They are. They are gross. While running, chances are not bad that you will be hit by spit or snot or both at some point during the race. Runners burp. Sometimes very loudly. Runners fart, as anyone who runs regularly on a treadmill at a gym can attest to. Runners have blisters and callouses, and have toenails that turn black and fall off with regularity. Runners smear vasoline in various crevices to reduce friction and chafing. Competitive runners will eat things like peanut butter with pasta for the combined carb/protein/fat ratio.
And yes, runners will do their business in public.
Yesterday while at work, I kept looking out at the gorgeous weather. Gorgeous. A runner's dream. 60, sunny, a slight cool breeze wafting over your skin.
I knew I had to run 10, even though it's my taper week, just to get some miles on the legs, since I had only run once previously on Wednesday for 6 miles. As soon as the clock hit 2pm, I clocked out, and changed into my running digs (short sleeves! Capri tights!). Walking out the door, I saw some clouds gathering, and yes, they were calling for rain, but my running karma was good. I would be safe.
Or not.
As soon as I exited the car at the trailhead, I felt a few raindrops plop down. I had seen a downpour from the road as I was on route, but again, it must be going some other direction. Surely! So I pulled on my hat and some arm sleeves just in case, grabbed the water bottle, and set forth.
Into the rain.
I tried mental mantras to make time pass faster. The uplifting: "You are superhardcore!" The motherly: "You're not made of sugar" The practical: "You may have to race in the rain, so this is good practice" The feminist: "Just think, 50 years ago, how many women had the freedom to run alone in the rain while training for a marathon?" Denial: "This is actually really fun!" Then it started to hail.
About three miles in, I realized I had to go to the ladies room. The temperature was rapidly dropping, but I was still comfortable enough except for the wet part. I had long ago lost any sense of decorum on the trail in terms of using the woods as my personal lportajohn. It becomes a non issue; you have no other choice sometimes. So I found a tree a bit from the path, and then continued on my way. Pulling up extremely wet tights was difficult, but do-able.
The more I ran the number my hands became. I realized that I was not only wet, but also cold. My hands had zero strength and could barely move. My appendages thought they were sloths. Fortunately, my core was still ok, as were my feet.
At the turnaround point, I didn't even bother with mantras. I knew I had 5 miles back. I was cold. I was wet. I still had to be careful as I didn't want to injure myself on the now flooded trail a week before the big day. I turned around and took out my gu.
Only I couldn't rip the top off, because my fingers couldn't grip it strongly enough. I tried holding it in my hands and going at it with my teeth. No good, it just wound up dangling from my mouth. Finally, I put down my water bottle, smooshed it between my palms, and ripped again with the teeth. This time it came off. Still, though, it was hard to eat because I had a hard time holding it tightly enough to suck on.
Stupid cold hands.
Then, once again, I felt nature calling. Now I had a bigger problem. My tights, once difficult, would now be impossible given the club like nature of my hands. Once down, I knew I couldn't get my pants back up.
What's a soaking wet trail runner caught in a downpour on a completely deserted path to do?
Just go.
So I did.
Which pretty much made this run the worst ever. So far.
But! I did it! 10 miles! Even though towards the end my feet as well as my hands had become icecubes, and I was wet, and once I got to the car I couldn't use my fingers to actually turn the key to get into the car (thank you again strong jaws), and my shoes were destroyed,
and I had been forced to pee in my pants.
Well, after all, I am a runner, right?
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