I’ve competed in countless races in my lifetime, most of them swim races, but also a handful of runs, regattas and a triathlon. I like to race, but I like to win even more. However, the issue with being an adult is that most races (that anyone cares about anyway) are running races, and in spite of my athletic past, I am a slow runner.
I competed in a 5k* with co workers a year ago. Being competitive and athletic, I psyched myself out, giving myself lofty goals and looking at everyone as competition. I told myself that I will at least break 30 minutes - that was my minimum goal. When the race started, I burst across the starting line, passing people like a gazelle, graceful and quick. When I thought I was nearly finished, I passed the 1 mile marker. My heart dropped and I slowed down significantly, as not to have a heart attack. I ended up finishing in over 30 minutes, as I chugged across the finish line, exhausted and defeated.
I had competed in a half marathon and an olympic distance triathlon, both of which were nowhere near as painful as this 5k had been. I realized that I had no idea how to pace myself for such a short distance and ended up trying to sprint the whole thing. I was determined to devise a better strategy for next year.
The next year came around, and a month before I decided to try to train. I cursed myself for not training sooner, but made the most of the time I had left, going on runs several mornings each week.
When the race day approached, I felt more prepared than I had the last year. Last year I was too confident, thinking that a 5k was nothing. This year I knew better. I drank a cup of coffee and ate a snack a couple of hours before, and then headed to race with co workers. I started to psych myself out again, but each time I got a little too intense, I reminded myself that I need to take it easy - I can’t sprint the whole thing.
We got to the starting line and the buzzer went off. I again, started at a quick pace, passing people as I bounded along. After a couple minutes, I reminded myself of last year and slowed down. I’d speed up for a while, and then slow down. Then when I felt that I could, I would speed up again. Things seemed to be going OK until about halfway through the race I found that I wasn’t able to speed up again. “It’s OK,” I told myself. “It’s better to keep a steady pace than to kill youself on the third mile.” It was during the last mile that my stomach started to really bother me. I slowed down even more when I would start to feel queasy. “It’s OK. You’re OK.” I kept telling myself.
As the last half mile came around, I wanted to walk. My stomach was not feeling any better. Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, which I was in the middle of reading at the time, came into my head. I thought of her trek across the Pacific Crest Trail and her strength and perseverance inspired me momentarily. “Cheyrl wouldn’t quit!” I thought to myself and pushed on. I could see the finish line straight ahead of me when someone I knew passed me slowly on my right. “Cheryl wouldn’t let that girl pass her!” I thought. So I passed her back seconds before crossing the finish line. Then, roughly 10 feet from the finish line I barfed all over my shoes. Then I barfed on them again and again. It’s a right of passage, I told myself, as I was escorted to the medical tent. You can’t claim to be an athlete and never barf during a workout. Although I didn’t expect to be 27, running a casual 5k when it happened.
I rode my bike home, trying not to go over too many potholes, as my stomach whirled and ached. When I got home, I immediately rinsed the puke off of my shoes and clothes and took a shower. Then I opened my computer and checked my time - I had slipped under 30 minutes with a 29:45. The satisfaction I felt in that moment reminded me of why I put myself through torture. “Next year I’m going to break 28 minutes,” I told myself as my stomach gurgled painfully. I pushed my computer aside and quickly ran to the bathroom.
*It was actually slightly more than a 5k. Technically it was 3.35 miles, which is a 5.4k
Actual photo of me, seconds before barfing
