Runnin' in the Rain

Or should I say "barfin' in the bushes"?

The final Sheepherder's race of the season was last night. It's a 3-mile run, where you predict your finish time and no watches are allowed. Conditions were just about perfect for me -- there was a light drizzle, hardly any wind, and cool temperatures. The precipitation hadn't muddied the road at all, so with so many factors in our favor, everyone expected to run fairly fast.

I had talked Tanner into coming along to give it a try, even though he'd never run more than 1.5 miles straight before in his life. His plan was to run as long as he could, and then just walk the remainder, once he ran out of gas.

Pat was planning to hold somewhere around 8-minute miles. My goal was to finish about a minute behind him. I figured I'd beat Tanner by 3 or 4 minutes.

As usual, the group took it out fast. I always know that there will be a handful of runners who will take off in front of me, but then slow down enough for me to reel them in over the remaining distance. I wasn't surprised, therefore, when several folks who had predicted slower than me ended up out in front. I was surprised, though, by the fact that I thought I had passed the "take it out too fast" group and had settled in to my rightful position before even a half mile had gone by. I was right behind my brother at that point, and feeling great.

At the 1-mile post, I was less than 10 seconds behind Pat, and Tanner was well back in the group behind me. My internal clock was telling me that I was on or ahead of my predicted pace, and I was pretty sure I could hold it. I even allowed myself to think briefly about trying to stay with Pat the entire way.

But just about the time I had such an optimistic thought, the wheels fell off. All of a sudden, I clearly understood that my pace was not sustainable, and that there was going to be PAIN before this thing was through. I tried my best to concentrate on my form/stride and just keep going...but was unable to stay as focused as I needed to. The following thoughts popped unbidden into my head:

• Why in the heck do I keep signing up for these races when I hate them so, so, SO much?
• If I had a time machine, I would definitely go back in history and assassinate the @#$%! who invented this sport.
• I'll still get to eat pizza even if I'm dead last, so why am I killing myself to try to run this fast?
• I wonder if I need to update my last will and testament?
• Oh, man...I'm going to have to learn some new cuss words, because I don't currently know any words strong enough to describe how @#$! rotten I'm feeling right now.

About 20 meters past the turnaround point, I saw how far Tanner was behind me. It wasn't much. As we made eye contact, he pointed at me and grinned. "I'll get you," he said. I tried to do a Rocky-esque "Go for it!" statement, but it just came out as a wheezing gasp.

I was already running on fumes, with nearly half the distance yet to go. Shortly after making the turn, a couple of other runners passed me. I really don't like to be passed in the last half of the race, but there was nothing I could do about it. Pat was fading into the distance in front, and I could hear additional footsteps approaching from behind. It occurred to me that I may be feeling the effects of my blood donation from the day before, but there wasn't anything I could do about that. At least the rain was keeping me cooled off.

With about a half mile to go, I began to think that I might be able to hold off the remaining runners. But alas, 'twas not to be. My stomach suddenly heaved on me, and I hastily pulled off the road to prevent the other runners from having to dance around an unrequested lunch-puddle smack dab in the center of the running lane. As I stopped to bend over, Tanner scampered by me, looking for all the world like a guy who does long runs for fun every day. He probably asked me if I was OK or something, but I just continued making strangled Linda Blair noises and waved him onward.

The entire off-road incident didn't take very long in objective time, and I didn't actually toss any cookies at all...it seemed to merely be my body's way of telling me to let my son win. I tried my best to sprint the rest of the way to the finish line, and did indeed hold off the subsequent runners. But by the time I finished, Pat had already been to his car, finished a water bottle, and engaged in a prolonged discussion of the Heisenberg principle with the other fast folks. Tanner had cooled down, gotten a drink, and spent some quality time thinking about how it would affect his future inheritance if he were to taunt me like he wanted to.

But to his credit, he merely asked if I was OK, and stated how pleased he was with his new 3-mile PR. While being miffed that I let the whippersnapper whup me, I have to admit that I'm also very proud of how well he did...and am optimistic about what he'll be able to accomplish in the future if he keeps running and training.

As usual, the pizza picnic was perfect, and the group camaraderie left us all in a positive mood to look forward to the next series. Nobody stayed long (due to the rain), but we ate all the food, wished each other well, and drove off with the knowledge that it was another job well done.

It's amazing how a few slices of pizza can erase the memory of complete agony and misery from just a few minutes earlier, isn't it? I'm already thinking about how I can do better in the next race. And if I remember correctly from the Bonfils blood donor literature, pizza is supposed to be the best possible way to replace lost red cells. You'll help me remember that for next time, won't you?

I knew you would. Thanks, and have a great day!