On what turned out to be one of the rainiest days in
Anchorage this year, my sister, Saree, and I braved rain, mud, and wind to
finish the 2014 Mayor’s Half Marathon.
Fun it was not, but lucrative it was--together we racked up plenty of
unbudgeted misery points in a fitness contest with our relatives.
Last fall as our motivation to exercise waned, several of my
family members, including me, two of my sisters, our cousin, and my sister’s
daughter-in-law hatched a plan to create a game in which, based on an elaborate
matrix of achievements, we would earn points toward a reward vacation. Each of us determined our own goals at the
beginning and then dug in as the months ticked by.
When Saree and I struck out on the Mayor’s Half, she’d
already earned points by competing in the Tour of Anchorage ski race, Gold
Nugget and Eagle River Triathlons, Alaska Run for Women, Ski for Women, and the
Bike for Women. I’d netted points for the
Tour of Anchorage, two 5K runs in Valdez, and the Gold Nugget. Paige had brought home points for the Campus
5K in Pullman and a sprint tri in Lewiston, Idaho. Our cousin Gay and my niece-in-law, Emi, who
both live in Texas, socked away points for running the Armadillo 5K and then
Emi powered on to run several more 5Ks including the Blue Bonnet, Color Run,
and Run for Zero in which she took a 3rd place finish. Along with all those points we were scoring,
we all nabbed what we termed “misery points”.
This term was coined by several of us a few years ago when we were
training as a team to ride the 200-mile Fireweed bike race – the hours of
riding in wind and rain and pedaling up long hills to build our leg muscles
led to the concept of misery and discomfort being something worth acknowledging
like badges of honor. For our 2014
fitness challenge, we assigned actual points to pain and agony and to date all
of us had earned our share. Weather,
hills, participating in events for the first time, competing in events
alongside men (sorry guys, but you can be intimidating) all helped us ratchet
up our points.
Early on, I knew that we had a good chance of bringing home
some misery points from the Mayor’s Half Marathon. Not only was it the first time either Saree
or I had done this event (cause for stress-related agony), but seven days
before the event, rain was being forecasted for the solstice weekend. One evening after I had finished a training
run, my husband, Matt brought his Mac over to show me the satellite image. “It’s going to be drenching rain,” he said almost gleefully. He is the original weather geek, so for him
this was exciting news – for me, not so much.
As I flew over to Anchorage on Friday afternoon, the sun was
shining. I looked out over Cook Inlet
from my seat on the plane and could clearly see the Alaska Peninsula’s volcanic
summits white against the horizon. It
was a beautiful day across Southcentral Alaska.
Yet, the forecast was still predicting bad weather for Saturday’s
run. And, indeed, while Saree and I were
enjoying dinner with our parents in Eagle River Friday night, the storm came in
with alarming power lead by thunder, lightning, and pounding rain.
By Saturday morning, the thunder and lightning had
dissipated, but the wind had increased and the skies poured rain—drenching rain. We headed to the start line after having
waited in the car until the last possible moment and found a small crowd of
runners huddled under an office building awning. We waited a few more minutes with this group,
watching the cottonwood tree limbs billowing in the gale and listening to the
Star Spangled Banner sung by a trio of men.
When the mass of runners started to move, we eased away from our shelter
and merged into the street.
There were 1800 runners in the Half Marathon, despite the
weather conditions. We bobbed and jogged
toward Turnagain Arm and the Coastal Trail, forming a rainbow-colored
undulating ribbon. My fellow runners
were dressed in typical running gear – jackets, headbands, t-shirts, some in
shorts—and a surprising number wore Hefty garbage bags with cut-outs for their
arms and neck. Saree and I, having grown
up in Ketchikan, thus being experienced in the art of staying dry, were
perplexed by this strategy. Wearing a
garbage bag is like creating your own personal sauna – what moisture the bag
keeps off you, it makes up for in the sweat it produces. Bizarrely, some runners wore their bags the
entire 13.1 miles.
The streets were packed with runners for the entire first
mile and it was several hundred yards down the Coastal Trail before we started
to spread out and everyone settled into their pace for the long haul. I had run the half-marathon distance on a
couple of occasions in the distant past, but in recent years mixed it up with swimming,
cycling, and short-distance running.
When I started planning my 2014 events, I penciled in the Mayor’s
Marathon. I had looked at my calendar
and the sixteen weeks prior to June 21st looked clear enough to give
me time to train. I started out strong,
but when I hit long-runs of 10 and 11 miles, my will to run 26.2 took a nose
dive – way too much time pounding along on pavement to count as fun. I quickly adjusted my plan to the Half
Marathon, which was fine except that it meant I’d have to make up for the point
differential somehow. I needed misery
points.
The rain pelted the herd of runners for three miles along the
Coastal Trail, but the lining of shrubs and trees offered some protection from
the wind. I warmed up nicely and was
running along at my race pace comfortably on the mostly level path. My mind wandered: I pondered the garbage bags a bit more,
enjoyed the misty view of the tidelands, became familiar with the men and women
who were going to be in my pack – I identified them by their hair, their
clothes, their strides. Then, we turned
onto a long open road behind the Ted Stevens International Airport and left all
form of protection behind. We now ran
straight into a howling headwind and driving rain. I could barely hear the sound of the jets
taking off to our left over the accursed storm.
At mile 6, my forearms were numb even though I had pulled my hands into
my sleeves and was shaking my arms out every few strides. I tucked my head down and kept running
thinking the faster I ran the faster I’d get back to the Coastal Trail. About a mile later, I gratefully reached the
water-station at the turning point.
Volunteers dressed in full water-proofed-regalia stalwartly distributed
plastic cups of water and Gatorade.
There was no question that those volunteers were the heroes of the day –
they had the absolute worst possible location and were as cheerful and helpful
as anyone we passed. I thanked them
adamantly as I turned into the forest – thrilled to be out of that wind. Misery points, I chanted, lots of misery
points.
Yet, I wasn’t quite finished earning points. We were now on a cut-off trail that connected
the paved road behind the airport to the Point Woronzof section of the Coast
Trail. While it was protected from wind,
it had received its fair share of rain and overnight had turned from what was
presumably a pleasant dirt path into a mile-long mud chute. There was an immediate and nearly
impenetrable bottleneck of runners slipping and sliding down the steep single
track. Some people simply stood stunned
at the top of the chute trying to calculate their first steps. Others tried to tiptoe down, arms circling
like propellers to stay upright. Still
others catapulted down the center, mud-be-damned. I took a deep breath and ran through a clump
of people who were hesitating at the top, stayed to the margin where there was
a modicum of grass for traction, slid like a snow-boarder down some of the
steepest mud, and somehow stayed standing the entire way. At the bottom, I stamped my shoes to rid the the
soles of clotted mud. Well, more misery
points for me, I smiled.
The last half of the race was almost pleasant – save the
fatigue that settled into my legs somewhere around mile 11. The rain let up, I dried out, and the wind relented. The clouds lifted and I saw fresh snow
accumulated on the Chugach mountains.
Runners were cheery. A woman with
a beautifully consistent stride passed me and I kept pace with her for a
mile. My mind wandered again, aimlessly.
Soon we rounded the corner at Westchester Lagoon and there
was one more obstacle to reach the finish line – a solid uphill leading all the
way into the corral. I was ready for one
more challenge, so took the hill as strongly as I could muster, passed under
the arch, and claimed my finisher’s medal.
I cooled down, stretched out, and then headed back to the
car where I knew a fuzzy blanket, PBJ, hat, fleece pants, and dry socks waited. There, I could tally up my misery points.
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