Lasswade 10: Insults and Injuries - 4/3/2007

I don't know where to begin this one. To call the Lasswade 10 an epic only hints at how pissed off I am. I'm seething, which makes this even more difficult to write. Probably best to go with chronological order since that has the most chance of making sense.I've been nursing a sore hamstring on and off this week so the decision to run or not to run took some time to make. I woke up Sunday morning feeling ok so I decided to run. Brian was very kind and offered to drive me to the race. Little did I know, he meant it literally.

So we got to the race after they threatened to close registration, but I knew better than to expect that. Always expect the latecomers. Like me. With Brian there, all I needed to check in was have the nice lady scratch my name off the list. I didn't need to check any extra gear. I had a few minutes for warm up, then it was time to herd to the start.

The race itself was eventful. I felt good at the start, did the usual getting passed on the downhills only to pass on the uphills. I enjoyed the hills until mile 4. My hamstring started to ache intermittently.

Before the race, I made the decision to stop if it hurt. Around mile 4 when the ache started, I came up with a Plan A through Plan C of what to do with what sort of pain. Plan A was to keep running, adjusting the pace in response to the pain. Plan B was to walk as needed. Not a very good Plan B. Cold. Far. Not necessarily better for the achy leg. Plan C was to bail and take the short bus back to the finish. At mile 5, the occasional dull ache got sharp. I slowed down. The decision was agonizing, made all the worse by every runner that passed me in the coming miles. I tested the pain threshold occasionally and never could get back to my original pace. As the miles wore on, I slowed down more to keep the sharp pain away. By the time I reached the last mile, I was jogging, not racing. As the last mile approached the finish, more and more people passed me in their sprint for the finish. I jogged across the line, utterly disappointed.

Turns out that disappointment was just the beginning. I crossed the line. Guess who wasn't there. Yep. No Brian. Bastard. Then the rain started. I spent God knows how long at the finish trying to find him. Nowhere. I never saw Alan, either, so I guessed that he didn't come after all. I knew absolutely no one there. The finish area wasn't that big. I got some water from one of the tents and went to see if they had anything I could eat. They didn't. He had said he would probably go for a coffee and breakfast while I was running, so I thought maybe he was just late getting back. I stayed in the tent with my water, trying to stay warm. The tent cleared out as more people finished and more people headed home. I don't know how long I was there, looking and not finding. He had my keys, my phone, my wallet. I had just a race number. No bus fare or any other way home. The panic got to me and I left the tent to look around some more. No luck near the finish or the street nearby. It was cold and the rain was heavier, so I went back to the nearly empty tent. That's when I found the note he left for me. Bastard. I couldn't make out much of his scribble. The word wife was crystal clear though. Bastard.

No keys. No wallet. No phone. Even worse, the only phone numbers I knew were my office and home phone numbers. Useless. Even if my flatmate was home, what could she do except be there when I got there. Every thing else was on my phone. In. His. Car. Bastard. It was probably close to 4pm at that point. Sunset near 6pm wasn't all that far away. Panic again. Too angry for tears. Too frustrated for rage. Desperation became clarity. Coldly, clinically, I decided to run home. When I had to stop to walk, which was a lot, I took out his note and tried to understand more of it and stoke the rage that was fueling my run home. Slop. Absolute slop. I made out a few more words. Lord knows I had the time. Wife. Sorry. Yeah, I'll tell you what you can do with sorry. Bastard.

I made it home just after sunset. Thank God Irina was home. As soon as she opened the door, she jumped back. She told me later that she thought I was going to kill her. Literally. It wasn't the shock of seeing me sopping wet, bright red and shivering at our front door. She said the look on my face nearly made her slam the door shut again. Instead she jumped back and I stepped into the doorway to stop the door from closing on me. I went straight for the shower and then Irina made me some tea. As I told her what happened, I got out the note again. We sat on the couch, me under as many blankets as we had, and tried to decipher more of the words. Crumpled and water-stained, it actually made more sense. The word wife was unmistakeable. Something about a phone call. Definitely a sorry. Bastard. I gave Irina the note and asked the more important question. How do I get my stuff back? I was home safe, getting warmer, but still spitting mad. Bastard.

Epilogue: So all of that's a bunch of crap. It's a much better story than I ran a race, my leg started hurting way out in the middle of nowhere so I finished the race at much much less than race pace. Just like the wolves and the bike crash a few years back, why settle for the truth when imagination is much more inventive? Besides, it's all Brian's fault anyway. He's the one who asked what I would do if he did just drive home after breakfast.