line, among a couple friendly faces and a sea of jumping people. The air is electric. I check one last time that everything’s in place. My music, my food, my water. I still can’t really believe it, yet.

This is the big day.

Of course, it could have been sunny. Or warm. Or both. But the early spring weather was grey, humid, and cold. Really fucking cold. I waited until the last possible minute to take my street clothes off and put on my FiveFingers, trying to stay as warm as I could. People are walking around with megaphones, warning that the starting gun is about to go off. I take a deep breath. It’s about to begin.

Bang.

It’s overwhelming. The energy is so high, it seems you could fly. The long line of thousands of eager runners slowly starts to move, like a big jittery multi-colored caterpillar. Before I know it, the wave of movement hits me and my friends and we’re on the move. Don’t freak. Focus.

One last look at Kendra. She’s smiling. In an instant, I’m reminded why I’m doing this. For fun. I smile my teeth stupid and I get moving. It takes me less than five seconds to start feeling like I’m stuck in a herd of slow cows and I can’t fight the urge to speed up serious.

As I pick up speed, I know that this could be a fatal mistake. Giving in to the excitement, starting strong only to run out of fuel somewhere along the way. “Don’t jizz your shorts, idiot”. I laugh. It’s all right, I think, I’ll get the stress out of my system, warm up quicker, find my pace, and then cruise.

The first 100 meters wasn’t over that a light rain started coming down. Not much more than a little mist, at first, but enough to get me worried. Any accumulation of water on the track means I will have to endure soaked, cold, soggy feet for the whole race. At the first turn, there’s already a large patch of mud and gravel. The track is packed with runners. I can’t avoid it. I step in reluctantly, and instantaneously feel the mushy, cold mud rushing in. Suddenly, my cross-country training doesn’t feel so crazy or useless anymore...

Runners are looking at me funny. Some are smiling, others have puzzled looks of disbelief. I suddenly realize that of 3,500 runners, I’m probably the only barefoot dude, so I’m getting the same kind of looks runners who show up to races dressed as giant chickens or drag queens must get all the time. People in the crowd are nudging others, pointing at my feet. Some send me thumbs up, others seem to think I’m not going to last five minutes. I don’t like the attention. Breathe. Look forward. Find your pace.

The drizzle quickly turned into a shitstorm. The wind picked up, too, and the rest of my clothes rapidly matched the state of my feet. At this point, I made a decision; for what it’s worth, I’m giving it all. I’m not gonna try to save up some energy or run a restrained, controlled 21K. Fuck it. If these are the conditions we’re gonna get, I’ll run it to the top of my lungs, maximum effort, head down. At least I won’t be cold.

So I keep my speed up. Every couple minutes, I feel my energy crashing. I regret my decision to rely on SportBeans for energy, as the PowerGel seems to give me a much better boost. Hey, there’s nothing I can do about it anyways, I only have two pouches. It’ll have to do. I follow the advice from that nice girl at The Running Room (sip it). It works. I’m just afraid that every little boost I get is the last...

The distance markers start to go by. 7, 10. I look down, most of the time. Seems it took me forever to complete the first half of the challenge. I try not to think of the distance that remains. I know I’ve slowed down sensibly since a couple minutes, and my initial motivation is starting to escape me. I separated from my friends a long time ago, no one’s in sight. It’s me and the track. I feel alone. For the first time today, I’m afraid.

A little pinch on my elbow. Shaken out of my thoughts, I turn to see a little lady, shining a large smile at me. She points at my feet, gives me a “hang loose” and a wink as she passes. It is impossible to explain the feeling completely; it’s like she hosed down my worries and gave me a warm bowl of soup. I know, it makes no sense. But man, does that ever feel good. I love you for what you did, smiling lady.

I reached the 11KM marker in pouring rain and strong winds.

At least I was half way.


- Read on to part II -