Cannoli!
Bloody Marys!
Steak frites! (And an obscene amount of butter!)
Boquerones! (That's fancy speak for delicious anchovies and pickled things)
Lamb skewars!
So yeah, I eat a lot when I travel. Anyway, back to this specific race.
Number 9. Um. Well. Maybe we should go back to looking at pictures of what I ate.
Yes, I finished Half number 9. No, it wasn't pretty.
I don't know what happened this month. Previously during races, I've thought "I would really love to quit but I know I can keep going." This time I thought "I need to quit. It is not in my best interest to keep going. Fuck this shit."
At mile 8, I needed to pee. Usually I don't stop during races, choosing to skip the lines at the port-a-potties along the course to save time. This time it was a stop or pee on myself situation. But to really give you the full picture, let me tell you that I had been experiencing leg cramps that required me to break out the salt tablets, a stomach that felt like it was going to produce some projectile vomit at a moment's notice (probably thanks to the salt tablets), and I just sort of felt flu-ish and run down. By mile 8 I had stopped to stretch a few times and even asked a couple of medic tents if they had foam rollers. They did not.
So I hit mile 8 not feeling my best and decide to stop at the single port-a-potty I see. I step inside, smell the typical port-a-potty aroma, and focus on locking the door. Once locked I turn and see that inside this port-a-potty a human has exploded. Look, I grew up in New Orleans so I've seen some pretty bad stuff in port-a-potties at Mardi Gras but this was a different beast all together.
Instantly I know I can't handle this situation and start to freak out. I'm gagging, dizzy, and basically clawing at the door trying to get it unlocked. I start pushing it with my shoulder, get it unlocked, and hit the ground outside. From across the street the medics yell "You okay?" so you know I was looking awesome. After a couple of minutes of sitting next to the port-a-potty of doom (and warning people that they really REALLY should just keep going) I get up and start walking. Each step is misery.
At some point, I have no idea when, I started to run again. I think I only managed to do that because I knew it would get me to the finish line faster than walking.
This is my "kill me now" face.
Once finished I wanted nothing more than to rip that damn running skirt off. I was honestly having such a strong reaction to it (for no valid reason) that I stopped at the Rock N Roll merchandise tent before going to find my friends. Unfortunately that tent only sold shirts and jackets so I made my friends stop at Athleta on our way to brunch because I am a spoiled child. I bought a pair of shorts, changed into them in the fitting room, and thanks to their magical healing properties I felt a thousand times better instantly. I was even able to rally for a couple of post race Bloody Marys and steak. (And later that afternoon I rallied myself into letting Maura get me totally and completely tanked on gin and tonic.)
I ended up with a pretty jacked up hip after the race and my physical therapist was all "Why did you finish! You should have stopped! You would feel much better right now if you had!"but it's feeling better today, just in time for my long training run tomorrow morning. (13 miles! I have a mental illness!)
So yeah, nine. Four left. Hopefully things can only improve from here out.
