Last October 30, I actually had myself signed up for a race. I had the singlet, the race number. The good thing was though, that it wasn't something that I needed to get up so early in the morning for. Thank you,
Adobo Magazine, for understanding that not everyone's a morning person.
Gasp! Wait a major minute. Yes. I ran. An actual race. Don't get all too giddy, it was just 3k. What? Just 3K?!? says my subconscious. I felt like I was going to trip all over myself. I don't know if this is what they call the "running high" - the part when you seem to be developing dual personalities, debating if it was too tiring for your own good or if it was actually worth all the lung-burning.
race photos c/o Bob Guerrero
That's the hubby, the ultramarathoner, who took time off from his usual 2-digit kilometer runs to pace me and make sure that I don't quit or sit down in some corner or whatever. We actually thought that the run was at High Street and I almost went ballistic when we realized that it was at McKinley Hill. That meant, well, hills. Like, what? I can't even run on flat land. Or jog. Or walk-jog-ish. Honestly, I was totally nervous about it. It may be overthinking it, but hey, this is me coming from zero kilometers, in my first-ever pair of running shoes. Just the thought of Chips not being with me going through the starting line (because he was rogue) made my mind go in circles.
But okay, we're here now and the 10k and 5k runners were being whisked through by their respective starting horns. There's something about being a non-athlete and warming up. You kind of feel that you're doing something funny. The instructor looked fine. But you feel like there's some part wrong or I don't know, the foot you're kicking up looks mangled and totally not like what the instructor is doing. Which is probably why I never liked the aerobics we had to do during PE class. Anyway, I digress.
race photos c/o Bob Guerrero
After the warm-up and the fireworks, the 3K people were asked to assemble by the starting line. It was so relieving to see Chips as the herd started rolling on. I kept on thinking about what he said to me, which was at the time confusing... Just don't run when it starts... No pressure... But don't just walk either... Just keep it steady. Okay. Steady sounds simple. NOT. Steady is like suppressing a sugar high. Steady is like keeping yourself awake and attentive after drinking cough syrup. That photo up there was during the first few minutes of the race, just after the U-turn. Still looking steady, I guess.
A few minutes later, I was huffing like anything and was trying not to let my head spin (I was half wondering if I tied my hair up too tight). Only to be met by... TADA... a major uphill moment. Dangnabbit. As part of our strategy, we quasi-walked it. A few steps up, I really had to just haul myself slowly. Then Chips began to jog again. I guess I had a little bit of competitive fire (it usually takes a backseat in favor of my apathetic self) and tonight, it propelled me to keep up with him. He says it's just going to be a gradual uphill. I. wanted. to. die.
But I didn't. Because the fun really kicked in when we went downhill. My soul was screaming weeee!!!! It was like riding a rollercoaster. I had imaginary waving arms up in the air. Woohoo certified speed junkie me!!! I could see my legs, but it's like it wasn't real. I usually get this kind of thrill horseback riding. For a moment, I totally forgot that I was actually the one running. And then we had to go uphill again. Boo.
Whenever it was uphill, we'd take it slow. Take the chance to drink some Gatorade. The thought of why we weren't seeing a water station entered my mind, but then it quickly was replaced by the need to breathe properly. Inhale through your nose, Chips says. And breathe out slowly through your mouth. I didn't really know if it was helping, but at least I was concentrating on something else aside from the burning heap of muscles they usually called calves.
After another quick downhill (damn, I wanted more of that) we were back on level land heading towards the finish line. I absolutely wanted to throw my lungs up. My legs felt like jelly and I thought that any moment, one would trip the other into some twisted mess of asynchronism and concrete. I could've sworn that the finish line seemed farther. The feet were heavily slowing down and Chips was a few paces ahead of me. Why are you running!?! I'd pant out. At some point, he just took my hand and semi-dragged me back to a decent pace.
Upon crossing the finish line, I couldn't decide if I had that infamous running high. Was too exhausted for words. One thing was for sure though, the high was very much with the hubby. He threw me up in the air with a giant bear hug, practically yelling out that he was so proud of me. Repeat 10 times (at least). He's short of declaring me his running project, analyzed me as not a long-distance runner, and I'm willing to bet he's already got a training plan in his head to make me some 3k or 5k competitive runner. At that moment, I really didn't care. I just wanted to put my legs up and hibernate.
Though I wouldn't deny that I was actually happy. Sweaty. But happy.
Official time: 00:21:41. Yey, us!
