this weekend i ran a trail half-marathon, part of a race called the triple crown, because if you’re manly enough, you can run the half, follow it with a 10K and finish off the morning with a 5K. if you’re a decent runner, which presumably you would be if you were to attempt something this foolhardy, you get 10-30min rest between races. that’s enough to hit the loo, weep in the car for a while and choke down a couple gels.
i’m not manly, so i stick with the half, with the other mortals. to my credit, i usually blunder off trail and tack on an extra mile or two for an extra challenge. what’s pathetic is that these trails are my home, and i still get blown off course.
we line up on a sunny, chilly saturday morning: perfect running conditions. next to me is a dude wearing gore-tex trail runners with gaiters. i’m guessing he read course fords White Clay Creek at miles 3 and 10 to mean two skips over dry streambeds consisting of detritus and scree that will get in your shoes. your gaiters ain’t gonna do shit, boy. and for all its claims of breathability, gore-tex can’t magically osmose a cup of water out of your soppy socks. n00b. he’s sure to beat me by at last a quarter hour, i calculate.
the whistle blows and we scamper across the meadow, avoiding gopher holes so conscientiously flagged by johnmac. i love trail running because every ramble through the woods is a couple minutes of childhood returned to you. men who work 70 hours a week at MBNA dash downhill pell-mell, their arms and spirits akimbo; i try to follow their lines, praying that I don’t crash into a tangle of privet.
we drop through the woods straight down to the creek, whereupon my cranky hamstring seizes and threatens to snap like a guitar string. i consider the possibility of pooching my entire season through sheer obstinacy… and i obstinately forge onward. i just went really easy.
i delicately pick my way on descents, cos descending is what truly hammers your hamstrings, and just to be safe i walk up hills or do the Ultra Shuffle. this is less a race than an exercise in pain management, and it’s a testament to my overall fitness level that i still end up the female winner. the steeplechaser’s wife is second, and she’s no slouch … then again, she proved her manliness by soldiering on through the rest of the triple crown.
F, the afghani metrosexual, offers a big hug at the line, despite the fact i’m covered in sweat, dirt and … blood? um, yes, blood. caught up in the heat of racing, i’ve neglected to notice the worst case of chub rub i’ve ever had: my inner thighs are chafed to the point of bleeding, and being on anti-coagulants means I bleed until the cows are just about home. when I cross the line it looks as though i’ve given birth in the woods.
in the car, i weep for a bit and assess the damage. you know how marshmallows puff up and soften when you toast them? up high, my inner thighs are just like that, except that instead of a toasty brown crust, there’s oozy red shit issuing from striations in my flesh. i staunch the bleeding with a layer of Body Glide, then do a lap of the 5K XC course with F, who does not seem too taken aback by my bleeding partses. he’s heard my belches and has no illusions about me being a lady.
i won’t be able to walk right for a while: instead, i gingerly manage a duck-footed waddle, like i’ve got a full diaper. as i walked into the grocery store yesterday afternoon, i saw a retarded kid reflected in the window, then realized that kid was wearing my tee and my skirt (i cannot bear anything with seams).
but i won, and that’s what’s important, right?
