I’m
having a bizarre dream when my cat starts beeping. It takes me a second to remember that cats
don’t beep, and then my brain figures out that Mac (the beeping cat) is
sleeping on my shoulder and blocking my alarm clock. I reach over Mac to shut it off, and then
start to drift back to sleep when I remind myself that there was a reason why I
set my alarm for 4AM on a Saturday (which should really be illegal, by the way). I have a race this morning.
Oh,
don’t get your knickers in a twist and start screaming, “Race? Why on Earth is she running a race??? Hasn’t she been complaining for weeks that
her foot is broken, she can’t run, and that she can’t stand cashew nuts?” Yes, I have been complaining that I’m injured
and can’t run (I also truly do hate cashew nuts, but only threw them in now for
entertainment more than anything else).
I have gotten completely stressed out about not getting in the 9 races I
need to qualify for next year’s New York Marathon. Last Tuesday I walked 2 miles, and in there I
ran for 1 minute at a time about 5 times. It
didn’t really hurt, so I signed up for a 5K this weekend with NY Road Runners
to get another race in. Right after I
registered, though, I got my results back from my 3rd MRI; my stress
fracture was “nearly healed.” What the
hell?! Apparently, the reason why I am
only 5 feet tall (when you round up – a lot) is that my bones grow so slowly
that they can’t even heal a damned stress fracture after 3 months.
After
I got my “nearly healed” diagnosis (and finished saying all the swear words I
know), I emailed NYRR to see if it would count if I walked the race. Their exact answer: “as long as you cross the
start and finish line on the same day, it will count.” So, now I have to schlep from Westchester to
Prospect Park in Brooklyn to walk 3.1 miles just to get my race count up to 4. By my original plan, I would have completed
my 9th and final one next weekend.
I
finally wiggle out from under the cat and start moving with as much enthusiasm
as – well, a person who has to get up at 4AM on a Saturday to travel close to 2
hours each way to run a race that she can’t really run. I get dressed, go to pack up my bag, and
realize that I haven’t raced in so long that I can’t even remember what I usually
bring. Then I think that I’m not really
racing, so it doesn’t even matter. I
pick a few items that might be useful: water bottle, asthma inhaler, iPod, and
off I go.
When
I get to the train station, there are a couple other equally bleary-eyed folks
on the platform. Because of the idiots that tried to blow up the Boston
Marathon, every runner now has to carry their stuff to each race in a clear
plastic bag, and backpacks are forbidden (and to the race organizers, not for
nothing, but the bombers weren’t IN the race, so why do the RUNNERS have to use
the clear plastic bags, but spectators can still carry backpacks?). I look down
the platform and see a woman wearing shorts and running sneakers, holding the
same life-exposing bag as me. And I,
Alison Pollock, self-proclaimed nerd and notorious introvert, walk over to her
and strike up a conversation.
Within
a few minutes I learn that her name is Christine, and that this is her first
race ever. She is nervous and excited,
and her energy is infectious. I want to
boost her up, so I tell her that she’ll do great and have a blast. She clearly calms down as she thanks me, and
then starts to barrage me with “rookie” questions: how do the corrals work, is
there water on the course, do you really have to run when you drink it, will
there be any bathrooms, do I think she’ll finish last? I smile inwardly as I answer them, as those
were pretty much the same questions I had when I ran my first race almost
exactly 4 years ago. I explain the
corral system and the best place for a newbie to line up (on the outside,
basically so that you don’t get trampled), there are places for both fluid intake
and output, and she definitely won’t finish last. I quickly explain to her that I’m walking, and
that I can guarantee that I’ll finish after her.
Christine
and I end up traveling all the way to Prospect Park together. In that time, I learn that she only started
running a couple of months ago, and has a goal to run a 10K in October. She fell in love with running almost
instantly, and now has some common ground with her brother-in-law who is a
marathoner. At one point I wonder why I,
Alison Pollock, self-proclaimed nerd and notorious introvert, decided to walk
up to a complete stranger and start talking.
I don’t really know what compelled me, but talking with someone new to
the sport and totally excited about running and races was just the shot of
enthusiasm I needed.
We
get to the park and trust complete strangers by handing over wallets and phones
in completely clear bags (which ended up working out just fine and all my stuff
was still sitting inside when I got it back), and then walk to the corrals. Christine is going to be 6 corrals behind me,
but I picture Spain’s running of the bulls and then ask Christine if she minds
if I line up with her. She lets out a
deep breath and grins while she says, “I was hoping you’d start with me!”
Christine
ends up walking with me for the first mile.
I tell her that she should really run, and not get slowed down by me in
her first race. She looks nervous and I
say, “You got this!” She smiles and
nods, and then jogs away.
I
end up walking the second mile, and after that do intervals of one minute
running and three minutes walking. Each
time my watch beeps to run I take off and think about those first runs I had,
and that first race I did almost exactly 4 years ago. When I walk I assess my foot, and it’s just
fine. “Nearly healed” my ass (though in interest of full disclosure, it hurt like hell that night and I had to ice it).
By
complete chance I’m in one of my running minutes when I see the finish
line. Just for the fun of it, I sprint
the last 100 feet or so. I cross the
finish line, look down at my watch and see that I have just completed my slowest
5K ever. And all I think is that it was
so much fun and I can’t wait for the next one, even if I have to walk the whole
thing.
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