Ready to race

Ready to race

(Blogpost 10, in which I learn that there is a whole lot more to running a race than actually running a race)

Having just completed the Dunedin half-marathon on Sunday I have learned a few things about running events.

The first thing is  -  I will never be able to run as fast as my daughter (not in a million years!) and the second is, I will never be one of those really organised people who are good at preparing for races!

Who knew that entering a half marathon would require so much organisation? Aside from the training there are a million things to think about -  like, registration and transport and what to wear and what to eat and how to get to the start line and where to park and what to take and what to drink and how to stretch and when to poo and whether to run the day before and what to do afterwards. And, of course, there’s the stretching. . . 

Always the stretching. . . 

If you thought running was just running you are wrong. ‘Running’ is actually only a teensy weensy part of running.

The first tricky thing is - making sure you get up in time. I am not good with alarms. And I don’t trust the one on my phone. 

So I wake up at regular intervals in the night due to stressing about not waking up in time. I am trying to guess what time it is by the light coming through the curtains. 

When I finally wake at 6:30, I am ever so slightly exhausted.

I stumble to the kitchen.

I try to poo but have no luck.

I mix the metamucil.

Stick the kettle on.

Make some tea.

Then I wonder about breakfast - shovel some muesli into a bowl, and change my mind. Breakfast always repeats on me. I’ll be burping up sultanas for the whole race. 

I try again to poo.

I forgot, again, to stretch.

I wonder about what to wear, There’s a pile of shorts and stuff in the corner of the bedroom. I fossick about for something comfortable. One of those organised people would have had this sussed days ago. Not me. 

I grope in the dark for clothing possibilities. I am trying not to wake the ‘other half’ who has expressed an interest in having a sleep-in on account of it being Father’s Day. I curse myself again for not being organised. And for not deciding what to wear earlier.

I wonder about long pants or short. T-shirt or singlet. Black or purple.

I decide on 3/4 black leggings. For the top half I am considering a singlet. But, then my ‘old lady arms’ are looking slightly rumpty in sleeveless. After umpteen changes of tops I settle on a short sleeved purple T-shirt.

I take a long hot shower.

I forget, again, to stretch.

I clean my teeth, put on some moisturiser - add mascara. Do I need lippy? 

(“Look good, run good,” my daughter, who is running today as well, tells me) It’s alright for her! She is 22 years old. I am 60! I could be here all day!

Only highly organised people can look good, I decide, plastering on some mangey lippy that was rolling around in the bottom of the gear bag.  

Old shoes or new?

“Definitely old”, says the daughter.

I grab the race pack and have a slight panic attack over safety pins, which on first glance are nowhere to be seen. They finally turn up. . .  in the jelly bean bag.

Now. . . Where to attach my race number? And where does the tag timing thing go? On the wrist or the ankle? If I get this wrong the day will turn to custard.

Everything little thing counts. Especially on race day.

Should I eat the jellybeans now or later, I wonder? 

And what time does the race start?  I need to check. But I can’t read anything without my glasses and my glasses are in the bedroom with sleeping beauty. Don’t panic, Mr Mannering.

I find some old socks. They don’t match but who cares.The daughter is looking aghast at the state of my legs, which I realise I haven’t shaved in over a month. They are definitely a bit bristly round the edges.

I opt for an inpromptu dry shave, which results in some surface bleeding. I chuck on some Dove to cover the mess.

Again I forget to stretch.

I grab my waist belt and think about what I need to take on the run.

Phone, money, car keys, tissues?  Ah! The tissues. 

For some reason as soon as I start running I have an urgent need to blow my nose. It’s become a thing. 

Handi towels work best. Nice and thick. But. . . OMG! There are none left!! Why didn’t I think about all this? I lurch from one side of the kitchen to the other in a state of mild hysteria.

I grab some loo paper and stuff it into all the nooks and crannies I can findf. Down the bra canal, into the socks, inside the sleeves and in pants’ pocket. 

I take ten deep breaths and try to keep calm.

Then I remember the bowels.

I do some squats to get them moving. Still no luck. A quick jog around the block might be in order. Or a kiwifruit.  Yes! Just in the nick of time the kiwifruit does the trick. 

Except that . . . Now I am fretting about the possibility of diarrhea.

Meanwhile, The daughter is calmly pinning her number onto her sleek singlet and straightening her golden locks. 

Again, I forget to stretch.

“Before we leave I want a photo,” I announce. There are groans all round. 

The hubby reluctantly takes his phone and we head out to the rose bush to pose. One, two three. . . smile. . . Further grumbling ensues.

Then I remember water. Because I like to have several gallons on hand to stave off dehydration I need to fill up all the plastic bottles I can lay my hands on.  Two! 

Now it’s time to leave. . . 

And we are in the car heading down the hill. 

With not much time to spare.

And 17 red lights later we try to find a park. Time is running out. We really should have left home earlier. 

I arrive at stadium with the pulse rate rising. Head for the nearest loo. 

“Shall we get someone to take a photo here,” I say, thinking this backdrop looks way better than the rosebush. The daughter sighs in exasperation. “Just in case the other 16 didnt work out, do you mean?” 

We find the place where everyone is gathered.

Standing there among the other 4,848 runners I realise with horror, I still haven’t stretched.,

But the countdown has begun. 

On your marks. . . 

Get set. . . 

Go! Says the starter.

The race is on. . .