For those of you who aren’t rabidly following this blog like
the IT guys at work are rabidly following Game
of Thrones, I ran on a long-distance relay team this past weekend.
One feature of the race is that, because it covers almost
two hundred miles of paved road, the organizers can’t close the course to
traffic. Therefore you’re forced to stop
at red lights when you’re running, which was actually a relief in the nearly
one hundred degree heat. I prayed harder
for the reds than a fan in Fenway.
Another quirk is that the slower teams start before the fast
ones, whereas in traditional races the elite athletes are the first off the
block. This weekend’s race had such a
variety of participants that if everyone began at the same time, the finish
line would have had to be up for almost twenty hours. An interesting byproduct of the slowpokes
going first is that the faster runners usually pass a lot of tortoises along
the course. When this happens, in relay
parlance it’s called a road kill.
All this is background for the following text exchange with
my husband, who was relaxing in an air-conditioned coffee shop while I suffered
through my first leg.
My last leg was by far the most difficult. It was the longest, had a brutal incline, and
was run on less than two hours of sleep in a crowded mini-van in a position that can best be described by
neophyte yogis as Modified Plow. Fortunately, A got off his latte-sipping duff to run with me, but even that
added motivation couldn’t keep me from walking a few times up the scorching,
mile-long climb. I was pretty miffed
about all the people who killed me on the way up and am disappointed that I didn’t
run the whole way. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t
train for heat and hills.
Despite the setback on my final run, I’m satisfied with how I
did in the race overall. Kicking ass on two out of my
three legs ain’t half bad. In fact, it’s
technically only one-third bad if you want to get all mathematical about it.
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