The hills are alive ... with the sound of wheezing.
I’ve made no secret of the fact that I am terrified of hills. The sight of them makes me quake in my sneakers; the mere mention of them leads me to question my new-found commitment to acquiring as many running T-shirts as possible.
In my extensive (!) experience with 5Ks, I have come across some doozy inclines. The Covered Bridge 5K in Henniker, NH, springs to mind. My approach to these perils is usually to slow to a walk while tendering my best stink-eye. Sadly, the hills usually fail to respond (much to my chagrin, my death stare apparently cannot move mountains). This means I have no choice but to switch my jog to a swift plod and asthmatically ascend as best as I can.
If you thought my face was red on the flats, you should see it on the rises. I may have to contact the Pantone company about creating a new color in my honor: 5K Crimson.
Now that I am an experienced veteran of eight 5Ks (!), I have come to realize that there are certain things that put the absolute fear into me (I guess that’s a point I could make about life too; but this is a blog about running).
So, herewith the first in an occasional series.
I never thought I’d spend too much – OK, any – time thinking about compression socks. I mean, who would? But the mere sight of these at a race is almost enough to make me run in the other direction. Unusually fast.
I don’t know whether it’s because their presence screams “I’m so hard core, you may as well go home” or they give me flashbacks to my childhood and the disturbing tendency of Aussie men to team knee socks with shorts, but either way they instill in me unprecedented levels of The Fear.