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Author's Note: Taken from my ramblings on www.28racingteam.com as I thought it was good enough to be an article. I did manage to proof read and correct most errors that were found. There were a lot!! I also tightened up a few paragraphs even though it's still a pile of mess. Hope you enjoy nonetheless.
Let me set the scene for you...
It's Half Marathon day, you're feeling good, trained well, prepared for the 21.1km journey ahead. Mentally, everything is just about under control, you can face almost anything that this half marathon can present and still run well. That's the type of position that you're in as you wake up bright and early on a crisp morning ready to confront the challenge for today.
What con go wrong, you say, as you drive out to the course, mentally ticking off the items on your checklist to ensure a speedy time. Racing flats? Wearing them - check. Watch? On - check. Hat? Yep - check. Gu? In the bottle - check. Did I leave the iron on? Whoops wrong list.
So you get to the course and do your usual warm up, greeting runners you know and say brisk hellos, g'days and howdys as you trot by. Suddenly from the corner of your eye you spot a person - a non-runner, dressed against the cold, almost out of place. Wait a minute you know that person! From deep within your memory banks a name comes flooding back. It leaps to your mind and you think, what the f... what's she doing here? Your quick trot warm-up breaks as you trip over a twig. The ground beckons, eager to embrace you. Your hands flay outstretched clawing at the empty air to support yourself. You achieve your best Peter Garrett impersonation and upright yourself before the ultimate disaster occurs. The murmurs of the beckoning ground subside. Your back, the world is level once more, but not aligned.
Of course, in your inquisitive style, you try to do your best search for this person when you're not really searching for anyone attempt. Friends past, receiving distance yes/no answers as your brain jumps into overdrive. Questions rise to the surface beckoning to be answered. But you have none. It's plain that this woman from your past has done her best Houdini impersonation and disappeared.
You return to the present and finish that all-important warm-up. The race is called and you approach the start line, eager to be away and concentrating on the run ahead. Steady.....BANG. It's get-go time. That woman is no more. You're running now in pursuit of the people ahead and striving to wedge a gap on the people behind. NOTE: Elite runners just mentally add a few runners around you and ahead OK? You past through 1km and check the watch for the first km split. 4:30. Right on target. Km's 2,3,4 go by. Everything is fine, there WAS no woman that was a distance memory at the start. You're running splits within 2 seconds of what you want. Nothing can go wrong.
You approach the 6km marker. It rests in middle of a 400m long straight. The approach sweeps down an S bend, obscuring the spectators on the straight from view, until you're actually on the start of the straight. You approach and hit the end of the curve. Whoa! She Back! It is HER! Without a doubt. You're within ten paces now. You know who it is and she knows who you are, then - from a mental viewpoint - the worst words in the universe are uttered from her mouth.
"GO SNORKELMAN YOU'RE LOOKING GREAT!"
Funny, I never apparently looked great while we were going out. Maybe that's why you broke it off you stupid bi....... . I think Pink Floyd said it best. The momentary lapse of reason passes, however, somehow the cadence in your legs has increased. From the moment she uttered those words you're running a lot faster...too fast. Wow, did 7km just go? Better split the km....3:53...Holy Shit!
Of course at that point everything starts to break down, your legs start to hurt, your lungs begin to struggle under the extra gasping for air. That km killed you and now it's the ultimate struggle home. There's no more perfect pace, it's a fight to keep from dropping back into the dead zone. Runners are picking you up as your cadence falls to a shuffle.
The km markers go by slowly, the sun has fully risen and is reaching its zenith. You notice snails matching your pace. But you don't care. You question the meaning of life, our existence and, most importantly, why did your Ex totally fuck up your race? After what seems like to two days the finish line comes into full view. You wish you had your trusty nine iron in your hands to greet those "you're nearly there" well wishes that crowd the finish lines of races.
It's over, the drinks table didn't carter for the mood your in so you quietly leave the scene before you make one and promptly take out your frustration on your unsuspecting car. The journey home is quiet and uneventful. Your life goes on unclear of exactly why SHE was at the Half.
Several years later you reminisce about that particular event and decide others should share in your humour.
