It was about a month after Quad Rock, and I hadn’t run much in the meantime, so this was one to let out the steam. I felt amazing. My lungs and legs cooperated, and I felt like I could go for miles more. When the trail headed directly up a ski run, my heart plodded along, completely content to allow my head to enjoy the wildflowers. When the scheduled 10 mile race suddenly turned into 12, it rolled right off me. It didn’t matter to me whether the race were 5 miles or 20. I was just having fun, reveling in the capability of my body and mind. I did derive some additional satisfaction by making it over every.single.upperbodystrength.obstacle without falling in the water.
A coworker of Jason’s had put the team together, and several of his non-running friends had also come out for a celebratory weekend of drinking and sitting by the hotel pool. They had all brought their wives, and I started to become painstakingly aware that I did not fit in with these women in the slightest. I was the only woman on our team, which I hadn’t thought of until I saw their blonde wives in high heels that probably don’t run, get dirty, or drink beer.
I asked Jason if he wished I would stay on the sidelines and drink prim cocktails with the girls instead of plowing my way through the mud with my legs that hadn’t been shaved in a few days. He grinned and followed my gaze to the women daintily dipping their manicured toes in the pool. “Those guys are fools.” Yup, reason 1251 why I’m marrying this man.
So several rounds in, I was the last woman standing. To be fair, many of their wives left to attend to their kids. But others left in a snit, annoyed their husbands were ordering another round and flirting with other men during their grand exit. I found myself talking to a guy I don’t know, a friend of a friend, who has been giving me an incredulous, inquisitive glance all night.
As we peered at each other with the frankness that can only come from drinking heavily with a complete stranger, he leaned in with a familiarity of someone about to take you deeply into their confidence.
“You know,” he said, shaking his head, “I still can’t believe you kept up the boys!”
Though my senses were slightly dulled, I couldn’t keep the smirk off my face. I had just enough self presence not to unleash a diatribe against someone who had just bought a round of drinks for the entire group. Practicing my maturity and sangfroid, I did NOT say, “Yes, my ovaries are extremely heavy and often hold me back from the men’s pack, but today, I managed to tuck in my enormous breasts and keep up.” Instead, I just said, “Well, the boys helped me over some of the tall obstacles. But we run on this kind of terrain quite a bit. It wasn’t too bad.”
I neglected to tell him that I was honest-to-god hungover at the starting line. Like, elephant sitting on head, sun hurting my eyes, wish I were still in bed, kind of hungover. But the pace was slow enough the entire race for me to clear my head and enjoy the run. In fact, those boys, except Jason, were dragging at my pace mightily.
I’m sure he meant it innocently. I mean, let’s face it, the women’s times in speed events are almost uniformly 90% of the men’s times. But those are elite athletes. Among the average Joes with beer guts, particularly as someone with no athletic inclination as a teen, it was strange to be suddenly fitter than guys who likely enjoyed celebrity status as high school athletes. I kind of missed being nearly the slowest runner on a course like at Quad Rock. That felt real. I earned that. Tough Mudder was a fun time, sure, but I left it hungry for another “serious” trail race. So I signed up for the Blue Sky marathon in October. I’m already preparing to be humbled.
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