In the Slow Lane

I am a runner. I have the tiny shorts, the cool-max tank tops, the fancy socks, and my wonderful Saucony’s. My tee shirt collection is heavily skewed towards old road-race shirts. I even have finishers’ medals.

However

I am a SLOW runner. Not tragically slow, not last racer to finish slow, just first ½ of the middle of the pack slow. 5K’s clock in at about 27 minutes, 10K’s at about an hour, my best half-marathon just at two hours. So fast enough that there is still Gatorade left for me.

However #2

I am COMPETITIVE. I want to DOMINATE. Dammit, I’ve got my snazzy red shorts and my matching sports bra. There is NO reason mister knee-brace should beat me. Eat my dust lady with the baby jogger. Outta my way mister shaved head with the, um Navy SEAL tattoo……….. actually, I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry sir, don’t hurt me.

This causes me to be BITTER at the end of the race. “Good job” Don’t patronize me Mr. Race Volunteer. I am average, I am ok with that. There is no need to rub it in my face. My loving husband, Fat Rock, LOVES to go to races. He is a wonderful partner and friend, and he really seems to enjoy coming out to see me race. At the finish line, he is ready and waiting with a cool bottle of water. Which I reject.

Why? Because at the finish line, I am again reminded that I am slow. The giant timer cannot be denied. I am slow. I don’t DESERVE water. I don’t DESERVE congratulations. So I wallow in self-pity for a few minutes, which isn’t very nice to my sweet husband. That means I am now self-pitying and guilty. After a few minutes I shake it off, accept the water, and am again happy.

There are lots of reasons that I am destined to only be a middle of the pack runner.
1) Size: 5 feet nothing on a good day. With short legs. I’m just not built for speed. I can go for days, just not quickly. I’m a plodder
2) Dedication. I’ve got more going on than running. I’ve got aerobics, a new husband, a full time job, and a deep and abiding love of chocolate. To bring it to the next level, I would really have to knuckle down and join a running group, improve my diet, and ditch the aerobics. Not gonna happen.
3) Lack of a good running partner. My fastest running times were about 2 years ago, when I was in grad school. My running partners were a 5 foot 7 blond gazelle from Colorado, and a 6 foot broad shouldered former special-forces medic. They would run, long legs effortlessly gliding up hills. I would tag behind, gamely yelling “don’t wait for me (puff, puff); I’ll see you at the end! (Gasp)” The idea of being slow was so foreign to them, that Miss Long Legs Colorado thought I had a heart condition. Yeah, it’s called my heart is out of condition.

I have two races coming up, a 5k and a 10k. I’m nervous and excited, and hopefully, this time, will be able to accept that water bottle at the finish.

Lemur Queen