Mass Exodus

The minute I saw who was calling, my heart sank.  A and I were just about to leave for the airport to fly to Sacramento when my cell phone started buzzing in my hand.  It was the teammate who never secured a vacation day from work for the Friday race, who swore up and down she was going to call in sick instead, who bought her airfare and recruited her cousin to join the team as a symbol of her commitment.  Additionally she was someone who worked at the same company I did, although in different departments.  I did not know her very well, but she certainly seemed friendly, capable, eager, and, most importantly, dependable.

“I’m so sorry, I can’t do the race.  I think I'll be fired if I call in sick.  But don’t worry, you can keep my registration fee. ”  This said with the perfect combination of airy angst that can only be delivered by an entitled twenty-something who justifies screwing over an entire team because, as she explained, her “future is on the line”.

It takes months of planning and a significant financial investment to put together a relay team.  Having organized a road race team last year and run on a friend’s team earlier this year, I have learned the hard way that anything can happen, even to the most reliable person you know.  The people you sign up with are never the same group that ends up running.  Just because everyone has paid, secured days off, and booked their travel, it doesn’t mean a last minute emergency won’t up-end your best laid plans.

Despite knowing the inevitability of human nature, I was dumbly confident two nights before the race with everyone’s checks cashed, waivers in hand, and multiple assurances that everyone would be at the Tahoe campsite bright and early Friday morning.  Instead I busied myself with worrying about mountain lion attacks, forecasted thunderstorms, West Nile virus, sleeping on asphalt, and figuring out how to cook ramen without electricity.  In other words, I fooled myself into thinking our team of eight was set.

Hours after my coworker called with her bad news, while waiting to board our delayed flight, the cousin she had join our team also jumped ship.  Via text, she piteously cited her dog’s chemotherapy and apologized that “it has to be this way”.  Of course I saw it coming considering all I knew of this person was that she was a thirty-year old woman with a penchant for posting midriff-baring self-taken photos captioned “How do I look? ;)” on social media and enthusiastically declaring herself “very liberal!” whilst ironically being unable to practice social responsibility on a micro level.

And just like that, as we shoved our backpacks into the overhead bin, I realized that we lost a quarter of our team less than twenty-four hours before go time.

What the Walrus Said

The time has come!  The trail race that I’ve blogged about incessantly is finally here.  Specifically, it’s this Friday.  As with every race, I don’t feel ready, am quite anxious about it, and will be glad when it is over (assuming that I don’t crash, burn, or become infected with the West Nile virus).

We are running on a team of eight, and together will cover about one hundred forty mountainous miles.  Our team name, courtesy of A, is:

I am particularly excited because this will be our last race of the year.  I know July comes a bit early in the calendar to make such a pronouncement, but traditionally we've only run one race per year.  Since this past January, I’ll have done three and I couldn't be happier that our season is coming to a close.  Coordinating any team activity is time-consuming, and it will be nice to run again just for recreation without the pressure of training.

I am, however, already thinking of what 2014’s challenge will be….

Nine Grains of Salt

While I am wary of believing everything I read on the internet, I never hesitate to share information that justifies my life choices.  So here’s nice little list of the plethora of benefits from running as published by a mostly reputable but totally biased source.

"Malicious Fecal Distribution"

I read this wonderful article this morning:
New Mexico Jogger Repeatedly Poops on Man's Home

As someone with a complicated history of shitting in public, I would pose the argument that instead of doing so with malice in her heart, this jogger simply has found a private area on her favorite route where she can make a deposit when nature rears its ugly (turtle) head.  I have catalogued a list of places I can duck into in case of a gastrointestinal emergency for the streets I run the most.  Granted, up against the wall of someone's house is not on that list, but perhaps New Mexicans should reexamine their dearth of public lavatories.

Until the truth comes to light, for the time being I'm on Team Jogger.

Itching To Run

Lately I have had the thought

Of all the ills this summer’s wrought

None could be considered worse

Than what I call the Buggy Curse.

The long weekend past was spent

Camping lakeside in a tent.

‘twas pretty but I missed the sights

For I was felled by insect bites.

We camped here not for vacation,

But to train at elevation

For a big race where we’ll compete

Almost at nine thousand feet.

They say mosquitos only swarm

When the weather is quite warm.

Though nights were cold at altitude

Here I was, mosquito food.

Another fallacy I’ve heard,

Though I’m clear proof that it’s absurd,

“Bugs only bite at dusk and dawn.”

But all day was I feasted on.

On our runs from trail to trail,

There they followed, without fail.

It is hard to maintain pace

With a mosquito on my face.

In the trailer, on the bike,

Taking the dogs out for a hike,

By the campfire, on the john

There’s no escape from Devil’s spawn.

Here I am, in the canoe

And guess who’s in here with me, too?

In my hair and on my hand

On the empty bug spray can.

In my ear and up my nose.

They chomped on me right through my clothes.

I guess through fabric they can pass

There’s three big welts left on my ass.

The place our relay race is at

I fear will be far worse than that.

The air is dry and not that muggy

And will be extremely buggy.

I was quite nervous for the race.

But now those fears have been replaced.

Now I’m scared I won’t survive

Being feasted on alive.

I’ll run fast and make them chase

If of my blood they want a taste.

But even if they try to eat me,

Those mosquitos will not beat me.

A Tale of Two Bridges

I just spent the last week sweating it out in nature’s sauna, otherwise known as Florida in July.  I’ve had the good fortune of being regularly invited to join my college roommate’s family in a beautiful compound during their yearly bacchanal.  It’s always a rollicking good time, but since this is a running blog and not a drunken debauchery blog, I shall stick to the subject matter at hand.

I have done many a hot run here.  I once foolishly went out sans hat or sunscreen and burnt my face so badly I developed a scaly crust, akin to alligator skin, that didn’t heal for weeks.

The place where we stay is located on a peninsula, and as such, is accessed by two bridges, one on either side.  Our host K told us that the area is so flat that the overwater passageways are the only option for masochistic Floridian runners in search of a little elevation gain.  In the many times I have visited, I have only ever run over the westbound bridge because, in the ungodly heat and humidity, it looked to be the least daunting of the two.

This year, with A by my side, lots of hill work under my belt, and a trail race to train for, I felt we were ready to face the challenge of the dreaded eastbound bridge.

We got up nice and early, which really means around nine o’clock vacation time.  It was already starting to swelter, but A’s determination outweighed my laziness.   

It's a two mile run just to get to the bridge, and by the time we got there I was already tired, hot, and drenched.  As we started our ascent, the wind whipped up over the river and started cooling me down and drying the humidity around us.  I kept waiting for the incline to start burning my legs, as it has so often on the easier westbound bridge, but I felt nothing.  And then all too soon, we were on the other side.

In hindsight, by avoiding the scary-looking eastbound bridge, turns out I had been running the harder bridge all along.  Both bridges have the same elevation gain, but the eastbound bridge is almost twice as long, making the westbound bridge the far steeper of the two.  So while the roundtrip run over the eastbound bridge was further, it still was much easier.

It’s funny that I was intimidated for so long by something that ended up being far more benign.  I know this is an allegory for something, but I can’t quite put my finger on it yet.  A and I contemplated this conundrum as we sipped pina coladas by the pool, but for some reason the answer still eludes.