My Chicken Salad Story
As planned, I ran the Sunset Stampede in Asheville, North Carolina this past weekend. The 10-mile race in this event proves an extraordinary challenge; after mile marker 2, the course is literally all uphill with switchbacks and steep climbs through to mile 5. At the fifth mile, a small group of cheerleaders with a cow bell ushers the runners into the downhill portion of the race which is essentially after mile 5 to mile 9.25.
On Saturday morning as I prepared my gear and obsessively checked to make sure I had all of the necessities (two pairs of running shoes, back up clothing, etc.), thunderstorms roared outside and rain poured down. This tempest was a harbinger of things to come. As I prepared to leave, I also learned that the bride-to-be from Duluth, Georgia, Jennifer Wilbanks, had not been kidnapped; rather, she’d escaped to the great western frontier with a bad case of cold feet. The fact that she used the excuse of “going out to run,” was so shameful. Most runners picked up on the fact that her disappearance was fishy given that most runners now have technical fabric apparel and would not wear sweatpants and a sweatshirt on a 50 degree night.
The drive from Atlanta to Asheville was full of rain. A traffic snafu north of Greenville, South Carolina gave me a chance to stop for a half hour, on the highway. After several minutes of sitting, I finally just shut the car off as I waited. Amazingly, with each state border crossing, the rain gradually subsided. In South Carolina, it was not so bad, crossing into North Carolina, the rain had completely stopped. I drove under tunnel-like cloud covering, at the end of which a verdant green of the Blue Ridge awaited.
I met up with a former running buddy and good friend. We determined we’d meet for lunch. After retrieving our race packets, we wandered around downtown Asheville in search of fuel for the upcoming race which started at 5:00 p.m. We settled on a small café and ate outside. I decided on a chicken salad sandwich and waffle cut fries. As we supped in the mountain breeze, a musician strummed a guitar. I also helped my compadre with an apple tart. Following the victuals, we roamed further to an awesome chocolate shop called The Chocolate Fetish (http://www.chocolatefetish.com) and purchased some tasty (and expensive) chocolate. This chocolate isn’t the kind a person simply wolfs down carelessly. It’s the kind of chocolate that demands savoring.
After sitting around and catching up, my running buddy and I proceeded to the race start where I made two portalet stops out of nervousness. Something just wasn’t right with me though. My legs felt achey. My innards felt yucky.
We saw Jared from the Subway commercials who was working the crowd accompanied by a person enrobed in the guise of a large faux sub sandwich. It was thrilling.
The race starts. Running buddy and I crank out the first mile feeling pretty good in a fast time, 7:26. The next mile we slowed down a bit because we encountered some inclines. Then the hill that lasts for three miles began to break me down. My running buddy left me somewhere around mile four, but I could still see her up ahead. I felt awful. I wished that I would simply throw up just so I could feel better. My gut felt like a large heavy ugly greasy mass. I kept hope that soon the huge ongoing series of hills would end and I could simply flow on down the last half of the course. Along the way there were small children handing out water and a woman in an evening gown standing out by her mail box. My running buddy later told me that there was a woman in an evening gown handing out water at a water stop; I’d missed her in my stomach stupor. After the cow bells, I began to feel even worse. My stomach seized and felt as though someone was repeatedly stabbing me with each footfall. I found it difficult to breath. Every single smell (someone cooking dinner, tires, oxygen) made me want to vomit my brains out. Finally I the pain subsided and I tried to pick up the pace a little bit, but I still felt like a giant running turd. I was being passed by so many other runners that it was simply demoralizing. Men with baby joggers. Weird men who weren’t moving their arms. People who were talking about their great grandchildren. Around mile 7.5, a woman asked me if I was tracking time on my watch. I replied that yes, I was, and for the first time saw how very slow I was going. She actually just wanted to look at my Garmin watch because someone had recently purchased on for her.
I continued on, slogging my way to the finish line with a rather disappointing 1:32:26 finish time. I can run a marathon at a faster pace than that! My running pal came in about nine minutes prior. I was pissed at myself for being so stupid. Chicken salad? French fries? Stupid. I never want another chicken salad sandwich again. Ever.
Nonetheless, I had a great time with the one person other than my husband that I feel comes close to understanding me. My running buddy and I had some terrific conversations and a good time wandering around Asheville.
Next year, just a Powerbar for lunch. No chicken salad.
On Saturday morning as I prepared my gear and obsessively checked to make sure I had all of the necessities (two pairs of running shoes, back up clothing, etc.), thunderstorms roared outside and rain poured down. This tempest was a harbinger of things to come. As I prepared to leave, I also learned that the bride-to-be from Duluth, Georgia, Jennifer Wilbanks, had not been kidnapped; rather, she’d escaped to the great western frontier with a bad case of cold feet. The fact that she used the excuse of “going out to run,” was so shameful. Most runners picked up on the fact that her disappearance was fishy given that most runners now have technical fabric apparel and would not wear sweatpants and a sweatshirt on a 50 degree night.
The drive from Atlanta to Asheville was full of rain. A traffic snafu north of Greenville, South Carolina gave me a chance to stop for a half hour, on the highway. After several minutes of sitting, I finally just shut the car off as I waited. Amazingly, with each state border crossing, the rain gradually subsided. In South Carolina, it was not so bad, crossing into North Carolina, the rain had completely stopped. I drove under tunnel-like cloud covering, at the end of which a verdant green of the Blue Ridge awaited.
I met up with a former running buddy and good friend. We determined we’d meet for lunch. After retrieving our race packets, we wandered around downtown Asheville in search of fuel for the upcoming race which started at 5:00 p.m. We settled on a small café and ate outside. I decided on a chicken salad sandwich and waffle cut fries. As we supped in the mountain breeze, a musician strummed a guitar. I also helped my compadre with an apple tart. Following the victuals, we roamed further to an awesome chocolate shop called The Chocolate Fetish (http://www.chocolatefetish.com) and purchased some tasty (and expensive) chocolate. This chocolate isn’t the kind a person simply wolfs down carelessly. It’s the kind of chocolate that demands savoring.
After sitting around and catching up, my running buddy and I proceeded to the race start where I made two portalet stops out of nervousness. Something just wasn’t right with me though. My legs felt achey. My innards felt yucky.
We saw Jared from the Subway commercials who was working the crowd accompanied by a person enrobed in the guise of a large faux sub sandwich. It was thrilling.
The race starts. Running buddy and I crank out the first mile feeling pretty good in a fast time, 7:26. The next mile we slowed down a bit because we encountered some inclines. Then the hill that lasts for three miles began to break me down. My running buddy left me somewhere around mile four, but I could still see her up ahead. I felt awful. I wished that I would simply throw up just so I could feel better. My gut felt like a large heavy ugly greasy mass. I kept hope that soon the huge ongoing series of hills would end and I could simply flow on down the last half of the course. Along the way there were small children handing out water and a woman in an evening gown standing out by her mail box. My running buddy later told me that there was a woman in an evening gown handing out water at a water stop; I’d missed her in my stomach stupor. After the cow bells, I began to feel even worse. My stomach seized and felt as though someone was repeatedly stabbing me with each footfall. I found it difficult to breath. Every single smell (someone cooking dinner, tires, oxygen) made me want to vomit my brains out. Finally I the pain subsided and I tried to pick up the pace a little bit, but I still felt like a giant running turd. I was being passed by so many other runners that it was simply demoralizing. Men with baby joggers. Weird men who weren’t moving their arms. People who were talking about their great grandchildren. Around mile 7.5, a woman asked me if I was tracking time on my watch. I replied that yes, I was, and for the first time saw how very slow I was going. She actually just wanted to look at my Garmin watch because someone had recently purchased on for her.
I continued on, slogging my way to the finish line with a rather disappointing 1:32:26 finish time. I can run a marathon at a faster pace than that! My running pal came in about nine minutes prior. I was pissed at myself for being so stupid. Chicken salad? French fries? Stupid. I never want another chicken salad sandwich again. Ever.
Nonetheless, I had a great time with the one person other than my husband that I feel comes close to understanding me. My running buddy and I had some terrific conversations and a good time wandering around Asheville.
Next year, just a Powerbar for lunch. No chicken salad.
posted by runninchick at 8:57 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home