What an awful day.
Really, “awful” does not quite describe it…
Brutal, inhumane, apocalyptic… A bit closer to the truth.
Needless to say, my July 4 began with a thud — a deep, penetrating and painful thud — with the running of the inaugural “Red, White and BOOM!” half-marathon on the ol’ Nordeast side of Minneapolis.
It was my second half-marathon of five planned for this summer, as well as the third 13.1-mile race I’ve taken part in during my semi-athletic life.
…And it was by far the worst.
Not that the race itself had much to do with it, the organizers pulled off a pretty good run for a first-year event (even though the five-minute wait for a passing train didn’t help the final time very much — but more on that later).
Instead, Mother Nature’s bad sense of humor and my own lackadaisical training methods over the past two months since May 2’s run in the Eau Claire half-marathon combined to make for nearly two-and-a-half hours of my least enjoyable time on the face of this planet.
I knew it would be a rough day the moment I awoke to a 79-degree weather reading at 5 a.m. — oh, yes, forgot to mention that the starting time for the “Red, White and BOOM!” was 6:30 a.m.
Understandably, a 6:30 a.m. start for a race on July 4 makes sense in the theory that temperatures are a might bit cooler in the early hours.
However, when The Weather Channel tells you that the heat index is 82 degrees just moments after sunrise, all those theories go right out the window.
Still, there was the hope that while it would be a hot morning, the line of thunderstorms that looked to be descending upon the Twin Cities metro area may just fall to the south.
Anyhow, this was my optimistic thought as I took down a pre-run breakfast of a black almond and cherry Clif Bar and a 32-ounce Powerade Zero, then slid on the grey running shorts and a sleeveless Carolina blue running shirt that was pre-pinned with my runner’s bib, emblazoned with what would prove to be a very unlucky No. 16.
By the time my wife, myself, and our two friends made the trek from the palatial Carothers estate in Richfield to the starting line at Saint Anthony Main, the temperature had risen to 81 degrees, and one quick look to the southwest cast those rain-evading aspirations asunder…
However, I can report that the first two miles of the race were dry. Not sure if I’ve ever been happier to be relatively un-moistened at any point in my life.
In fact, as myself and the rest of us two-hour paced joggers passed the old Grain Belt brewery (quick aside, have you had the new Grain Belt Nordeast yet? Oh my. Yum!) the very first drops of rain paratrooped onto our heads and shoulders. Sadly, the rain had come.
By the time we had reached Mile 3, somewhere near Psycho Suzy’s — great pizza and cocktails — those initial aquatic invaders had given way to a full blitzbrieg of tropical downpour as my shoes, which had billed themselves as "light as air," had taken approximately 45 seconds to become as heavy as a cooler full of Grain Belt.
By Mile 4, I could not tell what was sweat and what was water… And yet, the worst was yet to come.
Not long after passing my new friend Curt (who plays for the Cold Spring Springers 35-and-over baseball team which will host our own Woodbury Warriors in a few weeks) just before Mile 5, my trusty iPod shuffle, chock-full of the adrenaline-churning, pulse-pounding, leg-driving tunes I have come to rely on — gave out.
It gave out.
Gave freakin’ out!
Leaving me in silence. Just me, alone, with a constant audio track of "This Sucks. This Sucks. This Sucks. This Sucks." playing over and over in my head accompanied only by the cacophony of rain and heavy-steppers around me.
And we hadn’t yet hit the halfway point of the morning.
-sigh-
So, on we trundled. Past the industry of north Minneapolis, onto the St. Anthony Parkway, over rail bridges and past municipal golf course holes.
And smack into the side of a hill that dwarfed that incline that those sick buggers in Eau Claire had placed at Mile 13.
I had never noticed this hill in my limited times driving on the St. Anthony Parkway, never given a second thought as my automobile did all the work as I whiled away the time listening to WCCO or KSTP, or whatever, snacking on some beef jerky or drinking coffee or cursing the driver in front of me.
But now, it was just me and the hill — with no sign of my auto voiture to assist.
And I’m here to tell you, the hill won. The hill won in a shutout; a shutout on par with that of that old NFL playoff game they played in Chicago Stadium back when my grandfather was in shortpants when the Bears smacked the Redskins something like 73-0…
However, I digress. Needless to say, the gears ground down and for the first time in a half-marathon, I walked.
Shamelessly, I trudged. Taking the name of the hill in vain as those around me pushed on, I shuffled — casting my eyes to the ground out of the shame of not being able to look those soakened spectators who had come to root all of us runners on in the eye.
My only hope was that my wife was not standing midway up the hill, patiently awaiting the sight of her hero, who was currently being smashed to a pulp by this venture.
Gladly, she was not there. What was there was the very first water stop to actually feature some form of blue-liquid sports drink.
(Quick note to the organizers of the Red, White and BOOM!: You need to have more water stops than just every 2.5 miles. And what was up with the low-quality H20 being doled out at the first two stops? Quarter-filled cups and no Gator-Power-Luco-zade to be found? If us runners had not been osmosizing our liquid requirements from the sky, people would have been dropping if sunny skies had been accompanying the Africa-hot conditions.)
Anyhow, back to the show…
With a tad more spirit in me with that Everest now behind, I once again began to run (well, jog) my way down the course… Just in time to see my darling wife, who took a pic of me in full scowl.
I could muster little more than, "My shoes are soaked and this @#$^@#*& iPod took a dump on me," in passing as I handed over my now useless MP3 companion.
The miles slowly drifted by… 7… 8… 9… 10… 11–AUUUGH!!! CRAMP!!!
Couldn’t believe it. But, maybe I should have. An old acquaintance had come to call as my left calf fluttered, sputtered and locked. Here endeth any hopes of at least matching that 2:07 in the Eau Claire Half-Marathon, much less the 1:59 from Maple Grove that still stands as my all-time best.
Here I was, tossed to the curb to walk and hop my way along North Minneapolis on the return arc towards the finish line, hoping beyond all hope without a water stop in sight, that somehow my calf would loosen up.
Fat chance.
Mile 11 gave way to Mile 12 as Curt came shuffling past as I was attempting to stretch my lower leg out in some warehouse parking lot that the course was snaking through.
"You all right?" He inquired without breaking stride.
"Cramp." Was my terse reply.
It was all the wording that was necessary. I saw him slow to a walk about 100 yards away and mustered up the ability to jog back to him, figuring that we could finish up together.
The theory worked for about another 75 yards, when, just in the middle of our agreeance that we needed to run the last .1 mile "to look manly" to the crowd at the finish — CRAMP!
…Curt faded into the horizon as I once again slowed to a sort-of amble as the course traversed onto Boom Island, off of soakened streets and onto muddied dirt trails which I had not run on since I was a member of the Minnehaha Academy cross-country running team — prouder days, some 20 years and 70 pounds ago.
Before I had discovered beer and how well it went with 20-inch pizzas, burritos as big as my head, mixing bowls full of spaghetti, etc…
It was within a few minutes of limping my way along this path, with still more people of my basic physical build and worse passing me by, that the final ignominy of my morning came to pass.
A cargo train — a LONG, full, dirty cargo train — was about to intersect the race course. And if any of us had any thoughts of trying to cross the track before it arrived to block our advancement, there was a race volunteer standing there with arms outstretched to prevent our hopping over the tracks.
"Hold up, folks, this’ll just take a minute."
Or five.
Here we were, the great bastard children of the race, waiting for a seemingly-endless train to clear past so we could continue our great migration home.
I have a feeling that there were no trains impeding the elite runners progress, but those of us merely looking to finish, what’s the difference between a 2:22 and a 2:27? I’m sure that’s what the conversation was akin to between those from the Burlington Northern (or whatever we call it nowadays) and the race organizers.
"Look, we have a shipment of grain and whoopee cushions bound for Saskatchewan and it’s passing through the Twin Cities at 8:02 a.m. What? NO! We are not pushing the schedule back 28 minutes to allow for a bunch of hurdy-gurdies to lolly-gag their way to the finish of some half-marathon! Tell them to train harder next time!"
Which was exactly what was playing out in my imagination as the last car of the train came into view, setting up a sort-of second starting line for myself and all these other schleppos for what became approximately a 1/2-mile churn to the finish.
Emboldened by my hiatus, I can honestly say I led that sprint for approximately one-quarter block.
Then, reality set back in with yet another flutter of my calf and it was back to the shuffle — what was little more than an optimistic-looking walk in which I moved my arms enough to give it the slightest hint of a jog.
I knew better — I expect most of those watching my spectacle knew better as well.
However, there was my sweetest betrothed, standing there — proud as ever — on the Nicollet Island bridge, just little more than that .1 of a mile from the sweet relief of the finish line.
One last look of disapproval in my performance, just so she knew, and I saddled up to legitimately jog home the last stretch, over the beeping timing mats and under the red, white and blue banner emblazoned "FINISH."
I wasn’t winded. I hadn’t run that hard for the last hour.
Just outside of the finish chute, I saw two people handing out the finisher’s medals.
One, was an exuberant fellas dressed in an Uncle Sam costume — congratulating finishers as he slung the medals over their bowed heads and around their necks.
The other — an unenthusiastic woman with an arm full of wrinkled-ribbons dangling from her outstretched arm, not cracking a smile once as she handed out her assortment.
I went to the latter. Her demeanor matching my own after a less-than successful effort not only over the past two-plus hours, but also over the last two-plus months. My training had been lacking since that day in mid-March when I won my third office weight-loss contest and on this day, I had gotten what I deserved.
Later that day, my wonderful wife accompanied me to the Twins game at a sauna-like Target Field, where the local nine put forth a display not unlike that of my own in that morning’s run.
But hey, at least I was able to finally have a Grain Belt — or as I like to refer to it, "liquid therapy."
This week begins the long climb back to respectability as the Carotherses take part in the "Eyota Days 5K" in my wife’s hometown just east of Rochester.
Not even sure they are timing this run — which is probably a good thing.
However, like my father always used to say, "It’s hard to fall down when you are on the floor." With that in mind, I gird myself for five weeks from now and the Urban WIldland Half-Marathon in my current city of residence: Richfield.
Here’s to a re-commitment of training! Here’s to a re-tasking of my diet! Here’s to — OOH! Is that pizza?
Just kidding.
Until next time, happy running!
Well, my dear readers, there isn’t much to report this week… The runs are coming along adequately, the waistline is holding at its not-morbidly pudgy level, and otherwise things are swell.
as a couple of phases:
What looks to be a busy summer full of runs both long and short brought the wife and I to Cold Spring last Saturday for a run in the Old Glory 5K, which bills itself as a "salute to veterans," and on that note does quite well.
St. Cloud is, of course, home to St. Cloud State, the University my wife attended a couple of decades ago and pretty much the reason why I was running this race instead of the Maple Grove half-marathon (which is a delightful race that was celebrating its third year on a sun-soaked morning and which we passed some of the course just north of the 94/694 split en route to our more northern destination. 
After a rain delay that lasted for about 30-45 minutes on account of the occasional lightning strike and Cold Spring’s hesitation at having any runners be electrocuted, we finally got to the run — after a pair of false starts at the finish line, that is. 
n’t bad. In fact, it tasted a lot like Summit.
