I Kinda Liked Being a Dark Horse
Last night was the 16th annual San Diego Track Club Turkey Trot at Balboa Stadium. It’s a little different than your usually run in that [a] it’s at night; [b] it’s free; and [c] it’s as much a game as it is a race. Essentially, everyone writes down their name and predicted time. We then run 2 miles around the track sans watches and with no indication other than the first 400 of our pace. On the final lap, runners move into lane 9 and as they cross the finish they look up at a digital race clock facing away from the track and silently note their time.
I noticed by the time the clipboard came my way, everyone was rounding numbers. 17:00. 18:10. 16:40. 13:30…. Days earlier, for no particular reason, the time 18:47 popped into my head. That boiled down to 9:23 per minute. I could definitely work with that, giving myself extra seconds for starting in the back and for sticking to a middle lane (rather than migrating to the shorter, crowded Lanes 1 & 2 like most others).
Schools are closed this week, so the track lights were out and as the coach scrambled to find someone to flip a switch, we warmed up on the eerily dark, canyonesque track and field. Ambient light from an uphill parking lot and bathrooms helped a little, but some sections certainly required agility. Still, now that I do my weekday morning runs in darkness, I liked the familiar feeling and sure-footedness. No speed bumps to worry about. No street debris. All 100% flat and spongy. The only obstacle might be misgauging others on the course. I have terrible depth perception in the dark, but that just convinced me I’d inch closer to that 47-second mark and silence those that playfully laughed when they glanced at my non-rounded number.
Then just as officials had decided to convert the race into a fun run to reduce the risk of injuries, the lights came on.
And so about 75 of us started moving in ovals several minutes later. I kept to my strategy, staying in Lane 5 and moving at a comfortable pace. Wasn’t too fast and wasn’t too slow. It felt even and I felt great, despite lingering effects of a flu shot earlier that day. I’d been using a young woman several yards ahead as a guidepost. When she turned into Lane 9, I would too. So, naturally, I lost track of my laps. Keep in mind, by the time I was on lap 4 of 8, the first finishers were clocking in.
Well, she stopped short. I asked the guy coming up on my left what lap he was on. “8.” I asked the girl I was passing on my right about her lap. “6.” I swerved into Lane 3, believing I’d lost some time, then swerved back out, remembering that I’d padded my prediction. And I learned something very important about myself at that moment: When flustered, I quickly abandon my resolve. It happened during the Long Beach Marathon, when I started chugging Gatorade and swallowing Gu to quell an upset stomach -- counterintuitive gestures with harsh consequences. And lest I forget all the shorter races where I’ve downed way too much water, convinced I’d otherwise keel over from dehydration at Mile 4.
So as my journey into self-discovery came to a close, I moved into Lane 9 and looked up at the clock. 18:20. A rounded number. Go figure.
I noticed by the time the clipboard came my way, everyone was rounding numbers. 17:00. 18:10. 16:40. 13:30…. Days earlier, for no particular reason, the time 18:47 popped into my head. That boiled down to 9:23 per minute. I could definitely work with that, giving myself extra seconds for starting in the back and for sticking to a middle lane (rather than migrating to the shorter, crowded Lanes 1 & 2 like most others).
Schools are closed this week, so the track lights were out and as the coach scrambled to find someone to flip a switch, we warmed up on the eerily dark, canyonesque track and field. Ambient light from an uphill parking lot and bathrooms helped a little, but some sections certainly required agility. Still, now that I do my weekday morning runs in darkness, I liked the familiar feeling and sure-footedness. No speed bumps to worry about. No street debris. All 100% flat and spongy. The only obstacle might be misgauging others on the course. I have terrible depth perception in the dark, but that just convinced me I’d inch closer to that 47-second mark and silence those that playfully laughed when they glanced at my non-rounded number.
Then just as officials had decided to convert the race into a fun run to reduce the risk of injuries, the lights came on.
And so about 75 of us started moving in ovals several minutes later. I kept to my strategy, staying in Lane 5 and moving at a comfortable pace. Wasn’t too fast and wasn’t too slow. It felt even and I felt great, despite lingering effects of a flu shot earlier that day. I’d been using a young woman several yards ahead as a guidepost. When she turned into Lane 9, I would too. So, naturally, I lost track of my laps. Keep in mind, by the time I was on lap 4 of 8, the first finishers were clocking in.
Well, she stopped short. I asked the guy coming up on my left what lap he was on. “8.” I asked the girl I was passing on my right about her lap. “6.” I swerved into Lane 3, believing I’d lost some time, then swerved back out, remembering that I’d padded my prediction. And I learned something very important about myself at that moment: When flustered, I quickly abandon my resolve. It happened during the Long Beach Marathon, when I started chugging Gatorade and swallowing Gu to quell an upset stomach -- counterintuitive gestures with harsh consequences. And lest I forget all the shorter races where I’ve downed way too much water, convinced I’d otherwise keel over from dehydration at Mile 4.
So as my journey into self-discovery came to a close, I moved into Lane 9 and looked up at the clock. 18:20. A rounded number. Go figure.
