From mpage@panix.com Mon Mar  9 12:20:30 EST 1998
Article: 109813 of rec.running
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From: mpage@panix.com (Madeleine Page)
Newsgroups: rec.running
Subject: Ridiculous racing (ludicrously long)
Date: 8 Mar 1998 17:43:49 -0500
Organization: Winnicott, Larkin & Bach
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So last weekend I did my first race in 20 years. A 10K.  Out of deference
to other runners, I didn't bring the Noble Hound -- something about a big
slurping tongue up the back of a bare thigh can, I find, put people off
their pace a bit. No matter how much I explain things ("It just means she
*likes* you"), they tend to glare in a most lowering fashion. 

Odd, really. You'd think they'd take it as encouragement.

Anyway, there's this annual 10K. Sort of low key, kind of pleasant.
Friendly crowd, even if you don't have a dog with you. First thing I see
is four men  wearing t-shirts that say "Over the Hill Running Club" on the
front, and on the back:
	Run
	Hurt
	Complain

I ask where I can join. They tell me that to qualify, I have to have a
demonstrable ability to run slowly (ha!) and complain loudly (ho!).  Only
two minutes into a warm-up whine, they quickly tell me I'm an honorary
member of their club, and sort of edge away into the crowd. Didn't even
stop to give me a t-shirt. People are *weird*, aren't they?

Turns out that only a hundred people had preregistered for the race. As a
lifetime certified dyed-in-the-wool Princess of Procrastination, I wasn't
one of them. Nor were 299 other people. Having four times as many runners
as they'd expected led to a few organizational difficulties, t-shirt
sizing among them. I am now the proud owner of a lovely white t-shirt
which is so long and capacious that I could wear it as a summer dress were
it not for its long sleeves and tasteful motif of snow flakes.

One of the other little organizational snafus was the provision of only
two portapotties at race start. This small oversight was compounded by the
race organizers providing ample quantities of water so runners could front
end load on hydration. Difficulties were inevitable.

So, it's two minutes to start time. There are forty people in the line-up
for the women's portapotty. Glance anxiously at the organisers' table.
Never fear, there are seventy people in the line up for race numbers. 

Five minutes *past* start time. There are thirty people in the line up for
the women's portapotty. Glance anxiously at the organisers' table. There
are only about twelve in the line up for race numbers. Hmmm. 

Over the road from the race start is a steep hill covered in shrubbery;
nice leafy azaleas and rhododendrons; well worn paths up the hill to the
parkland above. Without a word, as one, the last twenty of us in the
women's portapotty queue cross the road and eversocasually drift towards
various bushes, trees and other forms of leafy cover. I'm last across, so
I have to climb to the highest part of the hill to find cover for privy
privacy. As I discreetly hunker down, through the leaves I see below me
dozens of leafily camouflaged pink bums. The scene looks suddenly like
some surrealist painting of giant magnolia blossoms. I'm still giggling at
the sight when I cross back to the start line.

We all make it back in time, and the race finally starts -- about ten
minutes late. Still not late enough for one poor woman, who is vainly
trying to extricate herself from the portapotty while a thundering herd of
cheerful runners goes by. There's just no clearance between the runners
and the portapotty, and she can't get the door open wide enough to get
out.  As I go by, I hear a plaintive "Waaaiiiiit!". Must have been
race-fuelled imagination that gave it a sort of Doppler effect as I went
by.

People are friendly throughout the race, but I'd forgotten all those Miss
Racing Manners dilemmas. For instance, one very pleasant guy, a university
administrator he tells me, starts chatting to me. Good company, but after
a while it's obvious he's holdng back in order to stay with me, while I'm
really pushing myself in order to accommodate his faster pace. I say,
politely, "Oh, do go on". "Oh, no no no", he says. "This pace is fine" he
adds. Clearly, he's lying. More silent manouvering for a mutually
agreeable pace. We do the "Do go ahead", "No it's fine" routine again. And
again. I finally slow down radically and tell him that I am going to burn
out if I don't slow down. This isn't true, but it does give him permission
to go on ahead. After a compulsory "Are you going to be OK?" and a couple
of "Are you sure?"s he takes off like a bat out of hell. 

Then there's the dreadful ordeal of the Race Bore. I got one, dammit. He
droned on and on, and each time I picked up the pace a bit to get away
>from  him, he'd merely drone slightly louder and ask a question. This would
oblige me, as a well-bred English fool, to drop back to his side to answer
him. Must have been six times I  pulled ahead four or five paces, only to
slow down and drop back to speak to the Running Bore. Finally I couldn't
bear it any more and pulled ahead. The last mile was my fastest of the
race, and that was basically becuase I was desperate to get away from him.
This gave me an idea for the equivalent of a rabbit for us back of the
packers. We could call him a tibbar, and his function would be to be
sufficiently noxious that people would run faster in case he caught up
with them. 

Oh, how'd I do, you ask? I met goal one, which was to finish. I didn't
meet goal two, which was a risible, palty, derisory goal to begin with.  I
had hoped to break, ah, sixty minutes. I was 20 seconds over. But I have a
dozen excuses, as well as A Plan, about which more later.  The good news
is that when I finally got to the finish line, there was the university
administrator with a cup of water and a banana for me -- better than a
dozen roses, at that moment. When they told me that running would improve
my sex life, I thought they meant...

Madeleine "well, never mind" Page