Last month, I celebrated my anniversary. Outside. In St. Paul at the Winter Carnival Frozen 5K and Half Marathon.
This festival represented my symbolic transition from Southern gal to hearty Midwestern soul.
During my 8 AM commute to the Carnival, I was most pleased to note my car's exterior thermometer read 14 degrees. I was pleased, because -- as all true Minnesotans keep advising me -- the temperature at which flesh freezes is considerably lower than 14 degrees.
That's when I noticed the oversized American flag just east of Snelling Avenue on I-94.
"Why, the flag is still at half-staff," I noticed.
While mentally calculating the number of weeks since President Ford's death, another part of my brain (my amygdala; it's always the amygdala) began to send out warning signals. They sounded something like this:
"That flag is whipping around pretty fast. Is that a cracking sound? Is that the flag making a cracking sound? Dear God, I can hear the flag cracking in the wind through my windshield."
This is the exact moment when my confidence plunged. I started seeing signs of high winds everywhere. Debris, leaves, driving snow, small puppies.
Yes. It was a windy, winter day in St. Paul. And today of all days, Minnesotans had chosen to run a half marathon along the river. Dave Dahl should be shot.
Parking downtown at Jackson and 6th Street was easy; loads of options. Yet it wasn't until I stepped out of the protective shielding of the ramp that I fully appreciated the fury of the wind. Peeking out from beneath my cap, I made eye-contact with another pedestrian. We both laughed bravely into the wind.
"It's not as bad as it feels," I ventured to the girl.
"That's right," she returned, building on my momentum. "The gusts are funnelling through the tall buildings. That's why it seems so bad."
We both sighed, pleased with how easy it had been to regain faith in our decisions to run. "After all, it's only a 30 minute run," was her parting salvo. Damn. She was doing the 5K.
After paying my 28 bucks to the Nice Lady at the registration table, I decided there was time for, what all runners know as, the pre-race ritual. In other cultures, this is known as going to the bathroom.
As I approached the row of PortaJohns, I noticed a strange ritual occurring. As Person #1 would open the hard plastic door of the PJ, a blast of wind would catch it like a sail, sending the door flying at mach speeds into person #2 who was leaving the PortaJohn immediately to person #1's right (to his right as he exited the PortaJohn. Keep up now)
This phenomenon cascaded down the line of PortaJohns until one PortaJohn reached critical lift threshold and began to loft gently into the air. Person #6, occupied in said PortaJohn, would emit a loud yelping sound and (I can only imagine, not being in the PortaJohn with person #6 myself) begin to thrash his arms about in a wildly ineffectual manner. This perturbation would cause the PortaJohn to skip and rock in an even more disturbing fashion.
I can only say that many racers reached their individualized target heart rate thresholds well before the starting gun went off.
Deciding that I was functionally committed (28 bucks being a powerful motivational force), I lined up at the start with the rest of the crazy people. 9 AM came and went.
We were waiting for a pace car (a Saturn for some reason), but those pace car drivers are smart people and no-showed. A horn sounded, everyone cheered, and we all stood around for another few minutes because of the mass start.
The first half mile of the race was a gentle downward slope to the south. With my mp3 player [White and Nerdy; Weird Al Yankovic] fully engaged, I was flying.
We then came to an awkwardly rapid plunge down Jackson Street to the river. Holy Cow. Where were the city planners when this was built? Wait a minute.... am I going to have to run back up this ramp? Fortunately, Weird Al's crooning melodies soothed my fears.
Mile 4
At mile 4, the race directors had thoughtfully provided water. Using a technique which I had honed during many prior races, I took the cup from Nice Lady #2 (not, I believe, related to Registration Table Lady). I pinched the top of the cup to provide a precise funnelling action, and raised said cup to ready lips. A large dagger of ice slid noiselessly down the inside of the cup and glided effortlessly into my left nostril.
This was not working.
I needed the water in order to digest the Gu I had in my pocket. No problem. I pulled out my own water from my runner's belt and succeeded in taking a swig.
Now the Gu. I pulled out the first Gu I touched in my belt (Espresso), tore open the top, placed the torn tip of the package in my pocket (so as not to litter), and attempted to suck out the 100 kcals of energy. The viscosity of the liquid had increased drastically over the last hour and, though I managed to get some in my mouth, I also managed to get some on my face, my hat and my shirt.
Now may be the appropriate moment to say how much Gu looks like mucus. Especially Espresso.
Mile 5
By mile 5, the vast hoards of runners were coming back at me. The half-marathon followed a path along the river for 6.5 miles, looped back on itself, then sent everyone packing for home country.
Twice, I saw men running in gym shorts. Now, I thought petulantly, hadn't I done my part to keep St. Paul beautiful by not dropping that 1/4 inch wedge of Gu wrapper by the shores of the river? Why couldn't these guys see their way clear to do the same?
Mile 9
At mile 9, I started to fear I was getting frostbit cheeks. A little-known fact of Minnesota running is that you can't feel it when frostbite strikes. So, I pulled out the Petroleum Jelly (really, you can fit everything in those runner's belts) and attempted to smear it across my cheek bones.
What I hadn't counted on was the weird chemical reaction that would take place between the KY and the Gu.
With wind chills running near zero, the sticky concoction below my nose melded into some heretofore unknown glue-like substance.
Its tackiness rated somewhere between Post-It glue and Gorilla glue, but it was ample to cause my upper lip to adhere (inverted, mind you) to the southern regions of my nostrils. And then, unprotected from the wind, my front two teeth started to ache.
Looking to distract myself, I took this moment to glance backwards to see how many people I was beating.
As I had learned at a race last year, "You're not last," while not a motivational cheer in and of itself, is a thought in which the human psyche can take great pleasure.
Wait a minute. Where were all the people? Those louses. They had all quit and gone to Caribou. There were three, count them, three people left behind me. And (I learned later), one of them was 80 years old.
Mile 11
At mile 11, the battery died. Not mine. The mp3 player's. Now, instead of listening to the funky, yet delightful, sounds of Fountains of Wayne, I was listening to my own croaky breathing.
Mile 12
At mile 12, I looked at the skyline of St. Paul and wished I had slept in.
Mile 13
At mile 13, I found out that, yes indeed, we were expected to climb back up that civil-engineering nightmare of a ramp.
And, may I say that the wind did not fail me. It pushed against every square inch of my body as I groaned my way towards 6th street. A 20-something female next to me started to whimper. I whispered encouraging sounds at her while secretly gloating that I was passing her by. I would have tripped her if she had found her second wind. Four people! I was going to beat 4 people!
Big Finish
I crossed the finish line at 2:43, thirteen minutes after the race officially closed. I didn't get a winner's mug. Caribou, while literally across the street, was too far away. And I couldn't find my parking ramp, much less my car.
All in all, a pretty excellent way to spend my anniversary. My one year anniversary as a Minnesota runner. Now, if someone could just direct me back to the Mason-Dixon line...
DRINK. DRINK. DRINK. Everyone tells you to drink water when you work in the pool. But, dang it, you are never thirsty. So the day rolls on with nary a sip.
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