Friday, January 23, 2009
sisterhood of the travelling, crotchless running shorts
my own personal narrative of pain includes; waking up when the presenters of morning television are arriving at their new york studios; flying-- it's just not good for my cuticles; physical discomfort; the phylum of trademarked miniature action figure kitsch that tends to accompany a McCoronary meal; spending money. so i'm not really sure why i was packing my dog eaten shorts to fly down for the 3:30am wake-up call at the disney marathon earlier this month. the trifecta of torture included spending money to sit in turbulence and wake up the following day to spend the registration fee by experiencing what it might feel like to have fire ants pelted at my legs (or a duck wearing half an outfit wielding a tennis racket) for several hours- to the tune of "it's a small world".
marathoners share a trauma bond that no amount of bodyglide can lubricate. wearing race t-shirts and medals are for the obvious. the physical manifestation is seen all over downtown disney, post-marathon, as our kindred do the heidi fleiss hobble towards planet hollywood for salt, garlic fried carbs, and tequila.
in addition to water, watery powerade, and vaseline on popsicle sticks, chocolate bars were being dispensed by race support at mile 12. pavlov's ovaries responded before the digestive and respiratory systems talked to the limbic which gave me a swift kick around the fallopian tubes. however, one of the most memorable signs from the supporters was: "don't poop!" your long distance brethren are part of a 'crapper's collective', and i have no doubt that water pressure throughout the resort took a dip around 2am, marathon morning.
runners everywhere know the important and delicate balance of liquids to avoid both dehydration and hypotranemia. thankfully, mimosa's offer a good source of vitamin C to help in the repair of muscle tears.
apparently, in florida, even jesus loves every single one of the sweaty, swearing and salt encrusted.
last year, RW ran an article on pace team leaders, featuring someone who i immediately wanted to pace with by the end of the article. well somewhere around mile marker 23, the fairy godmother granted my wish; star blackford of the clif pace team, was just that. had it not been for her constant; "one tenth of one percent of americans finish a marathon- you are so strong", and "the average finish time for this marathon is 5:16, you are going to beat that", this would have certainly been a lachrymose performance.
no one can run a marathon for you, but you never run one alone.