Last Sunday I ran the Father’s Day 5 Miler in a record slow time. A Personal Worst, if you will. While I could blame my poor performance on the day’s muggy clime, I can’t deny the fitness I’ve lost in recent months.
It’s amazing the difference 30 to 40 seconds per mile can make. Not only must I deal with the psychological ignominies of deteriorating condition, but also the many material disadvantages. There’s the embarrassing corral assignment – one or two behind previously well matched club mates. Then there’s the claustrophobic race lane, the chaos at every water station, and the extra long lines at the finish for chip clipping and bagel, to name a few more.
Perhaps most curious though, are the characters I’ve come upon when racing further back in the pack. I don’t recall rubbing shoulders with these types in my speedier days, at least not with the regularity I do now. These life forms can be broadly categorized as follows:
1. The Darth Vader. What’s up with those men* who could be the Dark Lord’s emphysema-suffering twin? They sound like drowning souls who, having just fought their way to the surface, are sucking air like a Dyson 3000 in full blown panic attack. These human vacuum cleaners distract and terrify me, not because of any latent childhood fear of Luke Skywalker’s estranged father, but in anticipation of their imminent demise. I don’t want to be the one to have to stop and administer CPR. Surely it’s not healthy to be laboring that hard?
It’s amazing the difference 30 to 40 seconds per mile can make. Not only must I deal with the psychological ignominies of deteriorating condition, but also the many material disadvantages. There’s the embarrassing corral assignment – one or two behind previously well matched club mates. Then there’s the claustrophobic race lane, the chaos at every water station, and the extra long lines at the finish for chip clipping and bagel, to name a few more.
Perhaps most curious though, are the characters I’ve come upon when racing further back in the pack. I don’t recall rubbing shoulders with these types in my speedier days, at least not with the regularity I do now. These life forms can be broadly categorized as follows:
1. The Darth Vader. What’s up with those men* who could be the Dark Lord’s emphysema-suffering twin? They sound like drowning souls who, having just fought their way to the surface, are sucking air like a Dyson 3000 in full blown panic attack. These human vacuum cleaners distract and terrify me, not because of any latent childhood fear of Luke Skywalker’s estranged father, but in anticipation of their imminent demise. I don’t want to be the one to have to stop and administer CPR. Surely it’s not healthy to be laboring that hard?
2. The Conversationalist. It’s insulting and galling to race alongside that chit-chattering pair: “What you having for dinner? Did they have layoffs at your work? Did you watch Lost last night?” SHUT the hell up! Either you’re bragging that you can run this pace while carrying on a casual tête-à-tête, or you’re not racing at all. Either way, I’m killing myself over here, and you’re making a mockery of it. All I want to hear during a race is pounding feet, and the occasional hocked loogie.
3. The Costumed. During the recent
Vermont Covered Bridges Half Marathon I found myself flanked by two Batwomen. The initial entertainment factor was quickly replaced with irritation. That I couldn’t overtake these latex-clad femmes, wearing underwear over tights and bat ears, was an affront to my formally more competitive self. And don’t get me started on the capes which fluttered persistently in my face. For the best part of 13 miles I was privy to the recurring spectator reaction, like an iPod on repeat. First, the surprised snort of laughter, then the cheer “Go Batwomen, Go!” And finally, the interminably witty, “Why don’t you just fly to the finish line?” Yes, please do, and take your glossy polyisoprene with you!Clearly, I need to light a fire under my Brooks, and put in the hard training effort required to escape these prattling, heavy breathing, comic characters. I would love to turn the physiological clock back to that time where my elbows had freedom to flap, my legs had room to settle into a stride, and I didn’t have to fight the masses for a post race banana. I’d love to move further up the pack again, and be part of its quieter and more civilized environs. I have to do this soon though, for if I can’t beat them…I may well don that old Halloween fairy outfit, limber up the tongue, rub sandpaper on my lungs, and join them.
*Perhaps there are female equivalents but I’ve never happened upon any.
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