Sorry, Reckless Running Over Here

After a brutal 4.5 mile uphill, my lovely friend and I powered painfully through the last three miles of our 13.1 mile race yesterday morning in a raining, blustery Portland. It was pouring when we climbed out of bed at 5:45 a.m. in order to get to the start by 6:30 a.m. so we could pick up our numbers and chips that she forgot to pick up on Saturday. After some miscommunication with our sole C.R.E.W. (Cranky Runners, Endless Waiting) member (boyfriend), we got our numbers and were ready to start.

At 7:25 a.m. and thankfully no longer raining, 1,600 racers lined up on 2nd Street in Portland, waiting for the gun to start us on our 5k, 10k, or half marathon races. Stupidly, lovely friend and I had chosen a half marathon.

We were cranky, cantankerous and had three weeks of solo-training-whine-buildup to release. It all came out during a dry first mile. We determined that our 6 a.m. meal was too long ago (though were it not for crossing of communication wires we would have  had a little more fuel to start out on), and chomped on our first shot bloks at mile 2. At mile 2.5, I was regretting the running tights under my red shorts and the neon yellow rain shell.

Then, at mile 3, the sky opened up. First merely spitting, but definitely raining, we commiserated that maybe, perhaps, the rain jackets and tights had been a wise choice. As rain began dripping off the brim of my S.F. Giants hat, we agreed that caps instead of the propeller beanies we had intended to wear (to go along with the race's "Alice in Wonderland" theme, as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum) were the better call.

At mile 5, we hit the beginning of the Hill.

"Did you look at the course map?" Heather gasped as the incline began to take its toll on both of us, our speed dropping from a shaky 9-minute-mile to 10s.

"Yeah," I barely managed, equally breathless, as my right hip flexor began to cramp, "It's like this for like a mile and a half. I think."

"We can do it."

"I know."

As the rain came down harder and the other lanes of the road (that was not coned-off) hissed with cars going downhill at speeds upwards of 40 mph. The line of runners chugging up the incline moved further out into the road as the gutter and subsequently, the bike lane became river-esque. The cars loomed closer and we tried to utter exclamations.

Water pooled in the sleeves of our waterproof jackets, trickling down our collars to accumulate inside. The combination of sweat and wet provided an unanticipated conundrum. How can one wipe off one's face when everything is wet?

We ate our second set of shot bloks about a quarter mile into the Hill. At mile 8, as we chomped our third set, I exclaimed, "Do you realize this is the second set of bloks we've eaten on this damned hill?"

Cursing ensued, as it struck home that this Hill was far more than 1.5 miles. We were entering mile 4 of the hill and mile 9 of the race.

"I didn't know you could go uphill this long," my lovely friend growled.

The top seemed to loom and was greeted with broken cheers on our parts. Glimpses of blue sky and a distinct slackening of the downpour was greeted with equal jubilation. Then, the road took a sharp right and we were faced with more horror.

It was the Heart of Darkness of Hills. And it steepened sharply after that turn.

"We should have done more hill repeats," I uttered painfully.

"We should have run more," lovely friend pointed out.

As if 25 miles a week wasn't enough.

The hill petered out at mile 10, and we were past acknowledging that our goal of breaking 2 hours was probably not going to happen. We were hoping for a finish at that point, as our burning legs, churning stomachs, and drenched bodies were petering out as well.

"If there are any more hills, I'm going to kill someone," I growled.

And then the path jutted upwards again.

"Okay, who's first?" I moaned.

Needless to say, our last three miles, while speedy, were tumultuous. We alternated "point" — the ultimate running buddy trick, where you have to keep up with whomever gets a spurt of energy; it helps keep pace and means the bitching alternates — and struggled to keep our legs pounding the pavement. A near tumble down a sharp incline off the side of the path, and a stumble into a runner passing incited comments of how falling down the hill was not, in fact, the quicker way to go and, "sorry, reckless running over here."

But we made it.

2:05:42. With a hill we were unprepared for and torrential rain, we did pretty damn well.

I was 714 out of 1655, and 51st out of my age division. Therefore I am not complaining.

About how I did, that is. My aches and pains are a different story.

We drove home to be greeted by the first snow of the season. Boyfriend can barely contain his glee and my parents and lovely friend got to see the house for the first time. I will post the only picture taken from the race as soon as I get it from my mom. Rain made our C.R.E.W. rather scant, and we were only hailed at the finish line, but we'll take what we can get.

More later.

Ciao,
kc