Jun
1
The guy who passes you in the other direction sprinting towards the finish when you’ve still got like a mile before the turning-around point and later you discover he finished the race in 15 minutes flat? Screw that guy. He probably runs all the time and he’s super annoying about it, like I bet he does those ostentatious look-at-me leg stretches during meetings and when someone finally reluctantly asks him what’s up he’s all, “Duuuude, ran an ultra this weekend. Just trying to limber up before I race a live cheetah this afternoon, brah.”
Don’t get too cocky when you actually feel pretty good at the start of the race, because guess what, bitch? You’ve got THIRTY MINUTES TO GO.
Sure, some people have fancy sports-specific earbuds that are meant for running, but how many people have made ingenious use of a metal binder clip in order to keep the cord from bouncing all over the place? Yeah, that’s right. Can’t touch this.
If, at the 1.5-mile-mark, you are struck breathless with a miserable side cramp, I suggest adopting a sort of Quasimodo-like hunched-over shuffle where you basically look like the victim of a sniper with bad aim. Move along at the fastest pace you are capable of, which will be slightly detectable by the naked eye but is best captured via slow shutter speed. It helps if you peel your lips all the way back while grimacing in pain, because that way any passing insects will get trapped in your teeth and potentially provide you with a quick energy boost.
Never mind the septuagenarians who finished many minutes before you and are lazing around the finish line eating free bananas while you are openly weeping at the sign reading “2 MILES”. Perhaps once you get there you can vomit on their orthopedic shoes.
When the going gets tough, try lowering your gaze to the ground and focus on—oh look! Eighty million billion little splotches of moist phlegmy saliva, spat there by 600 runners in front of you. On second thought, look straight up.
Brrrrrrt! What? Oh, say, you know what was mmmmmaybe not such a great idea? The bran cereal you had at breakfast.
Almost there . . . almost there . . . just a few more yards . . . holy fuck, YOU DID IT. WOOOOOO! ALL RIGHT! So is there a trophy? A ribbon? A cash reward? . . . no? Just . . . your name on a hastily-printed piece of 8.5×11 paper, over there on that board? Hmm, okay, fine, well at least you got this free t-shirt, which you optimistically asked for in a size small, and . . . yeah, wow, that SO doesn’t fit.
Hey, there’s Mr. 15-minute Guy himself, over there by that tree surrounded by a group of fawning admirers. WhatEVER. As you limp by, make sure to inquire rudely as to whether or not he’s known for speedy finishes in all aspects of life, if you know what I mean and I THINK YOU DO. Only say this in your head, of course, because it’s not like you can talk right now, what with all the gasping and wheezing and so on.
When some lady hands you a flyer for an upcoming road race in June, plan to throw the thing away as soon as you find a recycling bin, because yeah RIGHT like you’re ever going to do this crazy shit again. Then, find yourself folding it up and carefully putting it in your backpack. Huh.
May
31
On Friday our pediatrician semi-apologetically diagnosed Dylan with erupting molars, a chest cold, roseola, and a double ear infection, and that was BEFORE he developed the shriekingly painful diaper rash. As you can imagine, it hasn’t really been the most peaceful of weekends—more like 48 consecutive hours under enemy fire. Yesterday afternoon after a bout of coughing had kept Dylan from napping and his difficulty level skyrocketed to Advanced: Do Not Attempt Without Benzodiazepines, I had myself a little hysterical weeping fit on JB’s shoulder, whimpering this is all too hard and I feel like I’m in prison and if I have to clean up one more cry-cough-barf I am going to go slap out of my fucking mind.
It’s so easy to spiral straight down the rabbit hole when the going gets a little tough, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s just me. A few bad days in a row and I’m like, DEAR GOD THIS HELLISH EXISTENCE CAN NOT BE SURVIVED.
Today was a vast improvement. Dylan seems to be on the mend, for one thing. For another, I got up this morning and ran the first 5K I’ve done in eleven years, which is to say I ran farther without stopping than I have in, let’s see, eleven years. I finished 578th out of 938 runners/walkers in 33 minutes 15 seconds, and about fifty people pushing strollers containing children absolutely left me in the dust while turtles and glaciers slid by waving cheerily, but who cares? I RAN A DAMN 5K.
Also, this afternoon JB and I did something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time: we bought bikes. I went for a ride this evening and it was absolutely glorious. The breeze in my hair, smelling trees and flowers, exploring new neighborhoods, listening to everything outside instead of plugging myself into earbuds. It made me feel like a new part of the world. Like a streamlined version of myself, all the baggage and bullshit left behind.
Such a perfectly fractal weekend, really. A moment is like an hour which is like a day which is like a month. You could chart it in dizzying, jagged lines. Here is the lowest point, where I cry and whine and feel as though my tank is on empty. Here is the high point: where I cross a finish line in sped-up-just-for-the-end steps, gasping. Here: the boys playing together in the backyard. Here: houses flying by and the feeling of speed. And so it goes.
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