Half Marathon Half Wit

Scotia Bank Vancouver Half Marathon

The ubiquitous they is always saying you can't teach a old dog new tricks. Maybe it's time to at least try and trick an old dog. Yesterday I participated in the running of the Scotia Bank Half Marathon, a race with which I have some sentimental attachments as it was one of the first races I did after getting back into running some five years ago and for which I received a much coveted bib number and finisher's medal.

I had recently - Friday and Saturday - helped a friend refurbish and paint their deck, a task which entailed two very long days of physical labour, scraping and painting and getting sunburnt and lifting and toting and all that other good stuff. As in twelve hours long kind of days. Did I mention they were long days? The end result was a deck that was a thing of beauty and a Vince that could barely stand. Rather than work on my knees, I had spent the better part of two days bending over at the waist (rocket scientist), putting a much greater strain on my hamstrings and back than I realized. Sunday morning I was stiff as a board. On race day I was glad I was saving myself for the Post-to-Post 10K on July 1st.

On race day I had been anticipating running around a 2:05, maybe a 2:10 and using the distance as a training run. I hooked up in the starting pen of the race with Stew and had a great time as we covered the distance in about 2:20. Stew is another S625X gadget freak and we spent a thoroughly engaging time chatting about training and heart rate monitors and data and all the stuff some guys love and that drives lots of other people absolutely batty.

Like me Stew would like to qualify for Boston one day - his qualifying time these days is 4:00 - and we commiserated about needing to shave some big chunks of time off of our marathons in order to make that happen. My heart rate hovered around 130, so I was right in my aerobic training zone of between 60-65% of my maximum heart rate, it was a lovely morning and Stew was great company. Picture perfect.

We finished and I collected my medal and we headed off for breakfast. A fabulous morning. Right? Absolutely. Until I had to go and fuck it up. At breakfast I bumped into an old friend, slash aquaintance, one of those people who you know well enough to always extend a friendly greeting, inquire as to their health, or in the case of a race they've just run, ask them how they did. This particular friend was someone with whom I had done a couple of marathon clinics and run a couple of races. He and I are quite evenly matched, hence I always check his times. You would think it is a friendly competitiveness. Curiousity, right? I mean, I always did.... thought it was friendly competitiveness. I've beat him a few times by a minute or two and he's beat me a few more times by a minute or two.

So when I asked my friend how he did, I am sure my motives were well-intentioned,mostly curiousity and politeness. He had run in the neighbourhood of 1:40 that morning, a great race, not his PB, but within a few minutes. He was sitting, like me, with a circle of friends who had obviously run together and were having a great time afterwards. It was running as a social exercise. My friend then asked me how the race was for me. Like me it was meant as nothing more than politeness, a question to fulfill a social obligation rather than any great burning desire on his part to know how fast I ran the fucking race.

And then it happened - this strange, ludicrous, long-winded, blathering crap came out of my mouth as I explained away why I would be running a half marathon in 2:20 (as opposed to my own PB of 1:41). It was obtuse and incoherent and just went on and on and on and on and on as I was wondering to myself even as I was saying it what the hell is coming out of my mouth... My friend gently proffered that I didn't need to explain my time. And I replied, quite truthfully, that I did. An awful confession to make.

And I must have needed to explain it - because I did - in detail that was obviously excruciating for both of us. I was loathing the words even as they tumbled out of my mouth but I was seemingly powerless to stop the flow... It was ego and vanity and insecurity and a great ugly load of crap. As soon as the words had escaped me they left a sour taste in my mouth and spoiled my mood for the rest of the morning.

You would like to think you run for yourself and don't concern yourself with how others do and certainly not COMPARE your performance with theirs, but in my case it was such a reflex action I was quite taken aback. I was, for a moment, perhaps several moments, an ugly runner, one whose image I didn't appreciate in my mirror. The vanity mirror at that. Gawd, when will I grow up!?!