Throughout my life I have quickly given up on establishing the joys of “my first”. Each and everyone of them (kiss, job, car, trail race…) have all had odd quirks that really take away from the Disney enchantment factor of new adventures.
Psycho Psummer (10 mile edition) was no different, and completely fulfilled my destiny for continuations of awkward, odd, and overall painful experiences within my life.
To set the tone for last Saturday’s race, I first must establish where I was physical the night prior. After work I had driven down to the hotel closest to the course to pick up my race packet. I didn’t make it a half mile from the hotel before I had to lock myself in a very sketchy bathroom at a local gas station for thirty minutes while emptying everything out of my digestive system.
Needless to say I was rather nervous.
Understand that prior to this race the furthest I had ever ran in my life was nine miles, and that was the prior Saturday with the trail running group that was eating pickles along the way. In fact, when it came to ‘racing’ the only experience I had was 5K’s on asphalt.
This choice still has God laughing at me for my prideful endeavors.
The start of the race at 9:00 AM Saturday morning at Wyandotte County Lake (WyCo) immediately set the tone for my day. I was one of few that was wearing a full hydration vest; this should have been a red flag for me.
The first four miles were a horrific experience, straight out of a Stephen King novel, if Mr. King found entertainment in torturing people through athletic events instead of clowns. It wasn’t asphalt we were running on, it was dried Missouri Mud paths laced with jagged rock. Meaning, it wasn’t hard like asphalt, it was hard like concrete with holes that could shatter your ankles with one wrong step, or just slice to you to ribbons like some anime horror episode.
Did I mention that the beginning of the race was right around 86°F?
At the first aid station I truly wanted to
puke die. My stomach was in an awful knot, and I was terrified of being that person that was going to defecate in my shorts while trying to finish the course. Thankfully, a running partner from my Monday runs (bad word choice) was at the first station and immediately suggested ginger ale. Now, I understand that you have to be 60 year of age or older to enjoy ginger ale, but I hit that stuff at every aid station like it was going out of style and it fixed my stomach. Praise Jesus for ginger ale*.
By mile four I was wheezing, heaving, and having a splendid time. It was at that point that I could hear the light footsteps of a secret, pixie/ninja coming up behind me. The footsteps drew near at a rapid pace, I stepped to the side to allow them through. Before I knew it, with a giggle, a smile, and a wave the winner of the Western States 100 mile trail race flew by me as she bounced between each rock.
You’re doing great!
I clapped for her…and cried for myself.
Six miles to go…
At mile seven I was talking to myself, rationalizing my poor choices in life, and wondering when the next 50K runner was going to pass me without sweating. That’s when I saw the sign…
You’re NOT almost there, but you look fabulous!
Do you know how the brain handles wording like this after baking in the heat for two hours? I threatened the air in front of me with anger and cursing. I knew I wasn’t close, but I also knew I didn’t look good at all. The race photographer left when he saw me coming down the trail.
A quarter of a mile later, another sign caught my attention along the trees…
Run now. Poop later. Never trust a fart.
Somehow, someone had made a sign that had categorized the beginning of my morning with colorful markers.
By mile seven I had made it to another aid station; it was maintained by the group that I run with on Monday nights. There were sprinklers, and dogs, and children, and a man running around in a pink bikini…everything made sense since my brain resembled the artistic rendition of scramble eggs. It was at mile seven that I began to really understand that in races where heat is an issue, the hydration vest isn’t the best option because it weighs you down and your body can’t breathe under the material. Make no mistake, I love UltrAspire and my vest, but this was a day where the vest had a fault. Running is bad, running in heat is worse, running in heat with a weight vest because you want to be the next great Wilt-the-Stilt Chamberlain is an overall horrible idea.
Moving to mile nine I came across the ‘three sisters’ (there is better R-rated terminology to describe this geological wonder). I was grateful when I saw a 50K runner pass me, stop halfway up one of these abominations on this planet, take a deep breath, and continued to climb. For a split second the elite and myself, the
peasant, were on the same level and that felt good.
By mile 10 my brain was no longer functioning, I think I was drooling, and my stubborn legs just kept moving. Hallelujah that I grew up hating country music, because I flew in the last half mile when I heard the music from the start/finish line transition to Blake Shelton talking about some beach that I will never see.
At mile 10.5 I crossed the finish line in three hours and six minutes, and in 96°F heat with a 103°F heat index. I had consumed 5 liters of liquid through that trek, and lost about another half liter afterwards in the form of salty tears.
Now, after the accomplishment of this train wreck of ego and pride, there is only one question that I can even humor to ask myself…
When can I do that again?
*Turns out that I was not the only one with digestive issues on the course. All aid stations and the main station ran completely out of ginger ale towards the end of the race because so many people were consuming it at the stations.