The Good Hurt

I did it, I finished the Southern 6k Trail Race in 40 minutes and 33 seconds. This put me in the top 25-40% by my rough estimation, and that's fine with me, it was my first race, and an awesome experience.

I showed up to Southern Adventist University's gym about 45 minutes before the race, and was immediately struck by what a big, fun deal this whole race was. The University's jazz band had set up to serenade the runners, and there were tables set up all around with bagels, fruit, water and Gatorade. There were volunteers everywhere.

I walked up to the registration table, told them my name, and then received my goodie bag. It was really astonishing. The main bit of swag was a mesh Patagonia jersey with the race logo on the front and the sponsor's on the back. I was expecting a cheap, cotton shirt for the $30 entry fee. This shirt was far more, It was a Patagonia Run Shade jersey, the fabric was a thin mesh, but strong, with great venting and a comfortable cut, I wanted to put it on immediately, but in my internet wanderings searching for race-day tips, I read that the only people who wear the race shirt during the race are the first time racers, because apparently there's some superstition about wearing the shirt before completion. Yes, I was a first-time racer, but I didn't want to look like a first time racer. So I kept the shirt off.

At about fifteen minutes till the start I was standing outside looking at an enormous, Mountain Hardware dome tent set up by the MH representatives (they, alongside Patagonia, Marmot and Smart Wool were the sponsors). I took the plug of dip out of my moth, and washed the tobacco juice out with a swig of water, the racers around me looked disgusted. Sorry, I may look like one of you, but I'm a country boy at my heart. When I opened up a peanut butter Power bar they all seemed a bit more approving, but that approval went away quickly when I washed down the bar with a 5-Hour Energy Shot.

Oh well, you can't please everyone.

The race started with a .4 mile run on the main road through campus. There was a big banner lifted about 12feet in the are with "start" written on the back side, and "finish" written on the front. The 170-or-so racers milled about behind the start in a chaotically organized fashion. The lanky ones who were in it to win it (you could tell these apartfrom their absolute lack of muscle and fat, it's amazing what chicken legs can carry a man/woman to) naturally gravitated towards the front, the rest of us were content to fill in behind, not too worried about our uncompetitive starting positions.

3-2-1- Go!

The start caught me a little off guard, I moved into a trot, about seven or eight miles an hour. But there was a problem, my music wasn't playing, I had locked my iPod, and so instead of hearing Steve Miller Band's "Take the money and Run", I instead heard 340 shoes pounting on pavement, a few grunts and mumbling. I reached down into my pocket and fixed the issue. "This is a story 'bout Billy Joe and bobby Sue..." Perfection.

Recent research has found that static stretching weakens your muscles for 30 or so minutes. So instead of toe touches and sumo-squats I had loosened up with a set of twenty split jumps. It seemed to work, I felt loose, and the three Advils I had taken 45 minutes before had preemptively neutralized the pain from my fledgling shin splints. I felt good, and started to pass.

On the road, there was room to maneuver, I looked ahead about 20 feet and picked out a path through the slower runners. Zigging and zagging, i had advanced about 30 places by the time the race left the road and entered the trail.

I don't remember much after that. As I anticipated, the hills were murderous, beginning almost as soon as the pavement transitioned to dirt and tree roots. I shut my mind off. It was a gorgeous day, 65 degrees and sunny. The woods we ran through were rich and full, streams cut through at odd intervals and I imagine that, at least on a subconscious level, I was soaking in the sights. But my fore-consciousness was occupied elsewhere. Left foot there, spring over that tree root, push of the right foot, left foot again, avoid the rock, now the right.

My wind left me right as James brown lead his bad back to the bridge on "Soul Power". I was halfway up the hill, wanted to stop, bend over, cough out my guts, force bellows-full of pure oxygen into my lungs. I pushed on.

There was a healthy competitive spirit in the air, the people behind and in front of me encouraged one another and me, I joined it. I wanted, desperately for these others to succeed, but not to succeed as much as me. This type of competition was alien to me. I knew football, I knew the overwhelming desire to grab my opponent by his jersey and throw him to the ground in a fit of strength and rage, to spit on him, kick him, to hope that he stays down just long enough to realize what a bad idea it would be to get back up and return to his huddle. But this desire wasn't there, I loved these people, they were my brothers and sisters of the trail, their success was my success.

The hills rose and fell, time lost its meaning, I guessed at miles, thought wandering thoughts of no consequence. "Man, James Brown has soul." "Man, that guy in front of me is wearing cologne, cologne! To a trail race!" But even these soon subsided into the recesses of my mind until only my left and right feet, my lungs, my calves held all of the meaning in the world.

5 days earlier I had come and surveyed the trail, this did me little good until the end. That tree, that creek bend, that walking bridge! I know these landmarks! I'm at the end. I dug down deep, found some bit of stored energy left for me by my ancestors hundreds of thousands of years ago running away from sabertooth tigers and dire wolves. Thanks, I needed it.

The dirt soon gave way once again to pavement, and I started on the most miserable .4 miles of my life. My legs were churning, but their movements meant nothing, I felt them not, the whole world was encompassed in my lungs and the cramp building itself up beneath my rib cage.

At the finish line I saw my parents and little sister. They looked so wonderful to me in those seconds, their love thrown out for the world to see if it took the time to notice, the banner, "finish", a skinny man about an inch shorter than me slapped me on the shoulder. "Good job." "*Cough* Than... tha... thank you."

And just like that, with AC/DC telling my to shoot to thrill, the world came back, it expanded away from my lungs. My legs reentered reality first, the cramps, the pain, then my feet, my left arch curled up into a vicious cramp. Then the tents, the spectacle, then the university, the town, the country, the world. These things whose very existence I had so completely forgotten for 40 minutes came back to me in a flood.

It was a beautiful feeling.