Ladies and gentleman, I am about to tell you about an epic race fail.
As a runner, I have a list of achievements I would like to realize...and then I have a list of things I actually do. So far the 'done' list includes a marathon, a few halves, a pile of other random races, an autumn half with Joe pacing me, a couple out of state races, a race with a first time racer, a winter road race in snowy awful weather (which is actually the only race I have placed in, ironically), and a race in which I ran 3 miles as a milkshake wearing a laundry basket from the waist up (best race payoff so far, 75 bones in prize money... in the costume division). So, when I was asked to run a race in Peru as an 'international contestant,' I thought, 'Sure. Why not add something to the list? An international race. This could be fun, right?' Wrong. Little did I know that after this race, not only could I add 'international race' to my list of accomplishments, but I would also be able to add 'last place finish.'
Let's start at the beginning. It's mid August and I am awkwardly sitting in the municipality building of my new town during my visit to Ascope, before moving here. This enthusiastic man seeks me out and begs me to commit to running a 15K race on October 9th. At that point, I didn't know who was from where, who I needed to impress, and who would be my friend. My theory was simply to say yes to anything that wasn't inappropriate. So of course I agreed to this. I like races. I can run 9 miles. No big deal.
About a month later, this same man shows up in my town for a second time looking for me. He is from a neighboring town (Magdalena de Cao) that is holding a festival the weekend of October 7th-9th and wants to know that I am going to run his race. Because he showed up unannounced and did not have a meeting with me or my municipality counterpart, he could not find me. This means that I got a call from a very angry man who had been riding around in a moto taxi looking for me for about an hour until he got ahold of my counterpart who gave him my number. Luckily, I was near the plaza when he called and I could pop over to meet him. Despite his anger at me for not showing up to a meeting I didn't have with him, he was very kind... almost too kind. The kind of kind that someone is when they want something. It took me about 47 seconds to realize what he was up to. He had advertised this race online and all over the province as an international race. Now he needed someone from another nation to show up and make his ads true. Ok, I can handle this. All I have to do is run a race. I can do that with my own motivation, no one else's. I promised him again that I would be there on the 9th and wouldn't bail. I also agreed to asking my Gringo friends to join me, even though I knew I'd be alone in this endeavor... which I was.
That night I returned home and shared the story of this encounter with my host family. To my surprise, they were shocked to hear that I would agree to physical activity the day after my birthday. Because I hadn't had any birthday plans other than this race, I was confused. It was then that they explained that they were planning to have a party for me on the 8th and that I wouldn't be able to run the next day after what they had in mind. Birthday celebrating had been rumored, but now that I knew it was a go and I had committed to 9 miles the following day, I was starting to get concerned.
So we find ourselves on the day of my 26th birthday. It began early and was magical from the beginning to the time the sun set. Six of my good friends here came to celebrate with me and the host family... and celebrate we did- for eight hours. I knew I should have taken it slow, but hey, it was my birthday!
Sunday morning, 6am: race day. I woke up with a horrible ache coming from my foot telling me from my waking hour that a race was a bad idea. Do I ever listen to those thoughts? No. I rolled out of bed feeling my recently acquired old age catching up to me. Thanks to Joe, I snacked on a delicious Luna bar for a race day breakfast, then headed off to Chocope (neighboring town where the race began) with my little host bro Farid. Before taking off though, I had an encounter with my aching foot and realized the pain was coming from my baby toe which was about twice it's normal size and very very purple. I taped it up and fought with it long enough to wriggle it into my shoe, then I threw down some ibuprofen and hoped it wouldn't cause me too much trouble. Wishful thinking.
After arriving in Chocope and getting my free t-shirt (which is actually a giant tank top and kind of awesome), the rest of the host family showed up and we waited the typical hour past the scheduled start time for things to get going. The family asked me why I was limping, and I explained that my friend had stepped on it yesterday while we were attempting some fancy dancing. They thought nothing of it until later that day when they saw it. I pretended it didn't hurt, when really I wanted to curl into a ball and leave my foot with no weight to bear for the rest of the day. But hey, we had a race to run.
So we remain in the plaza for awhile, waiting for the race to begin. Here's where the fun happens. Apparently, when you're an outsider running in an international race, you must have not one but two radio interviews and your blood pressure must be taken. The blood pressure reading was the second voice from my body screaming "Nooo!" to the thought of a 9 mile race. Again, I ignore such things.
At this point, my host family for some reason thought I was going to win this thing. And here's how I knew I wasn't: Lunar racers and Kinvaras. Such quality race shoes are not worn by mediocre hobby runners, especially not in Peru. Slowly, I saw them trickling in: serious runners. I could see it in there shoes, their chiseled legs, and in the way they were eyeing each other up. I've been to enough races with a certain serious runner myself (ahem, Joe Kotlowski) to know what they do and wear on race day when they are out to win. Crap. I don't know why I hadn't thought of this before. The top prize for this thing was S/. 1,000 cash, with lucrative individual age group prizes as well. Chocope isn't too far from Trujillo, where running clubs are popular right now, and 15K is not a distance that a non-runner would likely take on. I was doomed and I knew it.
It was around that time when my host mom informed me that she would be riding in the press truck to take pictures of me, as she knew I'd be in the front. When I asked how she got permission to do so, she explained that she had told them I had a medical condition and it was likely that I would faint, so she had to ride in the press truck with my medication and a bottle of water. Things just kept getting better. So that's why there were 2 nurses taking my blood pressure, taking notes, and whispering about me. Awesome.
Race finally begins. Little bro Piere shouts some good luck wishes from the press truck and Maggie waves goodbye as they speed off not to be seen again until the finish line. We take off and I am quickly in the back of the pack. Everyone shot off at a pace that I was sure they wouldn't be able to keep, so I figured I'd just catch them later. Ha. Later, like at the post race event when they all get to watch me finish.
Mile one and I am keeping pace with a man with magenta shorts. He's a running chatter, which I am not. The conversation begins with "Where are you from?" and so on and ends with "I'm single, but you can have me if you want me." Ah, yeah. I fake being out of breath and slow way down to shake him, but he slows down too. Crap. I explain that I can't run and speak Spanish at the same time, 'can't' in this situation meaning I prefer not to, but hey, some things just get lost in translation. I lose Pink Shorts and there I am, alone. I turn around to see what will be my race companion, the ambulance. That's not foreboding at all.
So there I am, in the desert, dehydrated, on a really crappy broken up blacktop highway and a possibly broken toe for the next hour and a half. Worst race ever. I wanted to quit about every 30 seconds, but I did not.
Mile three and Pink Short's new running mate drops out and hops into the ambulance. Well, at least I beat that guy.
Mile three and a half and the ambulance pulls up to give me a wet piece of gauze to put on my head, 'so I don't faint.' Hmm. Fainting. That's a crazy idea. I wonder why they think I would faint? I take advantage of my undeserved special treatment, soak my sweaty head, and thank my new ambulancia amigos. Onward.
Mile five. Where the hell are the water stations? We're in the freaking desert and my friend the race coordinator promised water stations. Not even any free chicha? I would take Inca Cola at this point. Uggghhh.
Mile six. Still no hydration. What kind of race is this? Why didn't I drink more water last night? I might faint after all. Thank God there is an ambulance behind me.
Mile seven. Water! ...in plastic bags? Whatever. What did I expect, cups? Ha. I nearly tackle the first small child I see with a water sack. I think she cried after I stormed through her little camp. Sorry kid, the water bag is the only thing on my mind right now. Immediately, I rip this little guy open and pour it on my face, mouth agape, just in time to see the photographers zooming in on the gringa in last place. Wonderful. I hope that diversity shot suffices for their ads next year for an international race. I swallow almost the entire bag and ration out the rest over the next half mile. Things are looking up.
Mile eight. I am resigned to finishing last, and that's ok. I can still see a bunch of people, but I can't catch them. This isn't so bad. Pretty spring day. Sugar fields. Nice tunes on the iPod. This is alright.
Mile eight and a half. Almost there. Best part of the race. Right around here, my host dad and host brother were waiting for me with a bottle of water. Thank you! They clapped and laughed with me about being in last place and it was a nice moment. Shortly after that I got a nice little morale boost from Girl Talk (All Day- track 2, "Let It Out") and couldn't help but throw the arms up and bust some dance moves. My friends in the ambulance apparently enjoyed this as much as I did, because they also brought out a few moves, then flipped on the siren and the lights to join in my dance party. Can't say I've danced with an ambulance before. First time for everything.
Mile nine. Done. We finish this thing off by running through a marching band and around the plaza. I am greeted by my race director friend and my host mom at the finish line. Everyone cheers and I find the first hard surface I can reach to get off of my aching foot. The moment I sit down, the race director is announcing me to the crowd and explaining Peace Corps, etc. Before I know it, I am getting a standing ovation and Piere is shooting me in the eye with a dart gun. Good thing I was wearing my ridiculous sunglasses. Whirlwind. And it's over. And that is ok.
After chugging two bottles of water and finally feeling like I am not going to fall over, I check my Garmin and learn that I managed to keep a 9:56 pace. Sure, I finished last, but all things considered, keeping it under a 10 minute pace with a defunct toe, dehydration, and the desert sun isn't really all that awful. I can still hold my head high, sort of.
We stick around for the awards and I learn that the winners are legitimately fast and have traveled from other departments for the cash prizes. I picked up another free 8x10 portrait of the Virgin de Rosario (who is forever in my heart, according to my new shirt), we enjoy some delicious ceviche for lunch, and then we bounce. Chao, Magdalena de Cao. Be back soon. On the drive back, as we bob along the crappy road and the other passengers whine about how the road needs to be fixed, I delight in my accomplishment while sharing some iPod treats with Piere. I couldn't have imagined race conditions much worse, but I didn't quit. That in itself deserves a spot on my race 'done' list. And on top of that, having a host family who came to support me and who shared this with me is something that I will always remember and something to be very happy about. Last place finish or not, I am really glad I did this and am proud of my run and the people I shared it with. Hey, not everyone can say they were followed by a Peruvian ambulance in the desert for an hour and a half ;)
One last thing: the toe. While I toughed it out for the race, running on it was a VERY bad idea and has kept me out of my running shoes for the past month. This is a big downer, but my toe literally does not fit into normal shoes without a lot of pain. Worry not, I did see a doctor, which didn't make me feel like a baby at all (sarcasm intended). It's not broken and will just take some time to heal. Lesson learned. Purple toes will lead to bad painful races.
So there you have it. The newest notch on my running belt. It took me awhile to come to terms with this, so that is why the blog has been barren for a couple weeks. Sorry for the delay. Thanks for reading along.
When your toe looks like this, don't run a 9 mile race.
Editor's note: The reason you are stuck with this nasty picture is because it is the oly one I have from that day. Sadly, the host family's camera was either lost or stolen sometime after the race. All of the pictures they have of my birthday party and the race, good and awful, were unfortunately lost. We're not having much luck in the camera department in this household these days...
