| The morning was foggy and the air was cool; not the bone chilling cold that can often be the case along the coast, but the clean, crispy air of early fall. I had risen early, before sunrise, to make sure I ate something with plenty of time to digest.
It was race day. 
I had been looking forward to this race for months, training on the treadmill and around the local hilltops for many weeks, preparing my feet, legs, and lungs for the Buffalo Valley Hill Run, a 10k (6.2 mile) run that was hosted by the mighty Marines of Camp Pendleton.
Typically, I have run the course of any upcoming race many times during my training, but not so in this case. Since the race took place on the military base, you really can't access it easily. Plus, it’s not exactly nearby. So I wasn't really sure what I was expecting. The website had clued me in on the fact that the first mile was uphill, and the course was "rolling hills" after that. I also learned soon before race day that there actually were wild buffalo roaming the land, apparently on loan from the San Diego Zoo.
My Dad, one of the true heroes in my life, was also participating in the race. We were both jittery with excitement, because for this race, unlike many others we have run together, we had a goal: we were going to win.
No, not win the entire race, but we were going to win our categories. My father turned 65 this year, and joyfully retired from his retched job with the giddiness of Wile E. Coyote finally catching that obnoxious Road Runner. Since then, Dad has kept himself busy with projects around the house and daily training of his own. He's in incredible shape, and I knew he would leave me in the dust eventually on the trail.
But that didn’t matter, because I was thrilled about something else. I entered this race because there was a unique category for heftier folk, like myself. For men over 200 lbs, there was the mighty "Clydesdale" category, and for ladies over 160 lbs, there was the brightly dubbed "Athena" category. I had no shame signing up the moment I saw such an opportunity.
2008's results showed the winner of the Athena category finished in a whopping 1:04:37. (Over 10 minutes per mile.) This made me think two things. 1. This is probably a pretty tough course, and 2. I can totally win!
Thus, the mindsets of my Dad and I were of the vicious competitor sort. We were here to take home medals.
The base isn't far from my parent’s home in Oceanside, but we gave ourselves plenty of time so as not to add any unneeded stress to ourselves. The start of the race was deep inland, past the miniature cities and apartment buildings of the servicemen and women and their families. We eyed each hill we passed with suspicion, "Is that the hill we have to climb? Or maybe that one?"
We were eventually directed to a large dirt parking lot and after putting on our shoes, investigated the course. The air around the site was cheerful. Many volunteers had turned up for the event, and it seemed most of them were excited to be doing something different. My Dad and I collected our race t-shirts, which were long sleeve forest green and proudly boasted “Hard Corps” on the front.
My Dad and I strolled around the camp, having plenty of time to spare, and decided to try and find the infamous "first hill." We managed to figure out which direction the race would take us, and walked part way up. It wasn't terrible, in fact it was almost pleasant (as hills go, that is.) Our confidence was boosted, and we strutted back to the starting line with pomp. We made use of the clean and plentiful port-a-potties and removed our sweatshirts as the time to line up approached. We took a quick jog to test our legs and give them a quick stretch.
We were ready to go.
The race was probably attended by half civilians and half enlisted peeps. Some units were dressed in matching headbands; some guys were decked out in their full gear: boots, backpacks, guns, the works. My Dad and I commented to one another about how miserable we would be running in those standard issue boots!
The announcer was obviously a military man. He barked out the course map for us vaguely, and gave us implicit instructions not to pet, harass, or ride the buffalo should we happen upon any. They played the national anthem, for which everyone stood rigidly respectful, and in true military style, the air horn sounded promptly at 08:10, as scheduled.
My legs felt fantastic, like an excited dog whose owner finally threw the ball for him. We were in the back of the pack to start, so I knew I had some maneuvering to do. I darted through the pathways I could find, and charged that first hill with confidence. Not too fast, but certainly not too slow.
The hill turned out to be a doozy, but I made it, passing people the entire way. Oh, silly me.
Little did I know, that was not going to be anywhere close to my last hill. In fact, there were many, many more hills of substantial length and incline to come, but I pushed the horror of realizing this to the back of my mind. On I pressed, walking every now and then to catch my breath, jogging when I needed to, and running again when I got passed. I passed, got passed, and re-passed dozens of people. I don’t run races with my iPod, and entertain myself by labeling my surrounding runners with obvious labels ... "Girl with pigeon toe stride" ... "Guy with gross orange shirt" ... "Marine with biggest arms in the universe" .. and so on. I wasn't worried about most of them, but each woman that passed me caused me to ask myself the same question. "How much does she weigh?"
I couldn't be sure.
By the fourth mile I was exhausted, and ready for it all to be over. The hills were killing me; not just the uphill, but the downhill as well. Brutal, declines caused me to double step just to keep from falling flat on my face, and the dust was irritating to breathe in.
Despite all that, the hillside was lovely. From time to time I took a moment to look around and take in the serene valley. It was still foggy, but you could see through the mist the trees and brush that surrounded you in peaceful solitude.
"This is the last hill!" a man shouted as he passed me on a walking break. My spirits lifted. I took the next hill with new courage, happy that there was finally a silver lining on the horizon. The wind was promptly taken from my sails, however, when I realized he either lied or had been terribly mistaken.
Not only was this not the last hill, it was not the second to last, nor the third to last. On the hills went, up and down, up and down, ravaging my energy. There were water stations roughly every mile, where I graciously partook in their generous offerings.
The course continued to roll ... endlessly. Yet it was difficult to become discouraged, because every other minute or so a Marine would pass me with a t-shirt that said "GET SOME" in huge letters on the back. Heck yes!
At long, long last I could hear the finish line. I was at the top of a large hill and could finally see the paved street below. I couldn't quite tell where the actual finish line was, for the sound of the loud speakers was echoing up the hillside in strange directions. A mile? A mile and a half? It was hard to be sure, but I knew I had walked enough that my 1st place prize might be in jeopardy. This was the time to kick it in.
"Don't regret your effort" I thought to myself.
Or, as my basketball coach used to tell me, "Leave it all on the court." Whatever energy I had left I was determined to spend here and now.
Down the hill I charged. I chose the softer dirt as my path in the corners to cushion my footfalls. My legs ached and burned, my feet whined for mercy. I gave them none.
At long last I reached a flat, and charged with everything I had. Was I spending my last energy too early? It was possible, but I didn't care at the moment. I could just jog the last bit if I had to, but not knowing where the last line was started to drive me crazy.
I ever so vaguely remember the sudden sensation of falling asleep. You know those dreams where you can't run? All of a sudden, that was happening to me. I felt like I had fallen asleep, and was trying to run but couldn't.
Ladies and gentleman, your dear friend Megan broke one of the number one rules in all of sports: I had failed to properly hydrate myself, and on the final leg of the race, my body was over it.
Thanks be to God, the moment I passed out (which is in fact what happened) I landed at the feet of 2 EMT's who were on the scene in case someone like me should need them. No other place on this course was easily accessible by vehicles except for the very spot I landed.
Now, let me first tell you that I have never ever fainted or lost consciousness in my lifetime. I have also never pushed myself so hard physically that it caused me to become queasy. I don't remember actually falling. In fact, all I remember is running, thinking the entire time "I'm going to win" and the next thing I knew I was in a gurney being hoisted by two very kind gentlemen into an ambulance, fighting to stay awake.
I had never been in an ambulance before. I've had very few medical problems of any sort in my lifetime. They said I was confused and disoriented - well of course I was! I had a race to finish! What was I doing laying down!?
I felt okay, except for the woozy head, and I was covered in sweat; dripping from head to toe. After some basic medical history I began asking for my Dad, who I knew would be concerned. They said they'd go find him, but I think that was just to make me shut up. Eventually, he found me.
They pulled me out of the ambulance and onto an army cot, and I was immediately surrounded by nearly a dozen cute Marine medics. I felt like quite the celebrity; what a perfect place to need assistance!
My muscles began to cramp and I requested the chance to stretch them. Upon a feeble attempt to stand, they recommended that I stretch while still seated on the cot. After a little while I was feeling much better, and a couple Marines brought me oranges, banana slices, and all the water a girl could ever desire.
My Dad won his category. I was so proud of him. He and the Marines gave me a good reminder about electrolyte replenishment and all the basics of nutrition I know, but had not implemented (for whatever reason) for this particular event. *sigh*
I was feeling much better, and requested to finish the race. The Marines went wide-eyed and looked around for their superiors. The race had a 2 hours finishing time limit, and I still had 15 minutes. The medical officer in charge came back to me and strongly recommended I not try. He said I was free to, but it was "against medical advice." He then went below the belt to inform me that there was the possibility I would pass out again, not fall as gracefully this time, and potentially paralyze myself for life.
Well, sheesh. Fine!
I realized I wasn't all that stable when my Dad made the comment that I looked high, or tipsy. He also said I was slurring my words. Having never been drunk, this was certainly a new experience for me, and I didn’t want to push it. I apparently tossed my cookies a couple times when I first went down as well, which I have no memory of. Strange sensation indeed.
After all the doting attention, I felt practically normal. (Though I was still exhausted from my spent effort.) I wanted nothing more than to go home and put on some dry clothes.
So, after much "are you feeling light headed?" and "do you think you can walk?" I was escorted to the car and shipped on home.
I'm still kind of in shock that I didn't even finish, and that I am "that person who collapsed on the home stretch.” Weird … but I spent the rest of the weekend under the gentle wings of my mother and her homemade spaghetti sauce. My muscles are killing me today, but I think I sit here a wiser person for it. And oddly enough, I sure had a good time. Plus, there is always next year.  |
