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Stupid is as stupid does. As often as I’ve heard that line quoted, I never really understood it. Until, that is, I had a series of stupid moves at various races over the past month or so that made me wonder what happened to my brain cells.

First, and most embarrassingly, I went to the St Paddy’s 8k, and upon picking up my packet, noted they didn’t have bib chips. Instead, there were D-tags for timing. D-tags? What is this, 2008? Annoyed, I rushed to put the tag on my shoe and get to the start line. I ambitiously weaved my way just ahead of the eight-minute-mile pace group. Then, as I did some stretches, I looked down at my shoe and saw what I’d done. Yes, I had put the D-tag instructions on my shoe and threw the chip itself into the garbage. Officially, I’d be a DNS. Even if I PR-ed they’d be no record of it, anywhere. And really, what’s the point of having a good race result if it’s not posted on the internet? I moved back, away from the seven-minute-mile corral and instead looked around for the “Idiot” start corral.

A few weeks later, while warming up for a 10k, I turned on my Garmin, only to find I’d forgotten to charge the battery. Again. “Well,” I thought, “I’ll just have to calculate my pace in my head.” But as soon as I started running, I completely forgot the eight times table. Apparently I can either do simple math or run, but not both. At about the 4 mile mark, I thought I’d be able to pull off a PR. But then realized that I’d miscalculated – the only way I’d make it was if I put up 5 minute miles. And no matter how creative I got with the math, that wasn’t going to happen.

And then there was the Egg Shell Shuffle Half Marathon, where I was hoping to run under 1:50 so I could get a Chicago Marathon start corral. The problem is, I’d forgotten to train for the race. I’d gone on vacation two weeks earlier, and sure, I’d run every day. Like three miles a day. Hmm, what about those other 10-plus miles I’d have to cover? So along came race day, and I guess you could say my legs felt “fresh” for the first five miles. But then, one by one, each subsequent step killed me. By mile 8, I was ready to walk. By mile 10, I was ready to cry. I ended up with a time that was a full 13 minutes slower than I wanted.

I have no excuse. Well, no excuse other than the fact that I stupidly blew off training without thinking about the consequences. But surely I can come up with a better reason than that. I need something, even a fictitious excuse, that doesn’t make me feel like a complete loser. Something dramatic. Kidnapped by aliens? Slowed down while saving a toddler from drowning? Injured while nabbing a purse-snatcher who stole from a little old lady? Maybe something even more exciting?

So I decided to take a page from that book that everyone is talking about, and I came up with some good, if not plausible, reasons why I ran so slowly:

- My hands were tied. Literally. Made it hard to drink my Gatorade.
- I was locked in the Red Room of Pain and missed the start.
- My bunions were aggravated from wearing stilettos all day.
- I was abducted at the first water stop and forced to be a love slave.
- I forgot to take off my blindfolded from the night before and ran off course.
- It’s hard to get in a good training run when you’re chained up all the time.
And the best reason I was unable to run fast is:
- I decided I like getting beaten.

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Disclaimer: This post is not funny.

Of course, maybe my posts are never funny, but this one isn’t even trying to be funny. (Although my natural sparkling wit may seep in. See, there it is.)

There’s no joke setup here, but even if there was, the punchline would be: I did the Lisle Spring Sprint 10k, and nothing funny happened. There were no crazy costumes, no guy dressed like a banana, no crowds lining the course, holding signs with humorous or clever sayings. The only mildly funny part was when the race director was giving course instructions. You know it’s a small community race when the directions are something along the line of “10k runners will then head past the Johnsons’ house, and when they get to the Smiths’ house, they’ll turn left and loop around to the finish.”

I was excited to do the race because I got to meet up with my pals Chanthana and Kevin. Kevin is a fabulous running coach, and several of his runners were doing the race. They kindly let me tag along with them. I’m usually lone wolf as a runner (or a big loser with no running friends, depending on your perspective), so it was nice to be part of a group, both before and after the race.

But it wasn’t just that the camaraderie was wonderful. The event was like a Goldilocks race: everything was just right. The weather was pleasant but not warm. The route was scenic but not hilly. The course never felt crowded, but I had other runners in sight the whole time. They even had indoor bathrooms for use before and after the race. No adversity of any kind to overcome. My only complaint was that I had nothing to complain about. And to top it off, I had a great finish time, 50:38, a full five minutes faster than my previous 10k best time.

With no issues to whine about, I was at a loss. Damn, this race was so perfect it was almost irritating. What to do with all that excess mental energy? Instead of ranting about petty things, I found my mind drifting into (gasp!) more meaningful and thought-provoking stuff. Not like solving the world’s problems, mind you. I’m still way too shallow for that. But I found myself wondering “Why do I do this?” Not the “Why do I do this” that I mutter when my alarm goes off before dawn on race morning, but a more genuine question of reflection.

Let’s face it, I’m never going to win a race. There will be no fame, no glory, no prize money, no statue to proudly display. I might get a medal, but these days there are plenty of races where everyone gets a medal, so even the hard-earned ones get diluted in the bunch.

Not only will this activity never produce anything objectively desirable, but to make matters worse, it actually costs me money and time. Not just the time for the races, but the training. And compounding the problem, my training frequently makes me too tired to do things that would make me feel better about life: organizing closets so I can find that missing black coat, or maybe washing the car so I can see out the rear window once again.

What does all this time and effort get me? Even my best outcomes are modest achievements. At small races that no one’s ever heard of, I might eke out an age-group placement if no fast people in my age group show up. At large races, I consider it a triumph if I’m in the top half of the female finishers. These aren’t exactly the spoils of victory. So why in the world do I do it? The race shirts? Not exactly; I’m still trying to perfect the art of ordering the right size.

Maybe it’s about trying to get control of things, a way to counteract the emotional storms of life. Children will do things that result in frustration. Friendships will undergo seismic shifts, leaving me adrift. Illnesses will befall loved ones, wreaking havoc. Husbands will wash a load of whites with a pair of black socks tossed in. Dogs will throw up on the good rug. I can’t change any of those things.

But I can control my finish time if I try hard enough. I can take that 50:38 and get it to 49:something. I only need to shave 6 and a half seconds off each mile. I simply need to run faster. Not a lot faster, just a little faster.

I can’t control things like accidents and illnesses and death and sadness and heartache. But run six and a half seconds faster per mile? That I can do. And so I try.

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Great rivalries add spice to life. Muhammad Ali and Joe Frasier. Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr. Coke and Pepsi.

Some rivalries take on a life of their own, turning deadly, like the Hatfields versus the McCoys. But some rivalries, like the Road Runner versus Wile E Coyote, can benefit both parties. The competition pushes them to dig deep, to bring their A games. Wile E forces Road Runner to be faster, to play defense. Road Runner keeps Wile E’s mental skills in top form. There’s even a spill-over benefit. The rivalry keeps Acme Corporation in business.

Likewise, in the running world, rivalries have pushed athletes to excel. They strive to beat one another and set records along the way. Meb and Ryan Hall. Deena Kastor and Paula Radcliffe. Jeff Heath and me. Unfortunately for me, Jeff is Road Runner and I’m Wile E Coyote, about to fall off a cliff without knowing it.

But that didn’t stop the trash talking leading up to my recent 5k showdown with my rival. Granted, Jeff’s 5k PR is about 3 minutes faster than mine, but I could tell he was nervous. I smelled the fear. I’m sure he was doing track workouts like a fiend in the weeks leading up to the race. I pictured him with the Rocky theme blasting in the background, a crusty old coach with a stopwatch on the sideline shouting “Again! Faster!”

I worried, though, that our rivalry might become ugly. When I turned my ankle in a pothole on my morning run a week before the race, I imagined Jeff out there the night before, breaking up the pavement with his bare hands. I thought about hiring someone to smack him in the knee with a metal bar, a la Tonya Harding versus Nancy Kerrigan. Yes, I wanted to get Jeff Gillooleyed. But in the end, our battle would be one of sheer determination.

(Cue dramatic music.)

The showdown was to happen at McCormick Place, the largest convention center in the US, and the location of exciting events such as the auto show, the annual dental convention, and the International Manufacturing Technology Expo. Clearly, it was a venue made for drama.

I’d never done an indoor 5k before, and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. When I arrived at McCormick, however, I saw how it was going to go down. The course looked like the security line at the airport – down the length of the exhibit hall, a 180 degree turn, and back. Again and again. Just looking at it made me want to take off my shoes and put all liquids, gels and aerosols in a one-quart ziplock bag.

I had arrived at McCormick with my friends Chanthana and Jackie, but we were a little rushed and lost each other in the gear check area. Fortunately, we all met up in the start corral. And there he was, Jeff Heath. In my memory, he wears black from head to toe, a Stetson hat low over one eye. He speaks like a laconic cowboy. “I reckon we best settle this score once and for all.”

(Cue more dramatic music.)

In reality, he was wearing bright yellow and said something like “Hey. How’s it going?”

The horn sounded. And Jeff left me in the dust. Actually, there wasn’t even any dust, since we were running on concrete. He left me in less than dust.

Fortunately, I was able to catch sight of him at every 180 degree turn. Jeff would zip by in his yellow shirt. Shortly thereafter, I’d see Chanthana and Jackie who were holding steady. I, however, drifted further and further back in the pack.

At the mile mark, I noticed that Jackie and Chanthana had caught up with Jeff. A few turns later, I saw that Jackie was ahead, with Jeff and Chanthana just behind. At the next turn, I saw Jackie, then a few seconds later I spotted Jeff, but no Chanthana. I scanned the crowd. Where did she go? Then, at the next turn, I saw her. She was ahead of Jeff! A mile to go and her lead was gaining. Jeff was falling back. Falling back so much, in fact, that I was gaining on him. Could I possibly catch him?

I picked up my pace. At about the 2.5 mark, I pulled up along side him. “Hey, Jeff, how’s it going?”

(Cue uplifting music, violins soaring – the underdog is winning!)

I passed Jeff. But I was at a pace I could barely sustain. I live in fear of vomiting on the course, and doing so during an indoor race raised the prospect to a whole new level of disgusting. But I was ahead of Jeff! I had to hold on! I was going to beat him! Then, just as we made the final turn to the finish line, he sprinted past me like I was standing still.

(Bleep out expletives.)

All in all, though, it was a good race for me. A new PR by 20+ seconds, and third in my age group. And, unlike other races where I’ve placed third, this time there were more than three people in my age group. There were, in fact, 93. I could tell Jeff was proud of me. “Hey, that means you beat 90 other old ladies,” he said.

But the real thrill of the day was Jackie, blowing past all of us, with Chanthana close behind. A good day for the lady runners.

And so the showdown at McCormick came to a close. But like Wile E Coyote, I’m already plotting my next attack. I’ve been scouring the Acme Corporation catalog, and I just ordered rocket powered sneakers. Watch out, Mr. Heath. Watch out.

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A couple of weeks ago, I did something I’d never done: an indoor triathlon. To be honest, I’ve never even thought about doing an indoor tri before, but it was organized by Tri-umph Multisport (named best triathlon club in Chicagoland!) and a few friends were doing it, so I decided to give it a try, so to speak.

It was an educational experience. First thing I learned? Well, apparently peeing on the bike during an indoor triathlon is severely frowned upon.

Don’t worry, I didn’t really do it. But I did discover that indoor tris are quite different from outdoor ones. So, in the spirit of those dreaded high school “compare and contrast” assignments, here are some of the salient differences.

Preparation:

Outdoor tri: You usually have to spend several days getting all your stuff together. Wetsuit, goggles, cap, maybe a towel. Then you have to organize all your bike gear, starting with the bike itself. You’ve got to pump your tires and make sure you have everything you need to change a flat, plus your helmet and water bottles. You need to get your running shoes, hat, sunglasses, sunscreen and hydration belt all ready to go. You need to make sure your number is on your bike, your helmet and your body. You need to put gels in your bike shirt and Gatorade in your water bottles. And you need to have all of it packed and organized to lay out in transition. It’s exhausting.

Indoor tri: you need a bathing suit and goggles, shorts and shirt, plus bike shoes (optional) and running shoes. That’s about it.

Transition area:

Outdoor tri: The place is usually muddy and crowded. It’s hard to find a spot on the bike racks, and once you do find a spot, you have to remember where, in that massive row, your stuff is.

Indoor tri: You get to use a lovely locker room. The only thing you have to remember is your locker number. There are fluffy towels, hair dryers, real bathrooms, and even a whirlpool.

The swim:

Outdoor tri: You run over mounds of goose poop into murky, smelly, icy water. People swim on top of you, kick you in the head, and knock your goggles off. You swim wildly off course, only realizing after several minutes that you’ve been going away from the buoys, not towards them. You wonder if anyone would even notice if you drowned. When you finally get back to shore, you have the pleasure of running barefoot through goose poop. Again.

Indoor tri: You swim in a clear, clean, highly chlorinated pool. There are easy-to-follow lane lines to keep you on course. Every 25 yards you can stop at the wall for a little break. No geese are allowed inside the facility. Afterwards you wrap yourself in a large fluffy towel.

Transition One:

Outdoor tri: You spend what seems like several hours running barefoot through the mud in transition looking for your bike. When you find it, you desperately try to get your wetsuit off, only to discover that somehow the damn thing is superglued on to you and you may have to wear it for the rest of your life.

Indoor tri: You wonder if you have enough time to sit in the whirlpool for a few minutes. You use an extra towel to dry yourself off. You change into fresh, dry clothes. You use the very luxurious ladies room (so you won’t have to pee on the bike) and not only do they have lavender-scented handsoap, they have moisturizer, too. You risk being a little late to the bike portion because hydrating is important. Hydrating your skin, that is, with the cucumber-and-aloe lotion. You grab another one of those fluffy towels, just for fun.

The Bike:

Outdoor tri: You attempt to ride while still getting your shoe clicked on to your pedal. Your foot keeps slipping off. You nearly crash. Your helmet is crooked and the water from your wet tri shorts collects in your shoes. Your feet get soaked.

Indoor tri: You hop on a spin bike, fire up some tunes and pedal for 20 minutes

Transition Two:

Outdoor tri: You can’t find your spot in transition. Where the hell is your stuff?

Indoor tri: You take off your bike shoes, put them back in your locker, and put on your running shoes. You take yet another fluffy towel and wonder if anyone will notice if you stick it in your bag to take home. You also freshen up with a little more moisturizer.

The Run:

Outdoor tri: You realize at mile 1 that you forgot to start your Garmin. You realize at mile 2 that you forgot to put on sunscreen. You realize at mile 3 that you didn’t fill the bottles in your hydration belt.

Indoor tri: You run for 15 minutes. At this particular tri, the run is on a track. So you run around. And around. And around. And around. And then you’re done.

The Finish:

Outdoor tri: You go under the balloon arch and feel proud of yourself for finishing. However, you know you’ll be in pain later from the severe sunburn on the back of your neck. You head to transition and you’re pretty convinced someone stole your bike because you have absolutely no idea where your stuff is.

Indoor tri: There’s no balloon arch. Not even a big banner than says “Finish.” But you get to sit in the whirlpool and then take a shower (using the health club’s invigorating ginger-scented shampoo and conditioner). You dry off using about ten towels. Because you can. Granted, using so many towels is frowned upon, but hey, at least you didn’t pee on the bike.

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Subject of Study: Runners, also known as RunNerds. Sub classification: the rare breed of Winter RunNerd

Event: The annual F^3 Half Marathon

Habitat: Chicago Lakefront Path

Date: A chilly Saturday in January, 2012

Background: These events, called races, are usually celebrated by the RunNerds during the warm weather months. However, over the past three years, we have noticed a drastic change in the RunNerds’ habits. Many of them are racing during what would normally be their hibernation period.

Mission: To understand this strange class of creatures who run 13.1 miles in the freezing cold for no apparent reason

Field Notes:

Arrived at the designated location to study the Winter RunNerds in their native environment. The RunNerds covered a cross section of shapes, ages, sizes, ethnic groups, and genders. All were clad in the traditional Winter RunNerd ceremonial warrior dress: technical wicking fabrics, Smartwool hats, and insulated gloves. Some wore very few layers while others wore many.

The flock, numbering close to 3000, gathered on the Lakefront path. The creatures huddled close together for warmth. Some participated in a pre-race ritual of hopping up and down. There was much commotion as members of the flock called to each other and gave, what they call in the native vernacular, “high fives.” Many were observed consuming a ceremonial beverage, Gatorade, to cleanse their souls and prepare them for their journey

High Priestess Kimberly called them to attention and gave them special instructions to help them on their voyage. The participants continued to buzz with nervous energy, until another leader of the flock, identified as Ken, calmed them with an inspirational song. Then Kimberly sounded a horn, startling the creatures, who immediately began to run.

Non-running members of the tribe stood on the side, shouting war-cries to the RunNerds as the parade commenced. Children waved at parents, wondering if they would ever see them again. When the last of the warriors ran past, the spectators, as if at a loss for what to do, made their way to their communal gathering spot, Starbucks, to await further instruction. Meanwhile, the flock of RunNerds headed north on the Lakefront path.

Observation: Those wearing the least amount of clothes led the way.
Interpretation: It is difficult to determine what this signifies. It is possible that the amount of clothes signals some kind of hierarchy among the RunNerds.
Questions for future research: Do the smaller, more lightly clothed runners go first to clear the way for the slightly larger ones wearing more layers in the back? Are they scouts looking for hazards on the road, protecting the gray-sweatpants-wearing ones who come later? Do the layers of clothes signify economic rank? Perhaps the ones who wear shorts and short-sleeved shirts cannot afford multiple layers, and those who wear three shirts plus a jacket plus two pairs of gloves plus three pairs of tights do so as a way to display their wealth and power?

After running due north on the Lakefront path, the leader suddenly turned and reversed direction. All the other RunNerds followed. This strange migration pattern brought them back past their original gathering spot.

Observation: Some of them stopped to enter small blue boxes called Port-o-Potties on the side.
Interpretation: Clearly these are for some kind of worship, possibly meditation.
Questions for future research: Why do some RunNerds go in and out of the blue boxes so quickly while others, usually the females, take much longer?

The flock continued its southward migration, with the smaller, lightly clad lower-caste runners getting far ahead of the multi-layer ruling class. Several times, the runners stopped to accept ceremonial offerings from worshippers who stood on the side shouting “Water” or “Gatorade.”

Observation: As the parade stretched out into a long thin line, the small, fast leaders once again reversed direction and headed back north. Then, just as they got to their original gathering spot, they headed south for several minutes, then turned north and arrived back at the same point where they started.
Interpretation: We have no idea what this means. Perhaps like whales who beach themselves, these runners suffer from some sort of illness that makes them unable to follow a coherent migratory pattern.
Question for future research: Are they lacking in navigational skills? Or is changing direction part of the ritual?

As the warriors arrived back where they started, there was once again much whooping, high-fiving, and other ritualistic behavior. One particular red-haired specimen proclaimed a “PR” and thanked her “coach.” Others, such as a multi-layer-sporting slower participant, said “Not great but not bad.” There was much talk of bragging rights and F-ing freezing.

Observation: Each RunNerd was given a “medal,” also referred to as a “bottle opener.”
Interpretation: The bright and shiny medals bestow newfound status on the RunNerds, possibly allowing them to move higher in the tribe caste system.
Questions for future research: Is this the point of the event, to get the medal? What do the participants do with these medals afterwards?

Members of the flock milled around for several minutes, drinking their ceremonial beverages. They did not seem to be upset that they ended up exactly where they started. After a while, the cheering subsided and the flock dispersed, presumably going back to hibernating, wrapped in their Snuggies, until the next migratory event takes place.