This week’s run was a cautionary tale. When it’s March in Boston but it feels like March in Sydney, do not wear tights. I repeat: Do not wear tights. You may at first think you’re terribly clever for eschewing your super-duper heavy winter tights in favor of lighter-weight poly/cotton gym leggings. But this superior feeling will be fleeting. You see, leggings are still tights. And tights + running + ridiculous March weather = TOO HOT.
Told you it wouldn’t take long for me to start complaining about the heat …
All jokes aside (never!), this weekend’s 5K, the Ras na hEireann U.S.A. (“race of Ireland and the United States”) in Boston, marked No. 12 in my 52 Weeks, 52 Runs challenge. That’s right, 12! And despite my poor sartorial judgement, it was a glorious occasion. Blue skies, green duds, and the promise of many, many ales.
I don’t have a drop of Irish blood in me (although lately I’ve been making up for that with beer), but I thought I should show some spirit. My spirit-delivery mechanism was long socks, a common choice for runners at St Patrick’s-themed events. But, alas, long socks have many tights-like properties, so on this occasion, they quickly became socks of the ankle persuasion. Oh well, I tried.
Needless to say, my running performance was hampered somewhat by the overzealous dressing.
I would have taken off my long-sleeved shirt, but the universe is definitely not ready for me to run in a sports bra and nothing else on top.
The course was also super hilly. Which made me super hot and bothered. I don’t know why, but in my mind this was one of those mythical “flat and fast” courses that are often advertised. Which are rarely flat and, in my case, never fast. Now if only I could have done the entire race in my mind …
I found it strange that I was struggling over 5K when I had run farther than that in the two previous races, and with a decent showing in both.
But then the sweat ran into my sneakers and I remembered. Tights.
Damn you, inappropriate legwear. Look what you did to me …
But you can’t have a bad time in a sea of green glitter and silly hats, so I dug in and finished well (which may have had something to do with the glorious downhill stretch right at the end. But whatever gets you across the line) …
What I didn’t have getting me across the line was Hubby. While I was sweating and cursing on my 5K, he was finishing the Quincy Half Marathon in fine style (definitely sweating; cursing, not so much). Puts me to shame every time.
Savvy readers will recall that a medal has little place in my world unless it doubles as something useful (usually booze related), or is from the recent Wild Rover series (whose three-in-one medal was unparalleled in its splendor).
The Ras na hEireann produced a shiny souvenir that moonlights as a bottle opener and a keyring. Also, it was pretty. So I was happy.
In a shocking turn of events, I didn’t partake in ale. There were many pubs along the route serving beer to thirsty, sweaty folk après-run, but I was solo and the thought of imbibing alone with a face as hot as the sun was not appealing. So I took my burning face on to the brightly lit subway instead, which was a much better idea.
Twelve runs down, 40 to go. It’s a long, salty road ahead.
The event: Ras na hEireann
The location: Somerville, MA
The date: March 18, 2012
My time: 33.23 (pace: 10.45)
Hubby’s half-marathon time: 1.39.01 (pace: 7.35)
The cause: Too many to mention, but the event supported “running and Somerville youth,” according to the website
The T-shirt: Gray cotton with logo
The aftermath: Water, Larabars, beer (but not for me)
Loyal readers …
My apologies for the premature publication last night. I was clearly as overzealous with the Publish button as I was with this week’s outfit. I think it’s also known as Blogging While Tired. In any case, forgive me.