waiting beneath an arc that says "Finish"

And it usually has a very daunting countdown timer. To those actually in the race, the sight of that running digital clock may be a badge of encouragement, pride and accomplishment - a moment of "I can do it!" or "Yes, I did it!". That sight of numbers amidst semi-colons counting down would probably last a few seconds, after which focus is then diverted to stopping a the timer on the calculator-looking sportswatch on the wrist, or to the person tearing a piece of the bib whilst handing a free bottle of specialized refreshment.

But to someone who's waiting, and staring at that steadily animated thing for at least an hour (usually more), it is nerve-wracking. Even if you already know the general pace and expected finishing time of whoever it is you're waiting for, you'd usually want to be at the line a bit early (if you're not there from the start already). Of course, to get a good spot for that crossing-the-line photo. To get parking. Or to simply get to the finish line area without getting lost given all the rerouting.

Or really, as a concerned party, you really want to be early - just in case. Just to be safe. Now, since the concept of "just in case" has now been introduced into your head, the mind will naturally wander and play tricks on you. Like, what else is there to do while waiting? And even if you have a form of distraction like I don't know, an iPod or some hand-held game-thingy, it only takes a millisecond to be shot in the heart with a just-in-case-induced panic scenario.

The statement itself is pretty ambiguous. It can be positive: just in case... he finishes early. Or you see other friends who finish early. Or you see other friends who are likewise waiting. And it can be a deadly spiral of anxiety: just in case... he couldn't finish the race. But wait, he's really going to finish because that's how he is. Something bad would have to happen. Maybe he got injured. Would they call an ambulance? Would they call me if they call an ambulance? Would it necessitate a severe injury before an ambulance is called? How do they define severe? If it's not severe, will they still pick him up? Should I be the one to call for the emergency? What if he crosses the line while I'm out talking to a race marshall about the possibility of an injury and an imminent pick-up? Insert silent scream inside head.

Repeat the cycle for say, 1-2 hours. With around 15-minute zoning-out or otherwise relaxed intervals (possibly longer, if you're actually sitting somewhere). The closer you get to the pre-discussed estimated time of arrival, those intervals almost diminish (so does the concept of sitting down). It's arduously stressful, really. But it makes seeing him cross that line all the more priceless.

I think I lose weight just by waiting.

34th Milo Marathon - Manila

The hubby will be running the full marathon, and we're still at a loss on how we're actually going to do the support thing.  The good part about the route is that I just need to wait in one area and he'll pass me three times.  He's kind of torn if he'll like it or not - basically the knee-jerk reaction being it's going to be a bore running around the same circle thrice. 

Since it's like THE Milo Marathon, there will be hoardes of people.  It's like some giant organized stampede of green.  And good luck to us finding parking.  Should I be doing support, I'll have to find parking twice.  I was actually looking at probably walking (a suggestion I quipped this morning without seeing the map) from my support spot back to the finish line.  He says it's more than 5k away.  Alright, so maybe that's not going to be an option.

GAH.

Contrast in logic and reason.

From the hubby's facebook page status: after running a 10km race this morning, i saw some runners with pints of haagen dazs. I ask some a volunteer where to get some and she says its only for the 21km runners. I said, wait a bit, i'll run another 11km...

I on the other hand, would just go out and buy the damn pint.
 

bacon pesto for the win!

I oddly got inspired to cook dinner this evening.  I had this drive to cook pasta - I didn't know what it would be.  I just knew that it had to have bacon.  We still had some herb-based ingredients at home, so I chose to experiment.  So here's our dinner.  It's Bacon-Pesto Pasta with Grilled Frankfurters on the side.

What's in it:  garlic + onions, cilantro pesto, bacon, pepper and salt to taste, olive oil, feta cheese.

The hubby (who is washing the dishes right now) says I may very well cook this the next time he needs to carbo-load before a race.  I just wish I get to repeat it!

the gray hoodie.

It may be 3 in the morning, or for ultramarathons even 2am, I believe that it's no reason to look sloppy and unkept.  I would say that the most versatile and yet fashionably practical thing to own, as someone who sends of a loved one in the wee hours of the morning, is a gray hoodie.

It's something that keeps you warm so early in the morning.  You can wear the hood to camouflage bedhead, and wahey it also doubles as insulation (with that little fact of 80% or some significant percentage of your body head escaping through your head).  Throw it over a tank top for the morning chill, and discard as the day wears on.  You can wear it to top jazz pants, cropped shorts or what have you's - a skirt, if you really want to play cheerleader.  And since it's a hoodie, you can disguise the non-sportiness in you. Because yeah, it's not a cotton-lined boyfriend blazer.

The best part about it - it's grey.  It will go with anything.  It can even go with your husband's singlet (but I doubt if you'd go that far).

a bucket story.

This weekend, we were checked in at The Mandarin Oriental (using up a gift check given during our wedding).  This morning, of course the hubby had to run.  I was sandwiched comfortably between a lovely duvet and the oversized bed when he nudges me to some form of consciousness and kisses my forehead to say he's leaving.  Mmmkay, I murmur and go back to sleep.

Later in the morning (at around 9am) he calls.  He needs at least 3, no make that 4 buckets of ice.  He did 25k or something and he needs to soak his legs in uber-cold water.  Okay, I say, and call for room service.  The room service girl didn't think much of it, I suppose.  Or maybe she just did a great job masking a that "what the hell" kind of tonality from her voice.

A few minutes later, a knock on the door.  I open it, and a lady holding up a tray with 4 buckets of ice stands smiling.  I'm there, with bedhead and eyes adjusting to the bright hallway.

"Ma'am, you're the one who ordered the ice?"

"Yes."

"That's 4 buckets of ice?"  (I suppose that it's odd, at 9 in the morning)

"Yes," I say, motioning for her to come into the room.  I guess she sees that I'm the only one there, and starts wondering what the hell I'm going to do with 4 buckets of ice.

She lays it down on the coffee table.  "Umm, enjoy the rest of your stay, ma'am."  And she hurries off.

I crawl back on the bed.  For all I know, she may be thinking that I was going to steal her kidneys.

the shopper's choice of shoes.

I really love shoes.  I own possibly more than 20 pairs.  Out of all of them, only one can be considered an actual sports training shoe.  It's the one I bought almost 5 years ago, when I actually attempted to be a regular at gyming (I failed).

Being someone who did not develop any motivation to actually participate in strenuous activities, my appreciation for such footwear likewise remained at zero.  Because simply, given the money to splurge, I'd rather place my high arch (so those running simulation tests tell me) on a pair that would add oomph to my outfit, and strut to my walk.  They basically would cost the same anyway.

Like, come on... look at that.  Webby-meshy net of a design strewn across your foot?  Would rather have it on a cage leather bootie.  And look, they both have bows too (people would probably kill me for calling running shoe laces a bow).

The hubby has been constantly prodding me to actually get a pair.  And he's actually volunteering to pay for it.  I'm hesitant.  I honestly feel that my other shoes would feel bad.  My heels, I mean.  But then again, it may be the only time he'll actually buy me shoes.

Now that, could get me thinking.