The Little Grand Canyon Half Marathon

So, although I ran for 2 hours and 28 minutes straight, I am not a Runner.  I am a Plodder.  It would be more accurate to say it took me 2:28:45 to plod The Little Grand Canyon Half Marathon course in The San Rafael Swell.  I can’t really claim I ran the Half, because at 11:00 minutes/mile one is not really running.  But I didn’t stop to walk either – not even to grab a water or almost-throw-up. 

Here is my Plodders’ tale…

After Mile 1, the group of 400 half marathon participants divided into three distinct packs:  The Masochists (or Real Runners), The Plodders, and Those Who Paid $50 for a Mammoth Marathon Runner’s Shirt and a Navajo taco. 

Included in our Plodders Pack was a Clydesdale.  In the Runners’ world (and apparently in the Plodders’ world as well) a Clydesdale is a male runner weighing over 200 lbs.  I noticed somewhere around Mile 2 that he was using me as a wind break.  Given a few natural laws of physics and the ratio of  his body width to mine, I was not his best wind-break option.  Nevertheless, the Clydesdale kept a steady pace behind me for several miles.  (By the way, you’re welcome Clyde.)

At Mile 3 I fell to the middle of the Plodders Pack and was passed by two grandmas, a mom with twins in a Plodding stroller, an Oriental guy taking pictures and a three-legged coyote.

Somewhere between Mile 4 and Mile 5, number three on Jodie Coleman’s List of Worst Running Nightmares struck!  My iPod died.  Right there in the middle of “Bad Romance”, Lady Gaga quit my team!  (Thanks, little Reece, for the perfectly apt expression.)

With my hand cocked back, ready to throw the iPod across San Rafael county, I made the conscious decision to be rational and wait until the end of the race when I could properly back over the iPod repeatedly with the truck.  Cursing silently as I inhaled and audibly as I exhaled, I strapped Lady Gaga’s lifeless body to the back of my pants and shoved the ear buds deep into my pocket…and continued to plod.    

I needed a distraction – any kind of music to keep my mind off the repetitive “clomp clomp exhale…clomp clomp exhale”.  I didn’t even have to turn around to ask the Clydesdale if he would sing for me as he was still in earshot futilely attempting to draft.  I called out, “A little help here?  Could you sing the second half of “Bad Romance”?  The Clydesdale politely declined (claiming it was physically impossible for him to sing like a radioactive Barbie) and proceeded to breathe down my neck. 

Just when I started to lose hope of finishing the race, I remembered I had an entire pack of gum jammed in my left pocket!  I quickly made a plan.  At the next mile marker, I took one piece of gum from my left pocket, carefully unwrapped it, then tore it in half.  I stuck half into my mouth and rewrapped the remaining half.  I then placed the rewrapped half back into my left pocket.  (You’re thinking, “Man, this painstakingly detailed…”  I did it on purpose.  With my legs and breathing on auto pilot, I engaged my mind completely in the minutia of my newly concocted gum ritual.)  One half mile later, I chucked the chewed wad as far as I could and fished around for the second half.  I unwrapped that one, shoved the paper into the right pocket (next to my useless iPod buds) and waited for next mile marker to start the ceremony all over again.  I chewed the entire pack within 2 hours – which may explain why my temporomandibular joints are just as sore as my hips.

By Mile 7 the Clydesdale had enough of my gum unwrapping and wrapping compulsion and he dropped back leaving me to listen to my own breathing and to the runners’ echoes from the walls of the canyons “Whoohoo…hoo…hoo…” and “Yo Adriaaan…aaan…aan…”  Once I swear I heard a vulture screeching, waiting for someone to pass out.  But that could’ve been delirium setting in. 

Besides the gum ritual keeping me occupied, I started to note interesting sights.  The Swell is surrounded by sheer cliffs, red-layered rock, gigantic orange boulders and gorgeous trees.  I saw authentic hieroglyphics as well as an ancient grandpa in red and pink checkered socks.  The only thing distracting from the beauty of the canyons was an occasional insulting road sign reading “DIP” or “SLOW”. 

One of my biggest fears was that I would throw up during the race.  After the first three miles, it was a surprisingly smooth run.  But near Mile 11, I felt a burble.  Something was going the wrong way up my esophagus.  I couldn’t force it back down afraid that if I fought it, I’d cramp up.  I remember thinking “Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be…” (by this time, the Clydesdale was a safe enough distance behind to easily maneuver around “whatever will be”) and I let it go. *HIGH FIVE*  It was just a Gatorade burp!

Mile 12 and 13 passed uneventfully.  My husband and kiddos were there to meet me at the finish line.  I got a medal – and some watermelon.    

So there it is.  I ran two and a half hours without stopping, without my iPod, and sadly, without my best friend.  But I finished!  128^th place overall.  That puts me smack in the middle of the Plodders – right next to Checkered Socks Grandpa and thirteen clomps in front of Clyde. 

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