I am hurting, I did not really want to run, and I was a DNS for Bogg's Mtn 50k.
More typical RBR verison:
I do not really write much about the aches and pains of running. I am 41, I did not start running (or doing anything active AT ALL) until I was 35, and, as you can gather from the title of this blog, I am NOT your typical runner's build
Translation: Trucking this much ass around can be a little tough on the joints. Shit is going to hurt. That is just a fact.
The reality is that 99% of the time, if I run long enough, whatever pain I have eventually goes away, changes location, or does not really bother me that much anymore. However, last week my hip started to hurt even when I was not running and then during a 12 mile run it not only never got better, it got worse. As a matter of fact, after the Tarantula Run is was downright painful and made it difficult to move around at all for the rest of the weekend. All week I knew that running 31 miles was probably not a good idea.
Originally hubby and Lucy (my dog) were supposed to come with me. He had told me a the week before that he did not want to go, but I had already booked a room that was a little farther from the race start than I wanted because it was an affordable place that took dogs.
Enter my motel in Kelseyville.
Despite the fact that a small language barrier had the gal in the office repeatedly telling me that 'Mr. Ritav' (not my name) was not coming and had canceled, I finally got checked in. Lucky me, I was in the room adjacent to the more "long term" residents of the motel.
Welcome to Clear Lake, the methamphetamine capital of California, where shirts and teeth are optional!
Friday evening was spent trying to find somewhere to eat (Let's just say that Kelseyville has been hit hard by the economic downturn.), then locking myself in my room and flipping channels to find something that was not Halloween oriented on TV. I was already shacked up with the cast of The Night of the Living Dead I did not need anymore nightmare inducing material.
Saturday morning I got up and was limping around the room getting ready, deciding how much Ibuprofen I would need to get though 31 miles, and it hit me,
"This is stupid. I am being stupid. Do I want to run this race or do I want to be able to run, period?"
Loading up on anti-inflammatories, and risking making my hip significantly worse, to run a long distance race that I did not even really want to run, just so I did not have to tell people that I did not run it? That was supremely stupid.
And really? I. Did. Not. Want. To. Run.
Usually, even if I am nervous/ambivalent about a race, I can visualize running it and being on the course for as long as it takes, enjoying the views and the people. Saturday morning the thought of driving to the venue and running 50k was overwhelming. Even dropping to the 25k did not appeal to me. I had paid for the race fee, paid for two nights in this Piss-in-the-sink Motel, and then spent 3 and half hours driving up here, but come race day morning it was clear, I was hurting and the 50k was not going to happen today.
I would love to say that I calmly accepted this fact like a mature adult and made alternate plans for the day since I was in a truly beautiful area, but I did not. I cried like a baby and called my hubby. He listened to me, and then said "Come home now. I want you to come home."
I was so relieved. I know, you are thinking. "You could not make that call on your own? You are a grown, independent woman, and you needed your husband to tell you what to do?"
Yes. At that moment, yes, I did.
And with that, I packed my shit and left.
On the drive home, I was feeling pretty bad about things. Mostly feeling like a loser and that this was the beginning of the end of my running. My internal dialogue was, "You will quit. You always quit. You might as well, you are slow and fat and suck at this anyway...."
Wah. Wah. Wah.
Mid pity party, I see a dog jogging along the center median of the freeway. I hit my brakes and pulled over in the median.
I get out of the car and see that he is crossing the freeway, but then he sees me and starts to head back toward me.
Oh fuck, no!
Cars were coming. I was watching, helpless as he crossed, trying to get him to run faster. I see a white Subaru coming and clearly hitting his brakes, but I am certain he can not stop in time. I scream and cover my eyes.
Suddenly he was there, cowering next to me. Somehow, the guy did not hit the dog, nor did he cause a wreck. He did some great driving to miss him. Thank you, white Subaru Guy, whoever you are!
I grabbed the dog's collar and literally threw him in the back seat of my car, jumping in after him and slamming the door as if the terror could be locked outside. We sat there, both panting, and staring at each other, like "Holy fuck, that was close!"
I was still trying to regain my composure, when the dog found the muffin I had bought for breakfast. He wolfed it down in one snake-like swallow and then kissed my face, his stubby little tail wagging away.
You have to respect how dogs just move on from shit. We can learn a lot from dogs.
He was wearing a collar with a Rabies tag, so I called the vet, found out the dog's name was Stanley, and got Stanley's owner's information.
(Bitchy Aside: get a name tag for your dog with your name, address, and phone number on it, so people can get your dog back to you if they are found. "My dog NEVER gets out" Yeah. I have been picking up stray and lost dogs for 20 years. Everyone says that. Had this happened when the vet was closed, Stanley's owners would have been driving 3 hours south to get him. I am just saying.)
Watching Stanley jump on his owner in joy and run around with his, decidedly smarter, dog buddy (the one that did not follow him on his adventure), I was suddenly not feeling so bad about not running Bogg's.