Guest Blogger: Andrea Myhre
The run started at 10 am, an 8K. I was out until at least 1:00 last night but I drank plenty of water and ate lots of popcorn (you are supposed to eat carbs before a race, right?). The whole reason I signed up was to give me motivation to run on a regular basis, to train for something, and to support my friend and her organization, both of whom I admire. My dream of being an O.K. trail runner, of getting to the point where I could actually enjoy running up and down hills in the woods is the ultimate goal. So, all things considered, it seemed like a good idea.
The last couple of years there has literally been an explosion in the number of 5k’s, half-marathons, “fun-runs”, “color-runs”, and the like, to the point that if someone mapped them out out on the calendar, there is something happening every weekend in our little hamlet. Of course, Corvallis being the home of many well-educated, health-conscious, outdoor-loving, high achievers, the running thing is pretty popular. There are more ultra-marathon runners here than you can shake a stick at. You see them walking around town like undercover superheros, their well-defined calves and leathery faces give them away. I have mixed feelings about those people as they both threaten and fascinate me. I have no idea how they are able to run 25 miles up and down mountains without stopping. There is something about their mental toughness that is like a language I don’t speak. Their culture and what drives them is something I have not been able to understand. They probably feel the same way about people that are really good quilters, who knows?
I get to the event and there are a million people in the parking lot. I sigh. I am not a fan of crowds especially in this situation. Whenever there is a crowd of folks at a race it seems everyone walks around silently comparing notes on who has the best muscles and the latest gear, who looks studly, and who looks like they just lost 100 pounds and are out to prove the human spirit can make the body do incredible things. Speaking of which, I meet my friend at the finish line who was also part of the reason I signed up.
We chat for a bit and then I see the lovely face of my friend who works for the organization putting on the race. I tell her my strategy is to walk up the steepest part of the hill and run down. She gives me the thumbs up and turns to answer questions from a guy that looks like he’s run a few too many races. The race is about to start.
I line up around the start line, feeling like an alien trying hard to fit in with the natives without being found out. The woman next to me looks like she is thinking the same thing because we are clearly making an effort to stay to the back. “I am not competitive” I say to her and she nods back, “I am afraid this is going to kick my butt which is why I am standing here”. We laugh. The race starts! The hoard of people are on the move and it’s hard not to feel like a part of a cattle drive with the race announcers playing the cowboys. Friends and family are along the sidelines, cheering us on. Going on, I am behind a stout woman and a skinny woman and they are slow. I like their pace and stay behind them, feeling like maybe I can do this after all.
We run out of pavement and everyone starts up the trail. Two other ladies near me are talking, although they are barely able. “I am not good at hills, I am never doing this again” one huffs and her friend grunts in agreement. “Ladies”, I wanted to yell, “They don’t call it Run for the Hills for nothing!” We start up the hill and surprisingly, I am still running. I trained for this carefully but always with the idea that I would walk the second I felt like throwing up. We go higher, people start power walking. Someone bites it on the rubber flaps that are supposed to divert water off of the trail and I feel badly for him. He’s a lumbering guy who is probably regretting being cocky enough to sign up for a trail race.
We veer to the right at the top of the hill and start down. This is my favorite part. This is where I feel like I am six all over and gleefully gallop down the hill going as fast as my feet will slap down the trail. I pass people at this point like a BMW on the freeway.We go around the bottom of the hill and I keep my pace till we get to the water station which I pass up.
Back up the hill. There are now two older women ahead of me going slow and steady. “This is how to age well”, I think – slow but steady no matter what kind of crazy thing you take on in life. While I am philosophizing about these two ladies and their running style, the hill starts to get steeper. There is no one pushing in back of me and I am actually enjoying myself and being on the trail. This is why I like to run trails and my happy meter is going up by the minute. The trail goes up and down and finally starts a long ascent to the top. I am powerwalking, probably not pushing myself as much as I should, but I am having fun.
As we get toward the top there are the ultra-marathoners passing us who seem to be oblivious to the fact that there was a huge race on the hill today. Their clothes are soaked and their muscles are glistening in the sun. Show-offs. We finally get to the top and I stop for a second to catch my breath and to take in the view. A older gentleman is sitting on the bench, obviously amused by what he is seeing.
We all start down the hill again and I hope I don’t pass out as I run faster downhill. I think I am still alone but suddenly I hear heavy breathing behind me. I think it’s the lifter-guy who I passed awhile back so I speed up. The breathing behind me gets closer and heavier, so I put it into high gear going downhill. We are racing. I leap over a root ball sticking up from the trail. I imagine this is what warriors feel like on the chase during a hunt. However, I quickly burn out and let the breather pass, and it’s one of the epically-sweaty ultra-marathoners. I yell “have fun!”
Soon, the trail opens up and I hit pavement. The race is almost over. I realize as I get closer to the finish line that there are not too many of us left. I notice the family with two tiny kids I saw at the start line are far ahead of me. I can’t help but admire them, they are such troopers. As I cross the finish line I note my time and immediately forget it. The end of a race is kind of anti-climatic I have decided. I walk over to the gatorade/water station and someone says “its all empty”. That’s what I get for being at the end of the pack. I notice my friend has been finished awhile and I ask her how the race went and she says nonchalantly, “that last mile was a killer”. I scuttle out of the way as she turns to have someone snap a pic of her with her kids…which will be immediately posted on Facebook.
All told it was fun and I will be running that trail again in the near future, pretending that I am a warrior lady…