Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | October 31, 2010

Death Before Reeses

I don’t like Halloween. There, I said it. Now, before someone sends a witch to cast a spell on me, I have to clarify that I am not opposed to Halloween. I would never advocate abolishing it. I love seeing the adorable little children at the door shouting “trick or treat!” I am always especially touched by the very small children, frequently girls dressed as princesses, who are too shy to say anything: they just stand at the door looking bashful, staring at their shoes. Of course, maybe it is not that they are shy, maybe they are in character and know that a real princess should never have to ask for anything. Ever. In that case, good job little girls, I will be sure to look for you on Broadway.

Now, I am not against Halloween. I just don’t especially like it. Even as a kid, I had mixed emotions about it. Sure, I loved the gobs of free candy, but I didn’t love the frightening aspects and I always got a little nervous walking around the neighborhood in the dark. I remember being scared walking up to stranger’s houses, looking over my shoulder to make sure my dad was still in the street to protect me in case a crazed demon answered the door. My favorite part of the holiday was when it was over and I got to go home and spread my candy stash on the floor. I would count the pieces and then start the daunting but wonderful task of dividing them up by type. Sure, trick or treating was scary at times, but it was worth it to get enough candy to tide me over until Spring.

As a grown-up, however, I dislike Halloween because it relentlessly reminds me of three of my shortcomings 1) my lack of creativity 2) my lack of self-discipline and 3) my sensitive emotional constitution (I can’t watch scary movies or else I won’t be able to sleep for weeks). And in recent years, it seems like Halloween has become a bigger deal, almost rivaling Christmas in its buildup, and therefore extending my Season of Inadequacy to several long weeks.

I have a friend who is a Halloween freak and every year I can’t help but admire her enthusiasm. She goes all out. Her house is frequently decorated by sometime in late September. She drags out the scary movies well before then. In fact, she watches horror films year-round. She can quote lines from all the classic flicks. She was quoting something from Amityville Horror to me the other day. Needless to say, I had no idea what she was talking about. Quite honestly, I am jealous that she enjoys Halloween so much.

I, on the other hand, groan when I start to see Halloween decorations in the stores. I dread getting invited to costume parties. When October 31 falls on a weekend, as it does this year, it is even worse, because any and all social gatherings for the weekend are de facto Halloween parties. Every now and then, I manage to pull off a costume I am happy about, but most years I find myself staring into my closet saying “What in the world am I going to wear?”

Then there are the decorations. Fortunately, my kids are now old enough to take over the task, although if we have the dreaded fake spider webs, I am always the one who ends up spending the days of November trying to pick the sticky remnants off the bushes out front. Going for a walk or a run anytime during the month of October seems a little more stressful, as I have to avert my eyes from the gory, bloodied, disembodied fake heads littering lawns. Reading the newspaper is perilous; it is inevitably chock full of stories telling me where I can search for real ghosts, which is quite simply the last thing I would ever want to do. Even the TV is a minefield. I never know when I might inadvertently tune into Night of the Living Dead. To tell the truth, the whole thing just gives me a big headache.

But, like it or not, the calendar rolls to the end of October every year. Every year, I have to come up with a costume idea, even if it feels a little lame and forced. Every year, I find myself  buying candy to hand out to other people’s children while my kids are out collecting candy from other people.

I try to buy candy I hate in order to minimize the risk that I will eat it all myself, but alas, this year my husband went to the store and got some good stuff: Snickers, Milky Ways and the much coveted Reeses. Oh, the temptation.  I am reasonably strong if the bag of candy is unopened. But once the seal has been broken, I am doomed. I hear it calling to me morning, noon and night. No sooner have I finished breakfast then a little voice in my head will say “You know what would go really well with this coffee? A Reeses. Like one of the 30 in the bag in the living room. Just one. One Reeses never hurt anyone. Really. Have one. Go for a run later. It will count as carb loading.” And if I give in, I know it is just a short trip to a completely empty bag. 30 fun size Reeses in one day? No problem. And thus begins the long slow slide towards gaining 10 pounds by the New Year. So while Halloween may bring joy to the hearts of many, to me it brings weight gain and feelings of inadequacy.

Fortunately, this year I managed to come up with a reasonably good costume (it involved wearing a blond wig, which is always fun, although it also involved high heels, which I find painful) and I preemptively stocked the house with high quality chocolate to keep me from digging into the Reeses. If I am going to have the calories, I might as well go for the good stuff, right? So far, I have remained strong. But the night is young, and the will is weak. A Reeses sure would taste good right about now.

 

 

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | October 27, 2010

Not so Funny at the Time

I have noticed that after some races, it takes me a while to get a blog post up. It seems to be particularly true with this, my first post-marathon blog entry. In my writer’s group last night, we were talking about blogging, and I felt as if I was Hester Prynne with a scarlet ‘A’ on my dress, only instead of an ‘A’ it was a ’12’ – for the number of days since my most recent blog update. Forgive me, bloggerverse, for I have sinned; it has been 12 days since my last post. Actually, make that 13 as of today.  Why in the world was it taking me so long to get this post done? Was it the dreaded writer’s block? Had my worst fear come true: did I have nothing to say?

As one of the wonderful facilitators/mentors for my writer’s group pointed out, it is important to have a mission statement or goal for a blog. I spent a moment thinking about what my vision is for this blog. Quite simply, it is to tell humorous stories related to these stupid things I impulsively do, things that put me on the edge of my comfort zone: things like going to Laos and Vietnam for vacation when it would have been easier to go to Florida, or running a marathon when I would rather stay home with a pot of coffee and the morning paper. So why couldn’t I write about my post-marathon experience? Why was I having trouble chronicling my adventures hobbling around on my blister-covered feet? Then I discovered the obvious answer: it wasn’t funny yet.

Sure, I could have written an entire blog post detailing every sore muscle, strained tendon and painful blister. But that just would have been whiny. Yes, I could have gone on about how I was proud of myself for overcoming the pain and finishing the race, pointing out what a great role model I was for my kids, but that would have been self-indulgent and annoying. No, I wanted my post to be lighthearted and funny. I had to wait until I could laugh at myself. And in order to laugh, I had to stop crying every time I encountered a set of stairs.

The post-marathon pain set in as soon as I finished. (Who am I kidding? The pain actually set in around Mile 18.) As I walked out of Grant Park with my family, I shuffled slowly beside them, my legs occasionally popping out from under me, a bit like the Tin Man when Dorothy didn’t give him enough oil. At the time it was pathetic, but looking back on it, I can see the humor. It was like I was the toddler in the family, lurching along with tentative, awkward steps, while they patiently indulged me, pausing every few feet for me to catch up. I half expected someone to offer an index finger for me to grab with my little toddler hand. Humorous now, but not so much at the time.

I can now laugh at the fact that when we went to visit friends after the marathon, I instructed my husband and kids to go ahead without me because I had to climb a flight of stairs, which would take at me at least 30 minutes. (Note to self: only visit friends with elevators on marathon day.) I can find humor in the fact that in the days following the marathon, I debated with myself about how badly I needed to go to the bathroom, because it was so painful to sit down and stand up again that I just decided to “hold it” as long as possible.

I can laugh about the fact that I felt like this:

 

and wanted to do nothing but this:

I had trouble navigating simple tasks, like standing, sitting, or going up and down stairs. I could have used this:

and especially this:

At the time it was pathetic, but now, two weeks later, I am not too embarrassed to admit that I used my cell phone to call the house phone in order to get someone in my family to come into the living room and help me up off the couch. I can see the lighthearted side of my walk around the block with a friend, who indulgently stayed with me in spite of the fact that I was shuffling along like a 93-year-old-woman. And I was so tired that I am quite sure I was incoherent and not much of a conversationalist.

Hmmm, as it turns out, it is still not that funny. Forgive me, bloggerverse, for I have sinned; it has been 13 days since my last decent blog post.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | October 14, 2010

Chicago Marathon Redux: Not a Perfect 10

 

10.10.10

 

I had not planned on running Chicago Marathon this year. Let me just state that clearly, right up front. And yet, on the morning of 10.10.10, I found myself awake at 5:30AM, dressed in running clothes, with a bib number pinned to my shirt, heading to Grant Park in the predawn darkness.

Last year, after running my first marathon, I was elated and overwhelmed. I had spent years watching marathons, always telling myself it was an amazing feat, but something I would never be able to do. And suddenly, in October of 2009, I could call myself a marathoner, something I never thought I would be. My time wasn’t great (5:03) but I didn’t care. My one and only goal had been to get to the finish line. I had run the race with my friends (the same ones who managed to convince me I could do it) and I just wanted to have fun and enjoy it. It was an unparalleled experience.

Although I loved every minute of my marathon last year, it was still a struggle; I had not planned on doing it again. My focus this year has been on triathlons (did I mention I did a Half-Ironman in September?), so the marathon wasn’t on my radar. Then, last spring, someone on Twitter pointed out that this year the Chicago Marathon would take place on 10.10.10. For some reason, that seemed compelling, and suddenly I found myself clicking the “Register” button on the Chicago Marathon website. 10.10.10! Fun! I figured I would be more prepared this time around. I had done it before, I knew what to expect. The second one had to be easier than the first, right?

The one thing I wanted was to beat my time from last year. I wanted a finish time that started with a 4. Preferable something under 4:45; perhaps even 4:30-something. But definitely a 4 as the first digit.

As I headed towards Grant Park on the morning of 10.10.10, I remembered why I loved the Chicago Marathon. In the midst of a sleeping city, enveloped in darkness, hundreds of runners streamed towards the lakefront. I joined the steady flow of pedestrians heading south. Several of us tried to cut further east, only to find we were caught in a small eddy and had circle back to rejoin the river of people coursing down Michigan Avenue. Each block, more runners joined our migrating school, all of us with matching gear-check bags and excess nervous excitement. It seemed incongruous that dawn was just breaking over Lake Michigan; the atmosphere felt more like a late-night party than an early morning reveille. Thousands of bodies converged together as if at an outdoor concert. Blasting music mingled with the palpable excitement in the air.

I got to the start area, checked my gear, and headed to the start corral. I marveled at how many people had come from so far away to run this marathon. The city was hosting thousands of visitors from all over the globe. I looked up at the massive skyline towering above the nearly 40,000 runners milling about below. The sun had finally poked above the horizon and was shimmering across Lake Michigan, bathing the city in soft light. It was a clear, sharp, cloudless day, the buildings outlined starkly against the deep blue sky. Chicago seemed to be making an effort to look her best.

I squeezed into the start corral and tried to moved forward through the crowd. I wanted to get to the 4:45 pace group, where I had planned to meet up with some fellow Twitter runners, but the 4:45 sign was behind me and the crowd was too thick to manuever through. I tried to get up to the 4:30 pace group, but again, was unable to weave my way through the crowd to get there. I sighed as I realized I would have to run without a pace group. This marathon I would run alone.

Before I knew it, the start time had arrived! It was 7:30! And…nothing happened. As expected, we stood still for several more minutes while the corrals ahead of us started. Finally, the amoeba of runners started oozing forward. Eventually, we hit the start line and we were off.

As I began running, I was astonished by the crowds lining the course. I’ve since heard that there were two million spectators lining the course. Cheering crowds mobbed the barricades, 6 or 7 people deep in some places. I got chills as I ran through the streets of Chicago, touched that so many people would come out early on a Sunday morning to watch the elites and then stay to cheer on us back-of-the-packers. The roar from the crowd was deafening; the signs were hysterical. One of my favorites was “Your kids are at the finish. Enjoy the alone time.” This year, since I was trying to run faster, I did not stop to snap any pictures while running. Fortunately, several other runners are better at multitasking than I, and I thank them for capturing some of the more memorable scenes.

 

I have no idea why someone was running as the Eiffel Tower. If anyone knows, please leave a comment.

 

If I was touched by the crowds, I was inspired by my fellow runners. There were athletes representing a vast array of worthy charities. I saw dozens of runners with names of loved ones written on their shirts. I was impressed with all the good causes represented out there – Team in Training, DetermiNation, Imerman Angels, WorldVision, PAWS Chicago, and so many others, even the charity I was running for: Back on My Feet. Seeing the runners, and their support networks cheering them on, moved me. There were people running their first marathon, people running their 10th marathon, people in pain, people walking, people breezing by like they were just out to get their morning coffee. Large, small, fast, slow, all trying to get to that finish line. Thousands of people from so many different places, all moving toward the same destination.

The first half of the marathon was close to race perfection. The crowds were energizing. The weather was clear, dry, and a mild 70ish degrees. As I passed through Boystown, the roar of the crowd became deafening. There were cheerleaders, superheroes, a faux-military brigade, and boundless energy. I felt light and relaxed. I passed a singing Elvis (who was quite good) and thought to myself “I am having a blast.”  It was more like a party than a race. Running this marathon was the best idea I’d ever had. I patted myself on the back for being smart enough to sign up for it. This was the highlight of my racing season. It was, quite clearly, the best race ever.

Miles 15-18 slipped by in a blur. The course veered away from the cheering crowds and out into nowheresville. Then the course turned south and I found myself running straight into the hot sun. There were no trees or tall buildings to offer shade. It was like running in the desert. I looked at my pace and realized I had slowed considerably. I tried to pick it up a little, but as soon as I got to the next aid station, I gave back all the time I had gained: I desperately wanted water and Gatorade, so I stopped to take both. When I started running again, my legs felt heavy and tired. My earlier self-congratulatory feelings were slipping away. It didn’t seem like a party anymore, and I was no longer having a blast.

I plodded along to the next aid station, once again stopping for both water and Gatorade. I knew walking through the aid stations would hurt my average pace, but I needed the fluids (and I am too uncoordinated to drink and run at the same time). As I approached mile 20, I passed a temperature display outside a bank; it read 93 degrees. No wonder I was struggling (I later heard the official high temperature was 87, but it certainly felt like 93 at mile 20). Having refueled on Gatorade, water and some gels, I approached Chinatown and more roaring crowds. I chuckled that they were playing the theme to Chariots of Fire, and as sappy as it was, it gave me chills. Of course, it is possible those chills were an early sign of heat exhaustion. Once again, the energy from the spectators carried me forward and I picked up my pace as I passed the dancing Chinese dragon.

By the next aid station, however, I found myself stopping to walk as I downed more Gatorade and water. I probably should have used more gels and electrolyte pills, but the thought of swallowing anything other than fluids made me gag. I looked at my watch and realized I was starting to lose some serious time. I tried to pick up my pace for the last 10k, but every time I did, I thought I would throw up. I know some people vomit on the course and it doesn’t bother them, but I am not one of those people. I may not have talent, but I have my pride.

I stumbled along, my motivation draining out of me with each step. I saw a woman in front of me with a sparkling red cape. I had been with her for a while and I decided I to tuck in behind her and let her pace me. I stumbled along, so pleased that Wonder Woman (as I called her) was there to save the day. Then, much to my dismay, she stopped to walk. No! Wonder Woman can’t walk!  If Wonder Woman couldn’t make it through, there was no hope for me, a mere mortal! I looked around for someone else to pace off of. Everyone was walking. I was determined not to walk. I had to beat last year’s time. I couldn’t bear to face another 5-hour finish time. I was demoralized, depressed, and looking longingly at the Runner Drop Out stations on the side of the road. Suddenly the race seemed less like a party and more like a death march. I wasn’t smiling anymore.

By mile 24 I was crying. Last year I cried at Mile 24 because I realized I was so close to the end and I was going to make it. This year I cried at Mile 24 because I wanted someone to put me out of my misery. My legs were like lead, it was hot, I was tired. I was starting to see unpleasant things on the course: people throwing up, people having, shall we say, digestive-tract-related issues, people collapsing on the side of the course, race officials sweeping in with wheelchairs to get them. It was more than a little disconcerting.

I began to think that this marathon was the stupidest idea I’d had all year, and I have had some remarkably stupid ideas this year (the WaterDaze swim race, my first triathlon, my second triathlon, etc.). But those were nothing compared to how bad this idea was. I was miserable. I decided that I hated running. I hated racing. I hated any and all athletic events of any kind. I vowed that if I survived this misery, I would never leave my house again. Nothing but inertia and laziness for me. Just get me to the finish and I swear, I will never sign up for another race. Ever. Really.

Finally, I approached the Mile 26 sign. I picked up my pace, not to improve my time, but just to get the whole damn thing over with. I made the turn to the finish line. As I crossed under the banner, I looked at my watch and realized I had beaten last year’s time by 10 minutes, in spite of the blazing heat. As I looked around at the crowds of tired, proud, and suffering runners, I said “I am never doing that again.” Which, of course, is what I said last year. I wonder when registration for 2011 opens….

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | October 6, 2010

Back On My Feet

 

Sometimes it's not about winning or finishing, but just starting.

 

If you have encountered me at all in the past month – either online or in real life – you know that I did a Half-Ironman Triathlon in September. Why would you know that? Because I have told absolutely every living person who has crossed my path. Friends, relatives, friends of relatives, the gal at the dry cleaners, the guy who bags my groceries at the store, I have covered everyone.

Now, I don’t brag, mind you. I work it into conversation casually. For example, when asked at the grocery store if I want plastic or paper, I will say something like “Well, I just did a Half-Ironman Triathlon, so I am feeling pretty strong, let’s go with paper because it weighs more.”  Or I might say “Paper or plastic? When I did my Half-Ironman Triathlon a few weeks ago, it was raining  and I used plastic bags to keep my stuff dry, so let’s go with plastic.” See, I just finesse the conversation until I casually let the Half-Ironman reference drop. I am quite good at it by now.

So, why do I mention it to every living creature within vocal range? Because I never thought I could do it, that’s why. Granted, I was surprised when I did my first marathon, but I had always been a runner, so once I started training, I was fairly confident I could pull it off. A triathlon, however, was so far outside my realm of experience that I had no such confidence. I thought it equally likely that I might drown, crash, or otherwise not finish and/or die. I am still amazed at the massive psychosis that took over my mind and spurred me to sign up for it in the first place (you can read more about my journey to the Half-Ironman here). It was something that I thought was absolutely impossible, and yet I did it with the support and encouragement of my family, my friends and my fantastic coach Nina. Every time I wanted to give up, they were there for me, telling me I could do it, even when I doubted myself. And it worked. The feeling of having done something I thought impossible is still overwhelming.

However, after my triathlon was over (did I mention it was a Half-Ironman?) I realized I had another race on the calendar: the Chicago Marathon on 10.10.10. Huh, I’d almost forgotten about that one. Although I’d had a great experience at last year’s Chicago Marathon, I had not planned on doing it again. All those long runs were enough to drive me crazy. I am a slow runner, so 20-mile training runs take me the better part of a day, and I can’t stand to be alone with myself for that long. But, then I saw the date – 10.10.10! Impulsively, I signed up. 10.10.10 sounded fun!  I conveniently forgot that although the date was “fun,” it was still a marathon. Still a 26.2 mile race. Still a summer filled with grueling training runs. What in the world was fun about that?

As my marathon training wore on, I almost dropped out. After all, I had done my “A” race, the triathlon (did I mention it was a Half-Ironman?), and doing the marathon seemed like nothing more than a lot of work. My motivation sagged. I began to think that perhaps I needed to run the marathon for a larger cause, something beyond just personal satisfaction, because it wasn’t feeling very satisfying anymore.

I will admit that I have mixed feelings about fundraising runs. On one hand, I believe strongly that if someone is going through all the effort of doing a marathon (or another major athletic event) to raise money for an organization, the least I can do is support that person with a monetary donation. And all the organizations I have been asked to support have been worthy of every penny. On the other hand, I have resisted doing a fundraising run myself because I am reluctant to ask friends to foot the bill for my athletic events. Would I like to run a marathon in Hawaii and have it paid for in return for soliciting donations? Sure! Who wouldn’t? But I also feel if I really want to run a marathon in Hawaii, I should just pay to go myself, and if I want to support an organization, I should write my own check. Yes, there have been times when I have gotten shut out of a race and I have run as a charity runner just to get the bib, so I make my own contribution to pay for it and leave it at that.

But this was different. I did not need a bib number – I already had one. I did not need an organization to provide me with accommodations or travel arrangements. I just wanted to put all that training and effort and – yes, let’s just use the word – pain towards something good. As I was wrestling with the issue, my friend Margaret invited me to come learn about a non-profit called Back on my Feet, which was launching its new Chicago chapter. I found out that one of my runner friends, Chanthana, was going to be at the same event, so I figured sure, why not? I’ll go check it out, hang out with Margaret and Chanthana and have a good time. As I sat at the event and learned more about the organization, I realized I had found my cause.

Back on My Feet was started by a spunky woman named Anne Mahlum, a runner who lived in an “up and coming” (read: historically undesirable) neighborhood in Philly. Her morning runs took her by a homeless shelter where she developed a bit of a rapport with the guys hanging on the street corner out front. One morning, a crazy idea popped into her head: she was going to start a running club for the guys at the shelter.

Now, you might ask, as I did, don’t the homeless need clothing, job training, and opportunities instead of a little exercise? Well, yes, but stop to think for a minute about what running gives you in your life. Yes, it is a way to stay fit, maybe to shed a few pounds, but to be a consistent runner requires dedication, motivation, structure, optimism and perseverance. In return, running gives us confidence, self-discipline, self-satisfaction, self-sufficiency, determination and a sense of accomplishment. Some days it quite simply gives us our sanity. It gets us through rough patches. It is a constant.

Now imagine if you were homeless, adrift, feeling like a failure, hopeless. Imagine someone told you that you could run a mile but you didn’t believe it was possible. Then imagine yourself doing it. Imagine how that would feel. You might start to believe that if you can run a mile – something that felt impossible – maybe you can do anything. That one mile might change your life.

That is what Back on My Feet is all about. It brings a sense of accomplishment and pride to people who probably thought they could never feel that way again. It can change their lives; it may even save their lives. And it all started with one woman and a crazy idea. Crazy like running a marathon is crazy. So I am proud to say that I am running Chicago Marathon (on 10.10.10!) as a fundraiser for Back on My Feet. And since I already have my bib, etc., every penny of every donation goes straight to helping their programs. I hope you can contribute and help someone else get back on their feet. Because sometimes it is not about winning, and it is not even about finishing; sometimes it is all about starting. If you’d like to donate, click here to go to my fundraising page. In the meantime, did I tell you I did a Half-Ironman?

Click here to see an NBC nightly news video about Anne Mahlum and Back on My Feet.

 

Chicago Marathon 2009

 

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | October 3, 2010

Smokin’ it again in Bucktown

Confession time: I don’t run 5k races. My first race, almost a decade ago, was a 5k, but I only did a handful of them after that. It turns out that 5ks are the gateway drug. Sure, some people can do 5ks and never be tempted to try anything harder, but for many people 5ks are just the beginning. Soon they are looking for something with a little more distance, something to prolong the buzz. They start seeking out 5-milers. Before long, they are experimenting with 10ks and half marathons. Alas, some lose all control and end up doing marathons. They can never go back to the simple buzz of a 5k, they need a bigger thrill. And yes, I am that kind of runner.

So when my friend Ilyse asked me if I wanted to do the Bucktown 5k with her, I was hesitant. First of all, it was a week before Chicago Marathon, and I needed to check with Coach Nina to see if I could get clearance. I assumed Nina would say no. Much to my surprise, Nina thought it was a great idea. In fact, she wanted me to not just run it, but race it. Race it? Seriously? Rats.

There is a long list of reasons why I don’t like 5ks. First of all, 5ks are fast, and I am slow. 5ks tend to attract young thin guys wearing Vibrams who do five-minute miles and run like cheetahs. I do not fit in with that crowd. I am a solid 10+ minute miler and I run like a slightly arthritic bulldog. To complicate things, 5ks also tend to attract slow walkers as well as the 5-minute cheetahs. That irritates me because those walkers do not always self-seed very well. The last thing I needed this close to Chicago Marathon was to get tripped up by a walker bunching me on a turn or someone cutting me off with a jogging stroller. (NB: I am not opposed to walkers or people with jogging strollers participating in races. I applaud anyone who gets out there early on a Sunday morning. However, I am a klutz, so the fewer obstacles the better for me.)

However, the main reason I don’t do 5ks is because they take just as much work as a longer race, but are over in the blink of an eye. I guess part of me likes the “over in a blink of an eye” aspect, but really, I have to wonder if it is worth getting up two hours early for a race that will take a half hour. 120 minutes of sleep sacrificed for 30 minutes of running? The numbers just don’t work for me. Prepping for a 5k takes just about as long as prepping for a longer race. I still have to check the weather, figure out what to wear, dig out the gloves, find my running tights from last spring which are somewhere in the bottom of my closet, get the race belt, find my running glasses, set my alarm to get up early, and so on and so on. It adds up to hours of prep and travel time for 30 minutes of running. Sleeping in simply seems superior.

Unfortunately, since I had an enthusiastic coach and an enthusiastic running partner-in-crime, I knew I had no choice but to do the race. So, reluctantly, I found myself getting up at 6AM and doing my usual pre-race routine. Fortunately, at this point in the season, the race bag is eternally packed and ready to go. What’s more, it was not a triathlon, so I only needed one sport’s worth of gear. I felt like I was truly traveling light.

Ilyse and I headed to Bucktown and got to the start line right on time. Before I knew it, the countdown had begun and we were off. I immediately tucked in behind one of the Vibram-clad cheetahs and followed him as he sprung through the crowd searching for some open pavement. Needless to say, he sprinted away from me within minutes but at least I had gotten some space for myself. My next task was to find someone to pace off of. When I am left to my own devices, I am slow and lazy. I am not a leader, I am a follower, and I desperately needed someone to follow. I scanned the runners in front of me and then I found her: a girl in pink shirt with black arm warmers and a very interesting running skirt and tights combo. I placed myself behind her to discover she was hovering around 8:30-8:45.  Perfect. She was just what I needed, and in that outfit I really couldn’t lose her. For over a mile, I followed her through the quiet and still-sleeping streets of Bucktown. However, just after mile 1.5 she picked up her pace to an 8 minute mile. I struggled to hang on but she pulled away from me. Before I knew it, she was gone.

I was alone, floundering in a sea of lycra. I needed to find someone else to follow and I needed to find that person fast. I couldn’t use anyone who was passing me at that point, because obviously if they were passing me, they were going faster than me.  But I couldn’t pace off anyone I was passing either. I needed to find someone I had been with all along, but who I just hadn’t noticed yet. It reminded me of dating advice in high school: don’t look for the jock, the pretty boy, the homecoming king; instead, look for that nice boy who does well in class, is easy to talk to, has a great smile and makes you laugh, the one you’ve overlooked but who is just waiting to be noticed. (And I took that advice by the way, although I am not sure my husband’s academic record would pass the “does well in school” criteria. I have never asked for his school transcripts, and I don’t plan to, either. Don’t ask, don’t tell.)

I scanned the crowd around me. Who had I been with for a while but hadn’t really noticed yet? My eyes fell on the back of a large guy in a gray shirt in front of me and to my left. I wanted to say “Excuse me sir, but are you running an 8:45 pace? Me too! My name is Sue, nice to meet you. Is this your first Bucktown 5k?” But I knew that would be weird. I just followed him and kept checking my watch. We were right at around 8:45. Perfect. I lagged behind him a few times but made up for it by taking better lines on the corners. At about mile 2.8 I wanted to stop and walk but I realized that would be ridiculous. If I stopped I might never find Gray Shirt Guy again, and after searching for Mr Right for so long, I knew I had to hold on to him. I kept going. And literally minutes later, it was over. I crossed at 27:05 (curse those last 6 seconds!), a reasonably fast time for a fairly slow runner. In fact, for me that was smokin’ fast, much faster than my first 5k all those years ago, where (to put in charitably) I was in a much younger age group.

And I have to confess that I really enjoyed it. Although I could have lived with a later start time (why not start at noon, huh?), I was done by 9 AM and I had a nice fleece vest from RAM Racing (the event organizers) as my reward. So, in spite of my initial reluctance, I think that I may be going back to my 5k roots more often.  Although I know 5ks are the gateway drug, perhaps it is time to pick up the habit again. After all, I have moved on to the harder stuff, so the damage is done now, right? And who knows, maybe someday this arthritic bulldog will morph into a Vibram-wearing cheetah.

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