God Bless America! Land that loves fast food and laziness. Twenty years ago, running a 21:25 5k would not place me in the top 20% of most races, let alone top 2%. Have I become a prickly old curmudgeon begrudging the way things used to be so much harder / better? Probably. But still, I am far from in shape, and should not be in contention for any age group awards for such an effort. Yet I picked up my prize for first place, men’s 40-44, after running several minutes slower than I feel I should be able to, even if it was on a hot morning. My previous 5k foray found me in the lead (in a much smaller race). What’s wrong with the kids today? Too many video games? Virtual exercise on the Wii (or whatever the latest version is) does not count. The 60-year old that smoked me by nearly a minute, he gets it. The two high school kids who let me out-lean them at the tape? There’s no excuse for that (even if their chip time placed them in front of me in the official results).
The Autism Speaks 5k celebrated its 18th year, running through the rich neighborhood of Potomac, Maryland on July 4th, 2018. I wore my patriotic colors – blue shorts, white singlet with USA logo and a flag on the front (my Comrades gear), a white cap with a US flag, and red, white and blue Asics Fuji Racer flats. Despite my staunch objection to the current administration, I didn’t want to be labeled as disloyal to the USA. (I’d argue that my disdain for dat guy is a sign that I care more about the country than some self-serving egomaniac with bad hair). It was the Fourth of July, a celebration of America’s independence, and a day to enjoy, not talk politics. Besides, I have not yet found a “Dump Trump” race shirt.
The morning started off a little shaky, when the first portapot I picked was far from level. No line at least! The portolet gave me motion sickness, so I vacated before vacating my bowels to find a safer place to sit / shit. The next two I tried were bone-dry (no blue pool), and devoid of toilet paper as well. The fourth one I found was still not very stable, but it had paper, and I was tired of the search, so it served its purpose. After 18 years of an event, you’d think they’d get this very important detail down, but again, no line, so there’s that.
I warmed up by running the better part of the course (missed part of the first mile because I ran backwards from the finish, before joining the regular route for the last 2.5 or so). The houses in the neighborhood were spectacular. I was relieved that I was able to find a working portapot, because I’d have hated to have to hop a fence and shit on one of their immaculate lawns. The course was nice, rolling hills, with the aforementioned fancy houses along both sides, but the shade advertised was a little lacking. I think after running enough on trails, your definition of shade becomes a little more demanding than what pure roadies are used to. Or maybe it was just that as part of the heat wave, the early morning temps and humidity made it feel like 90 degrees already.
Dripping with sweat, I wrapped up a three-mile warmup with about twelve minutes to spare before the start, which was enough time to hit the portapot one last time before heading to the line.
You know what bugs me? Besides slow people, Trump, rocking portapots, and hot weather, (wow, I really am a miserable f*ck, aren’t I?), what bugged me on this sticky hot morning were all the damn mosquitoes, gnats, tsetse flies, or whatever those pesky pests were that were everywhere in our faces on this morning. I’d assumed the rich people would have the best pesticides to kill all non-rich creatures around their properties (another reason I didn’t want to trespass). But we were nonetheless swarmed as we stood around waiting for our 8 a.m. start. At least it was only a few minutes.
You know what bugs me? As if I haven’t complained enough already. When an 8 a.m. race doesn’t start until 8:20. Good for them that they still had people signing up until after the last minute, but some of us have a schedule to keep! I won’t complain that the delay affected my race in any way, but it was irksome to someone who seems to find fault in everything anyway. There was no fanfare at the starting line. They had a stage set up near the finish, and I’m sure there were speeches, anthems, status updates, etc. at that location, but for those of us on time at the line, we were left wondering what was going on until at 8:17 one of the race timers took a call and reported the new start time of 8:20.
We took off uphill, down another, etc. (rolling hills, remember?), with my breathing way too hard for such an easy distance. I really should start training better. Around a mile in, a team of high school runners passed me en masse, much to my disappointment, but I vowed to do nothing about it. I hit the mile marker at 6:23 and thought that a 6:23 mile should not have felt that difficult. It sucks getting old. Through the Mr. Richie Rich neighborhood we continued, with a few more people running past me, and an occasional front person falling behind, as I plodded along at close to my maximum speed. Speed work is probably a good idea for a 5k effort. Mile 2 clocked me somewhere around 13:30 elapsed, which I thought had to be wrong, because I had hoped I hadn’t slowed down that much.
The race website bragged about its fast downhill mile finish. I think they were right about the last quarter mile being downhill, but the previous three quarters leading up to it was still uphill. I struggled on, guesstimating the age of the guys who passed me, hoping that they weren’t in the same very specific 40-44 year window. Most passers were either too old or too young or too female to be a concern, aside from a slight sting. “That’s pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps” – Marsellus Wallace.
Before cresting this last uphill before the short (nowhere close to a mile long) downhill to the finish, I saw two of the young punk high school kids walking. I passed them. Then they started running. They passed me. We all passed the three mile mark, with the finish in sight. I was inclined to let them hold that order the rest of the way, but they were not kicking, and who knew how many 40-44 year old stealth runners were planning to sneak up in this stretch? So with the line meters away, I sidestepped the duo, dropped into my faster gear (think 6:00 mile for less than thirty seconds?), and edged them across the timing mat, a mere 5:13 after the winner broke the tape.
I grabbed a bottle of water, walked a ways away, stretched a little, and returned to scarf down a couple of slices of pizza (much better post-run fare than bagels or bananas, which were also on offer). Within a matter of minutes, I felt recovered from the run, which is a sign that 5k is too short of an event. If you’re not feeling the effects for days afterwards, what’s the point?
I hung around for the awards ceremony, hoping my sorry effort was good enough to win a very specific age group prize, and I was rewarded for my patience with a bag containing an Autism Speaks cap and a race medallion. More importantly, my pride was stoked, even though it was a bit disconcerting to learn that one of the older guys who passed me like a lame XC runner was actually 60 years old! Okay, so I wouldn’t have won many of the other age groups on the day, but you only have to beat the people in your bracket to win some cheap swag.
It was for a good cause, and a good excuse to get out of bed early on a day off, and motivation to train better, and justification for the horrible foods and wonderful beers that I would ingest later this holiday. Towards that end, I grabbed a third slice of pizza and headed home.
As Americans grow fatter and lazier every year (somehow linked to global warming?), the relative competitiveness of these races seems to get easier, in spite of my own increasing weight and age. Again, in honor of the occasion, and this sad statistic, God Bless America!
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 