Running Shorts

They say I don’t see anything when I’m running.
Did you see the funny signs on the nearly three-mile wooded stretch along Shore Drive?
No.
Did see the big giant ships along the bay inside Fort Story?
No.
Did you see the girls who were singing as we rounded the corner on Atlantic Avenue?
No.
Hey, you don’t have to see to remember.
I remember weeks and weeks and weeks of training with my peeps—in the cold, in the dark, once in the snow—to prepare for my first half marathon, the Shamrock Half at Virginia Beach.
I remember saying “No. No. No. I’m going to run the 8K.“
But I run with a persuasive bunch.
I remember getting in the car Friday with Trish, Fast Kathy and Her-Mix-a-Lot Anne. I could see that the back end of the car was riding low with suitcases filled with shoes, green shirts and long black pants.
I remember sitting around an open pit fire at Catch 31, talking to runners from some place like Kansas or Nebraska. I can’t remember which.
Did you know there is a race in San Francisco where the finishers get Tiffany necklaces?
I remember the bathroom at the restaurant. When an architect tells you to check out the bathroom, you check out the bathroom. Swanky.
I remember FK sleeping on the balcony so she could listen to the waves break on the shore. I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept worrying she would roll off.
I remember the next morning ... we dashed outside to watch more than 5,000 runners finish the 8K. Matthew Kosgei blistered the boardwalk in 23 minutes and 26 seconds. (He told a reporter he could have gone faster if it hadn’t been windy.) It was a joy to see. The Kenyans and Ethiopians raced to the finish line ... one, two, three, four, five, six. A seventh finished in the Top Ten.
The women’s side was similar. Margaret Chirchir from Kenya was five seconds faster than Ethiopian Meskerem Legesse. But get this. Finishing third was Dawn Cromer from CHARLOTTESVILLE.
I remember watching many of those same champions lining up to run along with elementary school students in the Operation Smile Final Mile.
It was a good day to remember.
But then things turned a little fuzzy. Our turn was less than 24 hours away ... and two more carloads from Charlottesville were heading our way.
I do remember sitting around the hotel room later that evening chowing down on some pretty tasty spaghetti made by FK and HM-aLot for a party of 11. Even I helped cook. I sliced the bread.
After nervous toasts all around, the much too quiet newcomers—including Rocket and Jen who came all that way to provide much needed moral support and coaching tips—headed off to their rooms some 26 blocks away. They had been promised a shuttle, but apparently the service wouldn’t start until 7 a.m.- the exact time as the start of the half marathon. Nothing like adding to pre-race panic.
And did I mention that the rain began. And wind. The forecast called for gusts up to 35 mph.
Somehow I slept well.
But morning came early and the party of 11 reconvened at our hotel for a short walk ... into a brisk wind and drizzle ... to line up in our corrals.
“I left my timing chip at the other hotel,“ Trish said.
“Is anyone else starting in Coral M?“ asked Easy Deb.
“No, Deb. The corals are only 1 through 5.“
“Where’s my watch?“
“Where are my beans?“
“Anne, do you have your shoes?“
“I have to go to the bathroom one more time.“
“Let’s Go.“
It was cold. It was dark. It was time.
Oh, I realized a half mile into the race that I had put my knee brace on the wrong leg. I guess I didn’t remember which one hurt the most.
By daybreak, blue sky appeared and any hint of rain evaporated. There was still a Virginia Beach wind, but Fast Kathy found a cure. She tucked behind an extremely tall Hokie and took off up Atlantic Avenue. Trish and I fell in behind. The rest of us sprinkled among the friendly horde of hopefuls chasing their goals of traversing 13.1 miles.
Oh, I missed the signs and the boats and the singing and the beer stop.
I remember road and road and more road.
But I also remember Rocket on the corner of Atlantic Avenue waving, clapping and shouting for us to “Go!“ Our injured leader was the one who talked me into the longer race.
I remember Eileen, better known as 6.2. She came from somewhere back in the pack to chat for a second—“I recognized your green shirt”—before dashing off to lead our rowdy group across the finish line in 2:06.16.
I remember Fast Kathy, who discovered her singing voice somewhere around mile 10. She was next in line at 2:11:57.
Trish ran up along side me as we approached Neptune for the final kick down the Boardwalk.
I remember that she said two words: Don’t sprint.
I, with my weary legs, said two letters: OK.
We grabbed hands, raised them high and crossed the mat together at 2:12:30.
Easy Deb, who returned to her normal self once the race began, chatted with friendly strangers all along the route.
“Have you seen my friends up ahead? They are wearing green.“
Did I mention that everyone in Virginia Beach had on green for the entire weekend-long St. Patrick’s Day festivities? Anyway, Easy shaved 15 minutes off her personal best to finish in 2:24.56.
After collecting our medals, finisher’s hats and goodie bags we were funneled off to an enormous tent on the beach, where Irish stew, four free beers and a live band awaited.
One by one, each member of our cult, I mean group, made her way to the welcoming tent for a little Irish water and a bit o’ dancing (at least for those of us who could stand). Enter Maggie (2:33.09), Adelle (2:40:46), Mimi (2:41.29), Anne (3:11.23) and Amy (3:30.30). Cheers, hugs and toasts all around.
Eventually, we made our way back to the hotel where we went out on the balcony and cheered on those who were still making their way to the finish line. The last reached her goal in seven hours.
Yes, I remembered all that.
And as for you—Cindy, Amber, Heidi, Julie, Andrea and Nicole—you better remember March 21-22, 2009.
I’ll see you there. I promise.