VD Scotty Style!

It has taken me a few days to get to writing this down, but these days my time is not my own. As always I apologize for the length, hopefully it doesn’t take you longer to read it than it did for me to run it.

PreRace

This event would crazily be the one that would see me as a near nervous wreck before it began. This is a curious happenstance, because only twenty minutes before the race when I personally confirmed my availability for the race, (after evaluating genuine work requirements) I had no butterflies whatsoever. I also had no goals or expectations for this race either. It was viewed simply as an attempt to have a sense of normalcy and quell the jealousy of missing out on some of the big RM events this summer.

However, when I rounded the corner and saw the assembled collection of professional looking athletes my stomach dropped faster than a pass to Terrell Owens. There was a whole plethora of international characters assembled in an assortment of team singlets, festooned with set warmup routines, iPods, Garmins, cheering sections, confidence, and muscles.

I had, well, a pair of blue shorts.

For a race that was supposed to have a limited enrolment a crowd of over 100 had assembled to run a casual race to celebrate the opening of the new Canadian Gym. Considering the population on the base, the nature and unpredictability of their work that was a pretty damn good turnout. Of course it was also quite the shock to the six volunteers organizing the race. Race start scheduled for 1700, race actually begins at 1733.

In the week leading up to the event I had chatted several times with Scadian and Jaimer, who had hoped to be able to participate; however, it was not meant to be. Though I did see Scadian before the race and he wished me luck, expressed his disappointment, and snapped a quick picture that I have yet to see.

As I stood in the starting clot, well behind the “pros” I was standing next to a couple American Air Force types, at least that is what was prominently displayed on their T-Shirts. We all looked around nervously and we then shared a look; the sentiment was identical. “Please Allah, God, Buddha don’t let me F&%&%& embarrass myself…”

Let me post here a note on the phenomena of the uniform. Seeing people consistently in uniform can sometimes hide the fact that they are female; you take them just as another soldier. There is an equalizing power to the camouflage. Though, as most know, there is an extremely lucrative market capitalizing on the appeal of athletic men and women in various stages of uniform dress. And here on base you carry a weapon at all times, even in civilian clothes, unless of course you are doing PT, and for some seeing members of the opposite sex packing heat it can be quite stimulating, for others much more terrifying.

At any rate, after sharing the look with my back of the pack counter parts I scanned the crowd again shaking out my arms.

Then I saw a female, and realized ‘wow, it’s a chick!’

WOOOONK!! There goes the air horn. There stood Scotty scared sh%^less.

I didn’t see ‘It’s a chick’ again until I crossed the line.

The Race

As we all know, races are a truth serum. You can delude yourself about the level of training you have achieved and the running you have done to prepare. You can mislead yourself in terms of your mental and physical health. For the past few months I have been beating myself up about the real lack of consistency to my running. Averaging two-three runs a week, with no great distances I was doubtful I could do well in a race.

But as I ran, careful not to run too fast too soon, I felt really good. Though as I ran I started to take inventory of my condition. I had had about 10 hours sleep in the preceding 72 hours, and I had a baseball size bruise and laceration on the back of my calf. Running made it feel like my calf muscle was a bag of marbles.

Great. I had never run a five km race before. But I remember it being described as running at the very edge of uncomfortable for the entire five kms. I started off very uncomfortable and by km two I was still uncomfortable so I must have been doing it right.

The course meandered through the base, which provided a true sense of paradox, and surrealism. Part of the course ran past one of the tall fences, and as I took time to look across the scrubby potentially mine cluttered ground beyond the fence I could see a large flock of small goats trundling along lead by a couple small figures in the distance. Behind them stood one of the massive rocky crags that dot the landscape here. The light was good enough to see the lines and striations in the rock, and it seemed to loom, timeless.

As we ran, people literally of all nations, would clap their hands and would cheer us on. Local Nationals smiled and clapped, no doubt thinking us insane. We were applauded by soldiers, fully-kitted out, rolling by peeking out of armoured vehicles, off to do their thing.

By far one of the most unique race courses in the world.

Meanwhile Scotty trudged along, actually starting to pass people at km four. My watch said 23 minutes and change, I picked up the pace. It was official when I crossed the line, I could no longer breathe. I had been warned about the difference in elevation. The stitch threatening to tear a hole in my kidney let me know it in detail.

I finished 5.2 km in 27:33. No award winning performance and I finished admirably (and proudly) in the middle of the pack, having passed some of the individuals who had intimidated me at the onset.

PostRace

As those who have met me know I am a horrendous ambassador of the sport of running, or pretty much any other activity for that matter. It is not in my nature to be outward or talkative with those whom I do not know, and even after it takes some time for a level of comfort to develop. Regrettably, the lost art of friendly conversation is indeed a lost art with me. Though Kara has done her best to prompt me, guide me, and browbeat me into sociability. I am consoled by the ability to take snapshots of memory and place them in written snippets that allow me to live vicariously through others.

I provide this ‘anti-social’ preamble to tell you that the pre and post race mix of excited conversation was as energetic an event as I have stood in the middle of. And me being me I really did not engage in conversation, choosing instead to stand listening to endless conversations of a truly global community that became a humbling, and exhilarating experience. I stood there sipping my water in the dying Afghan sun listening to the exploits of athletes in myriad accents, and languages; stories of marathons, triathlons, sprints, ultras, and a well spoken agreement that the open sewage lagoon to our east really fricking stank mate.

As I mingled there, cooling quickly as the desert itself was doing in the fading light, I felt so blessed to be with others miles and miles away from home sharing a genuine appreciation for being a part of a simple running event, a pleasant slice of normalcy in a chaotic place. And in the next moment I was all at once reminded of those I have shared running with, and for the first time since I left, I was truly homesick.

This race was not a personal best, there were no great big bags of schwag, no adoring and enthusiastic crowds, and it was a simple somewhat forgettable course. In essence, this race of minimal expectations and non-climactic finish will likely go down in my personal history as one of the most memorable events ever, period. It does not supplant the memories of my first half marathon, or that of the kindred camaraderie and debauchery on the Cabot Trail, but it does possess all in itself a unique character that will never be matched.

Scotty