The tenth race of the Grand Pricks Series, #6
It's all about the women
This is the tenth installment in the twenty one race series. Most running mags who report on these races center around who won and quick times. This blog revolves around the seamy underbelly in each race; the also-rans: the has-beens: the crippled: the infirm: the insane.
These are my people. Read on.
The 8th Annual Norfolk Pub 10-Mile Road Race
December 16, 2006
I don’t know what it is.
Why these beautiful women want to compete with a bunch of grizzled, male RATS traveling to the toughest races in New England.
Here we were in a remote part of Connecticut (remote from Boston that is). 50 hard core RAT road runners showing up for arguably the toughest 10 miler in the realm. With a few exceptions, there we were (the men), all commiserating how this hurts or that surgical repair is likely on that, soon.
The women surround us like mythical muses giving us strength to endure yet another punishing race.
I’m sure that what gives me strength.
I think I can vouch for any guy running these damned races.
We’re here to race.
My personal life is a series of train wrecks, but none of that matters out here.
That’s why I’m here, I’ll gladly trade that reality for this moment in time.
The Women.
Beautiful to behold, smart as anything, and a competitive streak a mile wide.
I think they take shear delight in cruising past every man during the course of the race.
As if we represent anybody who has tried to reign in their ambition.
I think the men too, find solace in being thrashed by these fit, agile, incredibly strong women.
It might go something like this:
The start of mile nine in this insane ten miler, you’ve battled with this woman over the last eight horrendous miles.
You’ve thought you have crushed her in the last surge, putting a fair distance between.
Then you hear her footfalls, the rhythm, the breathing, you know it’s her and she’s got you in her sights.
You step it up, dig down and find speed.
She gains on you,
ten feet behind you: you pick it another notch,
she gains,
five feet behind you: you hear her breathing and feel her confidence,
you have more and you amply it,
she answers,
clearly enjoying the competition,
wanting more,
she’s there at your shoulder, stride for stride now,
a duel, a test of wills, this wondrous moment, this seemingly limitless nick in time is your reality,
nothing else exists.
That instant is worth a dozen train wrecks.
A quarter of a mile, a half mile, together in synch,
the breathing, strides merge,
shoulder to shoulder you hang on digging deeper to hold her off,
a quick glance,
she gains a stride on you, and you throw everything at her,
gain that stride,
but she gains it right back, and picks up a stride,
you see her now,
her silhouette,
her hair flowing, her shoulders,
arms, her waist,
your fighting with everything you’ve got,
but she seemly floats away,
three strides,
four.
The finish line is in sight but she has you beat.
More sound behind you, another guy, and you give it everything,
finishing one, two, three.
A smile,
a high five.
She beat you.
You look deep into her defiant eyes and offer congratulations.
You nod to the guy behind you and you both silently acknowledge that she’s awesome.
Hope to see my muses again in Bourne.