I Had an Awful Race (and That’s OK)

If I had written this a few hours ago, I would have left out the parenthesized part.

But then I got SUPER drunk on wine.

And now I feel amazing.

Wine makes life super good.

I was actually really excited for this half-marathon. I was sure I would set a PR (a personal record, for those of you who don’t actually run but read my blog and quietly seethe in anger). I saw that it was going to be hot and humid this morning and thought, “whatever, I’m going to kick this race in the balls.”

Balls were kicked, but they were mine.

Pixie and I got up at 6am. I’m not sure why but she wanted to come with me to the race, which was an hour away. I think I made a vague suggestion that it would take me “only” an hour and a half to run it. I may have overlooked the fact that I get to my races an hour early so that I can get my bib, take a bunch of shits, warm up, and then loiter so that all the fat runners can gawk at my abs.

I’m a douchehole.

When we got there, Pixie suddenly discovered that she would have to wander around aimlessly for two a half hours. Running isn’t exactly a spectator sport. She can watch me be a douche pre-run, and then she can watch me cross the finish line, near the point of death (with my unflexed gut swinging around like a half full sack of shit).

But Pixie has infinite patience when it comes to my bizarre self-hating hobby. She went into the trees and shared magical recipes with the other woodland creatures. Or something to that effect.

I was running the race with my regular companion in insanity and running, Geoffrey, as well as his daughter. She must have inherited some of the craziness. I hear it’s genetic.

Geoffrey had told me that a celebrity runner would be at the race, Shawn Mastrantonio. He and Geoffrey are a part of the L.U.N.A.R running group, which I had only recently joined. I could say that he is fast and badass, but you’d say, “whatever, all of you jerks are faster than me.” BUT, let me clinch the deal with this. Shawn had a heart attack just four months ago. And ran the half marathon with us. In fact, he had his first run only 13 days after his heart attack. So if I complain about my toes being sore, fee free to call me a whiny bitch. I didn’t see him before the race, but that’s likely because he had yet to arrive on his mystical chariot.

The beginning of the race was great. I started out way too fast as usual, stupidly assuming I could maintain the pace forever. It was shady and cool, despite the humidity. After the first mile, folks started passing me, but I figured I would heroically overcome them later. I was a whole lot of wrong.

Just past three miles, we hit an uphill stretch that lasted all the way through the turn-around (the race was an out and back). I actually blasted up the hill at a decent clip. And I figured once we turned around, I would FLY down the hill, like a cheetah with nitro in its ass. And then the many many folks who had casually run past me would rue the day that they crossed paths with me.

I hit the top. I was like, “all right! Time to nuke the shit out of this damn race!” But a funny thing happened. I didn’t go any faster. I thought, “um, legs? What’s going on? Why aren’t you doing that thing you do?” And my legs said, “f*#k you guy. We’ve carried you this long and you just keep punishing us. We’re going on vacation.”

I maintained my pace, but definitely wasn’t “nuking the shit out of the race.” I passed Geoffrey after a little while as I was heading down and he was heading up. He said, “look who’s right ahead of you!” It was Shawn. I thought, perfect! Someone to motivate me to run faster.

Apparently I was that motivation for everyone else, because I was being passed a lot. I started to get a sinking feeling in my stomach that this race was going to suck. I hadn’t rested at all pre-race. I ran 5 miles yesterday, 8 on Friday, 9 on Thursday. I mean, technically that’s a taper. But my body would have much preferred several days on the couch with ice cream and beer. I can’t blame it.

Around 9 miles I realized that I definitely would not hit a second wind. I figured I would just hold steady at my 172 heart rate. Then the sun came out. The sun said, “oh, did you forget that today is hot and humid? Enjoy running in a sauna, you slimy bastard.” At mile 11 it suddenly got really hard to run. My scalp started to tingle. Random jets of flame erupted from by body, scorching nearby squirrels.

I really wanted to stop and walk.  Only my deep and thorough experience in self-induced suffering kept me going.  I was lying to myself and saying the finish was just around the next bend. Visions of watermelon and beer danced in my blurry vision. I was pretty sure I was going to finish dead last. But even that would have been an achievement. A man who had had a freaking heart attack less than a month prior had already crossed the finish and was cheering everyone else on.

I stumbled across the finish. There’s no glorious tale to tell here. They said my name, making it sound like I wasn’t a worthless piece of trash. Which is what I felt like. I was in full-on self-hate mode. I wanted someone to come up and say, “could you have run that any slower? Holy hell my grandma walks to the mailbox faster, and she has 3 false hips.” But everyone is super nice at races, which is great if you’re having a good day and mildly infuriating if you are in the mood to have people punch you in the face repeatedly.

Pixie was waiting for me. Just seeing her reminded me that grease and alcohol was in my very near future. My mood immediately elevated. Then I remembered I was done running. Definitely for the day, but maybe forever (I wish). I started to feel kinda OK. My brain was working overtime to destroy the memory of the run. My legs were making sure I’d remember what I’d just done, but my brain was like, “beer! Food! Wine! All of the wine! More food! More wine! You’re going to drown in gluttony!”

Gluttony. And this view.

Geoffrey introduced me to Shawn. He is a super cool guy, made of lightning and muscle. He made it sound like having a heart attack was like tweaking your knee. If I ever had one, I would probably handle it with less aplomb. In fact, considering how much of a sore whiner I was with my race performance, I’d say it’s a given that a heart attack would kill me. Just put me in the woods so the bears can eat me. But meeting Shawn was super cool and made the day much more worth it.

Then Pixie I ate went to an awesome food place. And then an awesome wine place. And then another awesome wine place, and then an awesome beer place. And then another awesome wine place. And then one last awesome beer place. And then we got ice cream.

Life is now AMAZING.

Maybe Pixie doesn’t quite get why I do what I do. But the post-run celebration was the most amazing adventure we’d had together in quite a while, and that made it wholly worth it. We were like a brand new couple, bathing one another in kisses and wine. People around us threw us death glares, but I just said, “f*&k you, my life right now is wine and making out.”

Also I was wearing a kilt. And my balls were flapping free, enjoying the breeze. Perhaps the death glares were a result of errant flappings. But if I can survive 13 miles of brutality, you can survive half a second of my salt-rimed sack.

Life is a mystery.

A beautiful mystery.
Photo Cr. Pixie

Shawn is a VHL Warrior. Check out the site and share your support: http://www.vhl.org

Blogging and Love

After yesterday’s post, I felt compelled to write a follow-up. I had reread my post.

I try not to reread my own posts, because I always think, “ugh, did I really write this self-important drivel?” I did!

But I read it anyway, partly because I couldn’t entirely recall what I’d written (ahem). And I realized something.

Blogging turns me into an asshole.

I’m going to warn you ahead of time I won’t talk much about running today. But this is something that’s important for me to say.

My posts tend to trivialize the other people I mention. But my friend Geoffrey, my brother Alex, and especially my better-than-me, Pixie, are truly amazing folks. Geoffrey is a better runner than me, and somehow has accomplished that in addition to raising three amazing kids. Alex squeezes running in between creating mystical music on over a dozen instruments.

Mystical.

Pixie, without sharing too many personal details, is the most self-driven and inspiring person I’ve ever met, which is why I’m blessed to be with her. In most of my previous relationships, it has always been too easy to grow complacent. “How about we just stay in for the 50^th time and eat ice cream?” But with Pixie I feel pushed to make myself a better person every single day. 

Writing is an egotistical act. What I write is all about me. It’s narcissism. It’s catharsis. It’s all about my feelings, and pains, and failures and successes. I think that’s the only way to write meaningfully. I expose all the stuff inside of me, both the treasure and the trash. Some of my friends may think I’m a superhero, but I’m not. Just the fact that I beat the shit out of myself every day should indicate that there’s something wrong with me.

But running isn’t the cure-all for dealing with the ups and down of life. Even more important than running is the people in my life: The people I love and the people who love me back. Of course, this is a blog about running. But I’m cheating here and telling you about something that’s even more important.

Running is a deeply solitary act. Even if you’re running a race, you’re really alone, stuck in your own head. You have many many miles and hours in which to review every single thing you’ve ever thought and felt. To needlessly obsess over that mean thing you did to your brother when you were 11. To criticize and re-criticize yourself for failings both real and imagined.

The only thing that pulls you out of your head, that lets you forget – for a while – the stupid stuff that infuriates you for no reason whatsoever, that allows you be truly joyful, is the people who surround you. I run with Geoffrey, not only because he makes me a better runner, but because we share and connect and pull one another out of our loneliness. And I’m so lucky that my brother Alex doesn’t hate me for that thing I did to him when I was 11.

The person though, who by far the most keeps me afloat in the chaos of my soul, is Pixie. She is there every day, a lighthouse that I never lose sight of. She reminds me why I do all the hard things I do. If I ever question myself, I can say, “I do this because of her.” Being “awesome” is not a good enough reason. You tell someone once that you’re running a marathon and they say, “wow!” You tell it to them again and they say, “uh yeah, I know. That’s like all you ever talk about.”

Pixie doesn’t care that I run or why I run. Well she does, but she would be just as impressed with me if I had an epic collection of lint (as long as that collection wasn’t on her couch). What I’m saying is that she loves and supports me because that’s who she is. I don’t have to impress her. But I choose to, because I could never do enough for her.

In the martial arts, you learn that you can never attain perfection. You can only ever strive for it your whole life. Running is something I hope to do all my life. But it’s really hard to strive for perfection if you think the only person who will be there in your final days is the nurse changing your catheter. And she’s not likely to say, “wow, good job with all the shit you did!” More likely she’ll say, “good lord you piss a lot!”

As long as Pixie is in my life, I have a pillar to support me while the currents of this world swirl violently around me. I hope my horrible socks don’t scare her off, but maybe someday I’ll actually learn what a “hamper” is. Right now I’m pretty sure it’s a small adorable rodent. I guess it grabs my sock and scurries off with it into a dark corner? I’m not sure how that helps, but I’ll trust the system!

So to the folks who crop up in my posts with barely an acknowledgment, I apologize. You have a whole rich, full, transcendent quality to you that’s completely washed over with a few unsatisfying words. I try my best in my real life to show my love and appreciation. But the words I write are what are immortalized, and they don’t do you justice.

And to Pixie I say thank-you. Thank-you for your generosity. Thank-you for your strength. Thank-you for your beauty that transcends mere appearance. Thank-you for inspiring me to make myself even half as incredible as you. There is so much in this world that wants to knock one down and keep one down. But you constantly pull me up, never letting me surrender. Without you I don’t know where I’d be, but it would be in a much less happy place.

And to my readers, I hope the above didn’t make you gag too much. But too few of us really express our love and appreciation for those we care about. I know I don’t do it enough. I hope if anything, this helps you appreciate the people in your life who drive you.

And now, a cute picture.

Cute? Or Terrifying!

Running and Love

Running is like any other obsession, really. It takes away time you’d have to spend with sexy beautiful people.

But also it makes you super sore and tired, just... all the time.

My lovely lass – Pixie (not her real name…) -  and I were planning an epic dinner tonight. Of course, as soon as I got home, her tail wagging in anticipation of a delightful dinner, I said, “well, I mean, right after I go running.”

Running turns you into an asshole.

By the time I got home, she was sitting sullen, starving, on the couch, glaring at me. All the veggies were chopped. The tofu was marinating. But first, I had to take a shower. Oh, and I had to upload my run, because my shitty watch wouldn’t sync with my phone for some reason.

I can’t tell that I’m hungry. A mix of endorphins and…. Super endorphins? Makes me immune to common human ailments. But Pixie is a regular person with regular desires. Desires like eating more than never per day. Desires like being able to spend time with the guy she loves. Desires like not being drowned in my sweat every evening.

But I can’t not run. Because then I’d be a big fat chubster again. And who wants to be dating that guy? Of course, I blow it all out of proportion in my stupid brain. She doesn’t care if I’m extra snuggly. I’m pretty much the only person that cares that I look like a starved Ethiopian (is that racist? I may be drunk. But then I can only talk about one personal issue at a time.)

"Take all the time you want on your blog. I'm fine."

Pixie is reading to me now, excerpts from a book she's into. It’s far more fascinating than the bullshit I’m writing here. I think she’s trying to distract me. Because after I spend hours beating the shit out of myself on the pavement, I then come home and write about it.

But my character is defined by what I do. I could stop running, and just hang out on the couch all day, eating peanuts. God that would be the most wondrous thing in the world. Can you imagine? Just sitting, and eating, watching TV. Because you feel like it. No desire whatsoever to cause near-permanent injuries to yourself. But then I wouldn’t be me anymore.

Even though perhaps the running seems crazy, it’s an expression of me. I plan on never using my health insurance. I want to be the guy who, if you hit me with a car, I’ll hop to my feet and say, “haha I’m fine. By the way do you see my other shoe?” I like that all of life’s problems seem so stupid by comparison.

Pixie can have the worst day of her life, and I can still handle it with infinite patience. What can she possibly do or say that could injure me as much as the injury I cause to myself? Well, she’s hasn’t tied me up and fed me to ravenous coyotes yet, so maybe I shouldn’t speak too soon. But for the most part, I don’t sweat small dramas.

A lot of people obsess over trivialities. I suspect it’s because they don’t have anything to focus their energies on. If I had a bunch of beer-fuel with nothing to burn it on, I too would give a shit that you don’t like where I put my socks. Which is everywhere. Literally everywhere. There is not a single place in the house that is not socks.

And my socks are disgusting.

And full of holes.

Just... So much bad.

But I’m never mad. Well, not never. I get mad at myself a lot. For sucking more than I had intended to suck. If the Bluetooth on my running watch isn’t working, it’s probably because my stupid body is blocking the signal. If a bunch of bugs are eating my face, it’s probably because I sweat like a pig on the planet Mercury. If my coworker gets upset with me, it’s because I run too much and don’t know how to relate like a functional f@#king person.

Maybe running doesn’t make me as calm as I thought. Maybe I just internalize all my rage. And then blast it out via my body. But we all get angry. Super angry. Don’t lie. I saw you at the grocery store and you were ready to murder someone because your tomato was bruised.

That’s important to me: To have an outlet. And I can’t let out my aaarggghhhh once and then be OK forever. It keeps coming back. That’s the cruel humor of life. There’s always stupid shit to piss us off. Even if you lived on a beautiful island, a coconut would fall on your head and you’d scream, “f@#$ g@#d#%@ f(*&ing coconut piece of shit asshole coconut.”

But it’s not the coconut’s fault. It’s just creamy and delicious. It got tired and fell off the tree. Like a drunk falling off a bench. How cute is that? It wobbles for a bit. And then falls down. How could you get upset at that? BUT YOU DO. Because you’re a jerk.

I don’t like being a jerk. I’ve done lots of jerky things. And not in a delicious smoked meat sort of way. But in a “look at me and my swinging penis” sort of way. Because I felt like I had to prove something. Maybe when I first started running I was trying to prove something. But now it’s just a thing I do, every day (I know I’m supposed to have a rest day but shut up).

That’s the nice thing about running all the time. You give up on trying to prove anything to anyone. I don’t need to be the alpha boss man in my relationship with Pixie. I greet her every day with the biggest smile on my face. Even if she just spent the whole day cleaning my disgusting socks and just hates me right then. I still treat her like the most delightful creature in existence. Which she is.

All of life is relaxation compared to running. If Pixie wants to have a delightful adventure. Awesome! If she wants to just chill out on the couch and watch TV shows I stole off the internet, awesome! If she needs to vent all her bottommost rage and vitriol at me. Awesome! Because after I almost broke my body in half for no good damn reason at all, seeing her say and hearing her voice is happiness and music by comparison, every time.

I don’t think I’m being presumptuous in saying that not a lot of people get to enjoy that. The feeling that just everything is fine, all the time. There’s nothing that can throw me off my center. Well except for my shitty watch. WHY WON’T YOU SYNC?!

Blogging is so hard.
Photo Cr. Pixie