My Toe Hurts

Running is tiresome, running is boring. It is an inane, fatuous activity with little benefits and many detriments. Ruined knees, achy hips, sore feet, and a ravenous hunger. Ain't a runner alive on this earth that doesn't eat copious amounts of food. They need it. Their bodies are disintegrating into themselves, wasting away. They need food to fuel the machine. Food that is no longer enjoyed, but inhaled, gormandized, sucked into the blast furnace of the runner's stomach and instantly converted into fuel. Food is no longer judged on the merits of taste, texture, smell, or presentation. It is only judged on calories. Calories to fuel the machine. Give me carbs, give me protein. Pasta, pasta pasta!

Running is miserable business, made enjoyable only through the brain's release of "happy chemicals" that provide the illusion of pleasure. And though humans do possess the ability to run, they certainly aren't meant to run very fast for long distances. Walking is much more preferred. Walking makes so much sense. Walking is much more efficient, enjoyable and healthy. Walking is the way to go.

But some people are silly, and silly people are gonna run. And I am one of those silly people. And for whatever reason, I like running. It's like a strange form of meditation. I fell out of the loop for a while, stopped running, focused more on walking in the woods. But last year I fell back into the groove and found myself once again infected with runnin' fever. 

And so I signed up for the Ventura Half Marathon. And I actually trained for it this time. And of course the training was silly. Got sick a couple of times, lost some endurance, had to begin anew, all that stuff. The training wasn't regimented or detailed; didn't follow any kind of rhyme or reason. I'd just come home from work, strap on a headlamp, and then run around for forty minutes or an hour and then stretch and call it good. No strength training. No speed training. Man, didn't even do no distance training. Longest run I did in preparation was seven miles. Figured that was enough. Fun fact: it wasn't. 

And so I ran a bit, rested a bit, got sick, drank a lot of water, ate a lot of food, and then before I knew it, race day was upon me and it was time to run. Sunday, the 23rd. It was a chilly morning. I had everything dialed in. Even had me a gel that I'd bring with me. It's always wise to bring some form of replenishment for really long runs. Gotta keep puttin' fuel in the tank. Gotta keep those legs working. And it worked for me at Joshua Tree and I figured it would work here. I was ready. 

I met with Ry at the start. He remarked that I'd brought my "speed uniform" and he was correct. We chatted a bit, shivering in the cold morning air, speaking of finish times, race strategies. Folks were runnin' around, warming up. Some were serious, completely dialed in, their faces focused and morose. These were the folks wearing spandex and synthetic singlets and $300 racing shoes; men and women with long, muscular legs and skinny arms and GPS watches and earbuds blasting David Goggins ASMR or something like that. 

And then there were those who were obviously doing it just for fun, wearing regular workout attire, chatting with their friends, laughing, smiling, having a good time. I was more intimidated by these folks, these people that showed no fear. Remember: running sucks. Running is miserable. Those who laugh in the face of oncoming personal bodily misery are those who should be feared. They are insane. Freaks of nature. Total badasses. 

Ry had already warmed up by the time I got there, so I went off alone, jogged a bit, and then realized that I'd forgotten the gel. Drats! How could I have been so careless? So hasty? There was nothing I could do about it now; I was on my own. I'd be running this thing un-aided. Oh well. These things happen sometimes...

I did some leg swings, popped my hip, and then met up with Ry at the start. He said he wasn't feeling 100% so he was gonna run with the 2nd wave. I thought a bit, tossed some ideas around in my brain, and then decided with reckless abandon to join the speed freaks in the first wave. Ry was encouraging, saying "Yeah! Go for it!" And so I did. 

And then they played the national anthem and the race was soon to begin. A minute went by, and then another. People were getting antsy. Jumping up and down. Shaking out their arms. All around me were a bunch of those serious types, people with stoic expressions and synthetic racing singlets, all of them in their own worlds. To my right was a woman nearly as tall as me, hair in a high ponytail, dressed only in spandex. To my left was an older guy with graying hair, wearing a synthetic shirt a size too small. Neither of them said a word. Neither of them smiled. They were ready. Locked in. 

And then the announcer counted us down. Three...two...one...and that was it—the race was underway. And everyone sprinted. Everyone was going way too fast. The woman to my right took off into the huddled mass of stomping feet and heavy breathing; the guy to my left was gone before I even got a chance to see where he went. And we fell into a groove and the initial jolt of adrenaline began to wane and people began to slow down. The 2nd wave started and I waved at Ry, both of us passing by one another at an out-and-back section of the course. I never saw him again until after the race. 

The first mile went by in what seemed like no time. And then I stupidly decided to really go for it, to put the peddle to the metal, to run the fastest I've ever ran. My second mile was way too fast. And so was my third. But I figured I'd push it as long as I could, keep my hand on the burner until I couldn't bear it anymore.

I caught up to the tall woman with the high ponytail and spandex. And then I passed a group of three, led by a tall guy in a yellow shirt. And I passed more people, one after another, slowly picking them off as the miles progressed. I caught up to the older guy with the tight shirt just before mile 3. I passed a young guy in orange shorts, a muscular guy with a bushy mustache, and a skinny guy in a light green shirt with the worst running form I'd ever seen in my life. Homie was moving though, so he must've been doing something right. 

I continued to push the pace, running under six minutes per mile, much faster than I'd ever ran on any of my training runs (and faster than I'd ever ran in my life). It sucked, but I kept at it, trying to focus on nothing but breathing and catching the next person. Mile six rolled by, and then seven, and then eight. There was a group ahead, two women and a dude, running quick and easy, not slowing in the slightest. 

I tried to catch them. Slowly, ever so slowly, I closed the gap. I got to within 10ft of them. And then my legs began to scream. They were screaming for the gel. The gel that I didn't have. And then the gap widened, 15ft, 30ft. And no matter what I did, I couldn't get my legs to move faster. They were growing heavier by the minute. I was starting to fatigue. My hand was coming off the burner. 

And then the guy in orange shorts caught up to me. Said, "C'mon! Let's get that group!" He was very encouraging. We ran together for a good four minutes, slowly gaining ground. And my lungs were burnin' and my legs were achin' and a curious sensation in my right toe was just beginning to make its presence felt, a faint, tingly sensation that spelled trouble. 

And I couldn't keep up with Mr. Orange Shorts. And he caught the group, and he kept going. And then Mr. Egregious Running Form zoomed by, passing on my left, hot on the trail of Mr. Orange Shorts. And then others came, passing me one after the other. Every person I passed in the first half of the race was comin' for me. Oh well. Sometimes that happens. 

The older guy passed me. And then came that group led by the tall guy in the yellow shirt. Short folks, tall folks, bushy mustache man, they all caught up to me, ran with me for a bit, and then kept going, shifting to a gear that I couldn't find in myself. Out of desperation, I tried to drink some electrolyte water that the volunteers were handing out. Not stopping, I nabbed one, splashing it on my face as I tried to direct the cup to my lips, swallowed some, spit it back up, tried again, only got a few drops, and tossed the rest in the trash bin. Turns out drinking water while running is kinda hard if you've never done it before. I decided to not try it again. The race was coming to a close; wouldn't do much help anyway. 

Mile ten, mile eleven, mile twelve. The sensation in my right toe was screamin' now, a sharp, stinging pain. The tall woman passed me, running smooth and strong. I tried keeping up with her, matching her stride, and then fell away, unable to maintain the blistering pace. And then I rounded a corner, passed mile thirteen, and I was on the home stretch, the last length, the final stretch.

I took a deep breath, shook out my arms, and mustered whatever energy I had left to sprint to the finish. There were three people behind me. I could hear their footsteps. Their breathing. They were coming on fast. I couldn't let them catch me. I was gonna finish strong. 

And so I booked it, driving my arms up and down like an idiot, surging ahead and creating a small gap. And then my legs said, "No thank you" and I said "Ok" and I slowed down to a jog. And those three people caught up and passed me and I waltzed across the finish line all casual-like, put my hands on my head and said, "Wow."

I walked, got some water, met up with my mom and sister (who graciously drove me back home). Ry crossed the finish line not long after I finished, his eyes watery and his face carrying an expression of exhilaration and pain. We ended up running almost the exact same time. Ry remarked that he should've started in the first wave. And I said something like "yeah." And then we bumped fists and I was out of there.

'Cause that's when the real challenge began. Drove home, took a shower, grabbed a breakfast burrito, and then I was on my feet all day at work, my right toe purple and swollen. And then I went home, slept a bit, and went off to my second job, not getting back home until 2:00am. I was beat. Slept a few hours and then I was back at my first job, back on my feet all day, my toe more purple but less swollen this time. It hurts like the dickens, but I don't care. I'll take the purple toe any day over the chaffing I experienced at Joshua Tree last year. Any. Damn. Day. No question. 

It was a good race, one of the best of my life. Smashed my personal best by over seven minutes. Ended up running my fastest ever 5k, 10k and half marathon all in the same race, which is nice and all but that means I didn't pace myself correctly in the slightest. Ah well. It was worth it. 

This was my 5th half marathon and it will be my last for a while. My interests are shifting yet again. Running is losing its appeal. When I run I don't hike and when I hike I don't run. I've been needin' to get out there in the woods again. There's so many places to go. So many things to do. Peaks to climb, flowers to smell, views to observe, waters to swim. Gotta walk, walk, walk. Slow down. Take 'er easy.