Westchester 10k 35:58

Lime green shorts, construction pylon orange tank top, and "knee-high" rainbow striped toe socks worn as gloves. This was my "racing" outfit Sunday. I looked more like a clown than a runner. I knew I had to run fast or else I'd be chucked aside as one of "those" runners, the ones who dress weird because otherwise they'd never get noticed on the racecourse. My motive was much less deliberate. I HATE doing laundry. On that particular day I was in the middle of an eight-day laundry stand off with my husband, and dang-it I was going to win. In fact when I left the house that morning it looked like a clothes bomb had gone off. A sorry casualty in this battle was my appearance on race day, but that was a consequence I could live with if it meant I didn't have to do laundry. On this day I was in pursuit of two victories!

Needless to say, as I lined up on the starting line the other women didn't seem to take me too seriously. Can you blame them? I felt like a punk rocker at a Junior League meeting. The men's throats seemed bulge from the stress of holding in their scoffing laughter at seeing me at the front for the start. Even I wasn't sure where I should be. It took much prompting from Miki to get me to move up to the very front. Even then I looked back at him for reassurance. Only when the starter raised his arm was I able to find the courage to face the course.

The gun went off so suddenly I reacted with startled jump before I took the first step. Once my legs were moving, I became aware of nothing but them. That first mile I kept my mind focused solely on the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. Finding which part of my foot met the road, gaining an understanding of angles in my stride, and the stress of my muscles as they hardened and softened through each step. Like a machinist on an assembly line I was becoming one with my machine. Learning each piece, it's placement, and how to best manipulate it for the sake of efficiency. It was no surprise when that first mile split was a 5:40. That had been exactly what I had wanted my machine to accomplish. I felt completely in tune with my machine. My ears knew the rhythm that equaled 5:40, and my legs were doing everything I asked.

The race had led us onto a wooded path just before the mile marker. A group of men engulfed me. I felt like a stone in the high tide. Naturally, I let them sweep me up, losing touch with the sound of my feet in the chaos of the crowd. The second mile was faster than the first. This had not been deliberate. The loss of control frightened me, and caught me off guard. What would this do to me later? Was I running on cash, or credit? While I questioned my speedy second mile, I detached from the awareness with my legs. My pace slowed significantly, an attempt to regain control and guarantee a solid race. We passed the banners for the 5k finish and turned to begin our second loop.

My split at the three-mile marker angered me. 17:26 was not fast enough. My legs were not spent at all. How dare I sabotage myself like that? Now I felt antsy, and my legs grew restless. In response I deliberately picked up pace. The fourth mile was run with confidence, and control. I took back my position with what was left of that pack of men, much to their surprise. The 5:50 for that mile still wasn't testing my legs to my liking, nor did it satisfactorily make up for my loss of focus and confidence during the third mile.

My legs didn't rebel at all when I quickened my stride. Pushing my forefoot off the pavement forcefully, as I reeled in runners in my quest to salvage this race. The whole time wondering who this person was that was giving out commands with the authority of a general. All I could think to myself was, "I have 2 more miles in which to save this race. This is my chance to prove myself to me, and I'm not going to blow it. There's more, the effort can always be harder". My forearms began to sweat beneath my toe sock gloves from the effort. The desire of my spirit to catch the runners in front of me screamed out louder than the complaints from my sweaty arms to remove the gloves. I made it through the 5 mile marker in 29 minutes even. A 5:45 mile.

The sixth mile was all business. I had test-driven these legs for miles 4 and 5 not really sure what I was going to find, and engine seemed to purr in response to each acceleration. During the sixth mile I dropped it down a notch to see how the machine might react. Much to my surprise there was no protest. I began to curse myself a little for my earlier trepidation. I wanted to punish myself with each step by increasing the force and speed of my foot strike. The final mile was my crazed penance.

Since this was a circuit race most of the runners knew each other. I am new in town and no one knew me. As I pass these guys so late in the race they look at me first "is that a girl", and then a second time "who is that girl". I'm guessing there aren't many women that put the hammer down at these smaller circuit races, and they think they should know me. Right now I'm barely conscious of them. My concentration is set on reading my legs response to my demand for increased intensity. However, it does occur to me that it's weird they are paying any notice to me at all.

As I pass under the familiar banners marking the way to the finish line, for both the 5k and the 10k races, my legs begin to burn subtly. The finish is a slight incline, but I proceed to increase my effort anyway. I can see the banner for the finish and want to get there as quickly as possible.

I look at my watch 34:20...DANG IT! I'm not going to break 35! Stupid, stupid girl for that third mile. I pass the 6 mile marker in 34:45. The hammer falls harder and I do my best to get on my toes, albeit unsuccessfully. I cross the finish line in 35:58, and raise my arms out of sheer happiness! I see rainbows in the corners of my eyes. Oh yeah the socks! I chuckle. Satisfied with the control I had over my race result, and amused at my attire. One battle won, and one to go!

While waiting for the awards ceremony I get many confused looks from faces that all seem to know each other. My friends won awards also, an awesome bonus. I try to call home in the awards tent. No answer. Hummm what could that husband of mine, and those two boys, be doing? Don't they know I had a race today? My husband hadn't come because he is convinced he's bad luck. My impatience grew to anger on the ride home as I tried him a second time, and again, no answer. He was probably being lazy, wrestling with the boys, and further destroying the house.

As I walked in our house I opened my mouth to spew out the elaborate, scathing, verbal lashing I had composed on the way home. I stopped. The house was spotless; the laundry monster had been conquered! Battle two won as well! My boys were in their room cleaning, and my husband slouched on the couch, he had bags under his eyes. Casey, my knight in a cut-off Offspring concert Tee. I kissed him on the forehead and said, "Thanks! To what do I owe this honor?" His response, "It's not an honor, and yes you owe me!" Ah, what a glorious Sunday!


results: http://www.doitsports.com/newresults3/client/148527_180296_2007.htm