This was supposed to be my “real” post about the Boilermaker. You know, where I documented in well thought out, well written fashion my running of the famous 15K. Yesterday’s wrist to forehead post was giving myself a break because I was so tired.
Well, I don’t know that I can do much better. I’m looking back on the race and my memories are not coherent. I see it in flashes, like one of those choppy movie trailers that drive me crazy. The lone fellow with the trombone. The sign that said, “Catch Those Kenyans.” The nice folks that yelled, “Go, Supergirl!” (I wore a large yellow t-shirt with a Superman S.) All the high fives.
At the start of the race I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. Of course I went in expecting a crowd scene. I made up today’s headline weeks ago. It’s a combination of intimidation and exhilaration. And it’s much easier not to think too much about ALL the runners, but to exchange remarks with the runners right near you. This being Middle-aged Musings Monday, I could go on to philosophize about how we wouldn’t have problems with prejudice if we could deal with each other as individuals, not falsely homogenized groups. Perhaps another Monday.
Instead I’ll share an anecdote about the porta-potties. Of course I had to pee before the race. Anybody who knows me knew that. And if you’re going to point and laugh, you have a lot of other people to point and laugh at as well. Advance publicity bragged on how many porta-potties they would have. Not being entirely naive, I knew I would be waiting in line and hoped to get to the starting place early enough to allow plenty of in-line time.
As it turned out, I only had about a half hour. I got into a line and hoped for the best. Slowly, slowly we moved. Of course I fell into conversation with the lady behind me. The line stretched across the patch of grass the potties were on, across a road, and onto the opposite patch of grass.
“We’re at the first curb!” I announced, elated. It took a long time to get to the second curb, but we finally made it. We were still four people away from the holy grail when they announced that the runners should be in the starting bins by now. I knew how many people were in my bin, the last bin, so I stubbornly stayed in line. The lady behind me said she’d wait and fled. Two or three girls behind her decided to check out the bushes behind the porta-potties. I waited.
And waited. As did many others. We all encouraged each other to hurry. When a door opened, everybody behind the next user yelled, “Go! Go!” One potty had a lock that didn’t show red when it was closed, which caused some consternation in the crowd, because we were all thinking it was unused and wasting precious seconds.
I started to laugh. I explained to the others waiting, “We’re about to run this major 15K race, and all I’m concerned about is this 10 foot sprint to the porta potty. Let’s go! Will I be fast enough! Don’t make us wait!”
I was as fast as I could be. In fact, I was still pulling up my spandex as I came out, but I don’t think I flashed anybody.
It was on to the race. Of course, it was still a ridiculous length of time before I got to the starting line, by which time I was finally able to start running, slowly. The field opened up little by little as we covered the first mile. Thank God for wide streets! And it was like an accordion: now plenty of room, now a little thick. Everybody was good-natured about it, though. I apologized each time I thought I had cut somebody off or bumped somebody.
“You’re all right,” I was assured. I had occasion to offer the same assurance to others.
I began the race saying it would be my last Boilermaker. By the third or fourth mile I was saying, “This is awesome! I’m going to run EVERY Boilermaker!” We’ll see if I actually do. At any rate, it gives me something to blog about.
Mohawk Valley Girl 