15 laps of hell

AKA….Taking a shit on a race

In every runner’s career, actually scratch that, in almost every season, there’s a race that goes wrong in every single way imaginable. Not just, “oh shucks!…didn’t pass that girl on the finish,” but the kind of race where shit is going down your leg, figuratively– or legitimately I suppose. The gun goes off and instead of entering badass bitch mode, you’re lost in the whirlwind of “oh shit.” You start to rethink every reason why you’re running numerous laps around this god forsaken oval, begging for somebody to take a torch to it, step out right in front of you, or maybe you can find a way to trip on the rail and be DQed without breaking your ankle. The best part of a catastrophic race on a track is that everyone gets to watch the turmoil unravel lap by lap. There is NOWHERE to hide.

The only positive thing is the roar of cheers coming from your teammates. The further down the shitter you go, the louder they get. There’s an unknown correlation. Maybe that’ll make you go faster, and it does, until you’re around the curve contemplating suicide again. The periodic sideways deer-in-headlights look at coach as they’re yelling, “you’re fine! Keep moving up!” but in reality you’re helpless. 9/10 times a race like this is out in no-man’s land. The next runner is 30 meters ahead- no way you’re catching ’em and the one behind you, if there is one, is taking a harder shit than you are.

You enter the last two laps and suddenly your legs reattach to your brain and it’s like oh hey guys.. What the fuck have you been doing for the past 10 laps? It’s too late though because you’re about to get lapped by the winner. Your teammate, who you should be with is at least half a lap ahead of you, and your life is just ending so where is the sniper to take you out?

The finish line finally shows its face. Hands on your knees you’re fighting back tears of frustration. Fuck. You blew it. There’s no point in looking up to see the time because you rather crawl against broken glass, naked, than see this performance stamped to your name. The walk back to camp is sprinkled with a few good jobs, but are you serious? Did you just see the race I was in? A kick to the throat would be more fulfilling than a pity praise.

There’s nothing you can do about it now but hammer it out on the cool down. This is where the pieces come back together, or they just get trampled on a few more times. The pace is usually about equal or faster to your race and who cares how far you have to go. Fuck at this point you deserve to drill yourself into a 10 mile hole. Your teammates don’t even bother going with you, the punishment isn’t meant to be shared amongst friends. And you know sometimes it’s best to just stop a mile out, take a moment and sob, like a real good ugly cry. Cars will pass you, honk if they’re jerks, but whatever you need this.

The way back is a little less spasmactic. The pieces are slowly coming back together but you’re still pissed. Not at coach, or your teammate’s PR, but at yourself. The hardest part to remember is that it’s all a process. If it was a straight forward incline, it wouldn’t be fun– the ups and downs are what make us come back for more. A wise woman once told my team that running is like an abusive boyfriend…100 punches to the face for one bouquet of flowers. So laugh off the race, wipe the shit off your leg, and enjoy the journey because a bad race is just a learning process. AND, the harder the punches, the bigger the bouquet.

16 weeks of creative writing

I’ve always enjoyed writing. Instead of doodling, I find myself drifting off into thoughts of killer lines, and day-dreams of becoming published. Last fall I was enrolled in a creative writing workshop. Going into it, I had the idea that we’d work on a few major pieces, I’d be able to work on my book along the way, and the professor would probably be a pompous douche bag that I could tolerate for about 90% of the class period. Instead of this fantasy class I prepared myself for, I got Terrance Wedin, semi-douche and much moodier than I anticipated. Oh wait, I’m probably not supposed to drop names…I meant Werrance Tedin (sorry T).

On the first day of class we did the usual syllabus/introduction bullshit that professors insist students do, although I’d like to assume that at the college level, most of us know how to read a posted PDF. It was a small class, maybe 20 of us. First assignment: write about the thing you’re most ashamed of. Excuse me? Everyone looks around the room. Is he serious? Oh, he was. Two days later, we meet again, but this time there were seven empty seats. We carry on as normal, reading our essays out loud. Oh yeah, that’s the catch…you killed somebody? Well now you have to tell these strangers about it. First impressions, ay?

The prompts were less abrasive as the semester moved forward, although our language was expected to reach deeper as the weeks ticked on. Nonfiction was the last unit we did. In the last three weeks, each student was supposed to bring their essays back to the one thing they knew the best. I can feel the suspense…you’re dying to know what I wrote about. Deep breath….Running! Because not enough of my life revolves around it already! I knew I could write a decent essay about it, but given some real life running circumstances, all I wanted to do was give running the middle finger, not put it on some half-ass pedestal and rant about how it’s the best thing evvvvvver! Cue bitch face.

So naturally I tried to boycott the plan. Wrote about my ex, then my family, oh, and then there was the passive essay about my tibia—totally relatable to running, but not running. Eventually I gave in and wrote the damn thing. I probably shouldn’t have been so stubborn about it since now it’s one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written. This hierarchy also includes a story I wrote at age 7 about a dog with tennis ball teeth… so it’s a pretty big deal to make the list.

I’m excited to see where my writing takes me now. I’ve got a different perspective and a realization that people relate to the bad shit in your life more than they will to the good. AND fiction is such a lie because it only takes a 7% differentiation from the truth to take the nonfiction label off of it. But in better news this means Harry Potter is legit.

I have some ideas brewing for my next writing adventure, but it’s going to involve a lot of honesty with myself I’m still unsure if I’m ready to embark on just yet. I’m submitting that running piece into a contest in the next couple of weeks and will probably post it on here after it’s tweaked a bit more.

P.S. promising to blog more in 2015… free therapy.