This weekend was the Falmouth Road Race, a 7.1 mile hilly race along the coast in Cape Cod. I've run bits and pieces of the route before, but I've never gotten a number so I've always been in the cheering section for my wife and her running friends. Every year they ask me if I'm going to run it with them, and every year I say maybe, but don't. Well, my wife had a bit of a setback in her running, and decided not to run the hills, so she had to skip the race. But we still went down and barbecued with our friends on the Cape.
As usual, when I got down there, they asked if I was going to run it, and I said, no, I don't have a number. Someone suggested I use my wife's number - the race is capped at 10,000 runners, and they really frown on bandits, so people will sometimes give their number to another runner if they can't make it - but her number was a women's number so it had a big F on the front for female. I thought I was out of the woods, and when they asked me if I was going to run, a chorus of people said, "maybe", and laughed. But then it appears that one of her running friends' boyfriend wasn't able to make it, and she had picked up his number just in case. So over the course of one too many Bud Lights, I apparently somehow agreed to join them in the morning.
Bear in mind that I've been running 5Ks. The last time I ran 7 miles was when I trained for a half marathon almost four years ago. I haven't run more than six miles this summer, and that was just a couple times with my wife, whose idea of a 6 mile run is to run three miles, stop for water and a bathroom break, fix her music, eat some sports beans, then run back at a liesurely pace. I'm really not prepared for this at all. And I wake up the morning of the race, in a one bathroom house full of women, and I can feel a peculiar reaction to Bud Light and barbecued meats forming in my bowel. This is not good. At this point, I really have three choices: I can destroy their bathroom, with no chance that I won't be witnessed, I can go to the race and find a portajohn, or I can bow out of the race. Running the race without going is not going to be an option. I held out for as long as possible, hoping it would turtle, and more and more of the women in the house woke up and started heading to the living room. I checked the bathroom cabinet, and they had Oust, which works pretty well, so I went in there, turned on the fan and opened a window, and pressed lightly on the Oust the whole time I was using the room, imagining the look of pride on my wife's face as I did. The solid/liquid/gas ratio was outstanding for speed, but unfavorable for sound or smell, so even though I tried the fake cough poop, it sounded more like a guy with emphysema alternating shooting a gatling gun and a hose into the water. We had 45 minutes until we needed to leave for the race when I went in, and when I came out, people were already dressed and wearing their shoes, and I've noticed that all of the screen doors and windows are open. I drink some water and eat a bagel, hoping it will settle my stomach, but with 10 minutes to go, it hits me again. And as I realize it, in walks a close friend of my wife, this sweet, kindhearted 63 year old lady and her husband. I have no choice, but this time, I know it will be quick. And quick it was. I actually think I dented the porcelain.
We get to the race, and there's a 30 minute line for the portapotties. And all the women in our group decide to stand in line, almost as if they'd had to go to the bathroom all morning but been afraid to use the one at the house. To their credit, nobody says a word to me about it. Sorry girls, this is what you get for pressuring me into running a race when I'm already half in the bag. I hear a cannon shot off in the distance, which must be the actual race start, but that's irrelevant to me as we head to our respective start lines, which are staggered by skill level. I actually have a fairly low member number - apparently this guy's pretty good - but a race organizer tells me it's fine if I want to run with a lower group. We start at least 20 minutes after the elite runners.
There's a wave of applause rippling through our group as we finally get the go-ahead to start, but it's stop and go traffic as the new runners all bump into each other and cut each other off, and some people start walking less than a quarter mile into the race. They're horrible with it, too - they just stop in the middle of the road, as if the thousand people behind them will just figure out a way around them. Meanwhile, the teenagers are cutting in between one another like motorcycles bypassing rush hour traffic, kicking and shouldering people as they go. I am reminded of my dislike of people.
A mile in, we cross the officialy clock, which says 33 minutes. Someone in our group points out that we're running 33 minute miles. Someone else points out that we're probably more like 9 or 10 minutes since we started late. Anothe mentions that the elite runners have been done for a couple minutes already. Oof.
I see all of the wonderful causes people are running for - everything from Dana Farber Cancer Research, to mental health, or Crohn's disease, or famileis in crisis. And then I see my favorite cause of the day, a thirty something guy with a handwritten T-shirt that says "SUPPORT ALIMONY REFORM". That tells a story.
This race has a huge following in the town, and there are people lining the roads the whole way, some clapping, or playing music, or holding signs. A bunch of people brought cowbells, and some homeowners along the way were holding out hoses for people to run under. I overhear a couple women in white race shirts complaining that one of the guys seemed to be aiming for them. That's wrong. By the time my group is passing, these people have already been outside clapping for ages, and their enthusiasm is definitely coming to an end, so I start yelling words of encouragement to them. Guy with a hose, you're a hero. Good clapping. Way to keep up the encouragement. Just a few thousand more runners. Over time, this turns into things like I love all of you. It's the running I hate. Or, Don't ever start running. This is a terrible hobby. There are a few runners who have been around me the whole race who seem to appreciate it.
A bunch of kids along the edges are high fiving everyone who walks by. One of them, maybe 9 years old, is holding up a sign that I assume was for his sister saying, "Heather has a boyfriend". lol.
I wouldn't say I ran it in record time, or even good time, but I ran it, and I didn't stop to walk except to drink water. I'd hoped to break 80 minutes, which is plenty slow, and I ran it in 79, which isn't bad considering the crowds, the hills, the heat and humidity, the hangover, and the fact I hadn't run that distance in years. When I got back to the house, one of the husbands poured me an orange juice spiked with malibu without a word, while his wife asked me if I was going to run this next year. And as before, a chorus of replies came in, except this time, they all said, no.
Giddy'up! This unfortunately means that I'll have to train for it as well, but I at least have my ticket to the dance.
Giddy'up! This unfortunately means that I'll have to train for it as well, but I at least have my ticket to the dance.
Sand- nice report! You're having a solid race season.
My struggles with scaling back is already well documented in here, but it's amazing how much harder it is to keep it easy.I bolded the part that I've been trying to convince myself of every time I have an easy day on the schedule. It's the best way for me to judge if I'm going easy or not.
for your review of the headset!
