In a word, wet.
After writing last week about the trials and rewards of bad-weather running, the Rock N Roll USA half (and full if you’re crazy) marathon made me put my shot blocks where my mouth is by showering us with hell-water all morning.
I packed plenty of dry and warm clothes into my gear check bag (including three of the six new pairs of socks I inexplicably bought at the race expo) and layered up in my race clothes, a Delta blanket (I hoard them when I fly for disposable start line warmth) and a trash bag. In the crap weather I ubered rather than walked to the start area, which meant I got there around 6:20 for a 7:30 start – enough time to use the porta potties before and after (twice! yes!) checking my dry clothes before heading to my corral.
I was in corral 5 out of 30 something and I was early enough to get to the very front and center right behind the line for corral 4. I was aiming for 1:45 and the 1:45 pace group was right in front of me with their big yellow sign. Empty bladder and goal, literally, in sight; I felt well-positioned at least for the beginning of the race. Once the anthem was sung I ditched my Delta blankie and shredded my hefty bag, praying for a prompt start as the rain was picking up and the trash bag had been surprisingly cozy.
The race started right on time at 7:30 and I was mercifully over the start line before 7:34. (Friends in later corrals had to wait forty minutes to start, I can’t imagine how soggy and freezing they must have been.) It’s a big popular race, so even being in the front, the first mile or two are slow as the crowd thins. My first mile was my slowest – even slower than mile 7 and the Rock Creek/Calvert St hill that drags down everyone’s legs and splits.
I tried for the first few miles to avoid the deepening puddles. (This was truly an education in how pock-marked the streets of DC are.) Eventually I gave up as it rained harder, the water became too wide for my little midget legs (and for the increased turnover I’ve been working on) and as other runners’ splash back soaks everything from the knee down anyway. I must say, I dressed right at least, and the Swiftwick socks I’d picked up the night before held up admirably. That lightweight Nike rain coat I’d only worn maybe twice previously was perfect and temperature-wise I was comfortable and it really did keep the rain at bay. I also rocked my Augusta 70.3 cap which kept the rain out of my eyes and I think kept me me in the dark on how hard it was really raining. Also crucial, I bought a waterproof sleeve for my phone/music at the Expo and it worked great. Between the hat and the jams, I was able to block out most of the misery and actually enjoy the race. (I also managed to block out my fiancé and dog who were waiting just past that monster hill to cheer me on. I didn’t end up seeing them or anyone I knew the whole run.)
And as for the running itself: it was great! I don’t know if it was wanting to get out of the rain, or the two rest days this week, or Elle King’s new album, but I was faster than I could have hoped based on the last few weeks. Halfway through mile two, as the crowd spaced out, I was feeling strong and decided to run past the 1:45 pace group. I figured it was better to be ahead of them and then if I had to I could slow down and rejoin. But I never had to slow down. I felt stronger and faster as I went and ended up with a really nice negative split. My slowest mile was that first mile at 8:05. My fastest was mile 11 (full disclosure: mile 11 packs some sweet downhill action) at 6:42. In between I held steady according to my GPS at a 7:30 average, and according to competitor.com, at 7:45. As I crossed the finish line at 1:45:18 I knew I’d blown past my goal. The official time was 1:41:24. I was so happy. Well, as happy as someone can be standing in a growing downpour as their internal temperature drops and the previous three soggy hours catch up with them…
I got my medal and chocolate milk, and the space blanket I’d never needed so badly after a race, and made my way to gear check. And that’s when things began to unravel.
The longest part of race day had nothing to do with the 13.1 (13.54 if you ask my GPS) mile run around DC. It was getting from the finish area to the metro , and the hour plus trip home/to brunch. (I like to think of fried chicken and waffles as home really.)
Being at the end of the alphabet is a gift that begins its giving season in elementary school, and apparently never stops. (And no I don’t have a complex about it now or anything.) Just as it had been that morning, the UPS truck housing the W names’ gear was the furthest away. I shuffled through the crater-saturated RFK parking lot and got in a short line. As I got to the front and gave them my number, race “organizers” decided the truck needed to move and made me (and the line forming impatiently behind me) shiver in the crescendo-ing deluge as they moved the truck all of 10 feet to the left (10 feet even further away) so they could squeeze another truck in. Because they’d effed up the truck order. Because the alphabet is hard.
I was too cold to argue but a riot nearly broke out behind me. Finally, I got my bag and (temporarily) dry clothes. Those extra stagnant minutes really did soak me to the bone in a way I didn’t recover from until we got to brunch. There was no indoor cover anywhere in the finishing area – even the porta potties were forever away, so I joined the growing tent city under an overpass at the back of the parking lot and changed.
Well, I didn’t change, its was too cold and too public to remove any of the wet layers so I just pulled dry tights and a sweatshirt over the wet tights and tank top. I changed my socks but then had to bury my feet back into wet shoes so what was the point. (If I could have done one thing differently I would have brought a change of shoes!) I re-cocooned into my space blanket and texted Chris to let me know when he finished. I slowly headed in the direction of the finishing shoot but tried to stay under the overpass. On the way I met a troll who asked me three questi-no wait, I actually made friends with some water-logged strangers and fan-girled at a guy with an Ironman Lake Tahoe backpack. Finally I headed back into the rain and the universe smiled for just a brief moment on me: I ran smack into Chris. Who didn’t recognize his drowned rat friend at first. Then…we got to go back to gear check to get his stuff!
At least he’s an O and not a W so it was only half the distance back. Once there and with his bag in hand, he forewent the formalities and changed right next to the truck. He got some looks dropping trou there in the rain but I was grateful he was quick. Once Chris was in his (temporarily) dry clothes he wrapped himself up in his space blanket and we got our bearings.
The bad weather had driven the usual finishing area crowd away. There were almost no friends and family spectators milling around and runners were not hanging around once they’d finished. So the parking lot was practically empty. In that grey empty space, the massive distance between ourselves and the not-even-visible metro was wildly discouraging. We had to go all the way through the parking lot to RFK Stadium, around the stadium and then around the Stadium Armory, then down another block to get into the metro station. I’d already been done with the race freezing in the rain for a half hour, and now we had a sore, frigid march through the rising puddle waters before we even got on the train.
It took ages, my muscles were locking up because the cold had kept me from properly stretching, so I barely picked up my feet as we moped along. Stepping on and off curbs was agony. Finally we got there and descended into the station to find that it was absolutely swarming with cold, wet, desperate runners. Annnnnd, I realized I’d forgotten my Smart Trip. So I had to borrow cash from Chris and get in line with the race tourists for a fare card. Once I had my ticket we headed down to the platform that was so crowded it was actually scary. It took ten minutes for a train to come by because, ya know, why would WMATA run extra trains on a day it knows there will be 38,000 extra people all crowding into one otherwise-not-populous station.
Chris and I missed the first train that came by because I refused to get pushy with people that close to the edge of the platform. We got on the second train that came through, which seemed much better anyway because we were able to get seats. Maybe 50 feet after pulling away, the train stopped. And sat. And sat. Fifteen minutes crept by before we moved; one of the longer stops between stations I’ve experienced in almost eight years here.
I used the stop to change my socks again. And decided to leave the shoes off until I absolutely had to put them back on. The conductor came on the PA and explained that the train ahead of us had to offload. My guess was it had something to do with the thousands of pushy tourists who’d packed in till it could barely close its doors. Great. I also used the down time to finally knock back that chocolate milk. And half a bag of potato chips. (They were baked so, health food.) My fingers had been too numb to open and drink the milk till then. And while I’m usually respectful of the DC Metro’s no food policy, I wasn’t feeling too warm and fuzzy toward the system at that point.
Finally we got moving and eventually made it to our transfer point, only to find trains were only running as far as Mt. Vernon – two stops shy of where we needed to go. Instead we trained to Chinatown, where I discovered my fare card had gotten too soggy in my pocket to fit through the exit machine; so I had to ask a Metro employee whose practiced rudeness and ineptitude were so strong I found myself questioning how I’d found my way into this DMV location. From there we cabbed to the restaurant where Scott had been holding down the fort alone for a half hour because our other friends had equally terrible (or worse) times getting back from the finishing area too. (Apparently the gear check trucks became increasingly chaotic as the morning wore on and we really did miss a near riot in the W line.)
Scott had brought me warm dry clothes – he’d kindly packed half my closet into a small backpack, including my uggs! I don’t care who judges, my feet had been wet for five hours and were so happy to meet that cozy shearling lining. I spent some me-time underneath the hand drier in the bathroom, and cobbled together a weird-but-warm outfit from the clothes Scott had brought. Once we had fresh and dry clothes it was fried chicken and waffles all around!
