My favorite moment from last Sunday’s 10k, the “PNTF Cross Country (XC) Championships,” aside from crossing the finish line of course, was courtesy Patrick Niemeyer, moments before the gun went off. We both noticed the dearth of bodies on the start line, and Patrick, closer to 40 years old than almost everybody present, had legitimate concerns about finishing dead last. As everyone bounced around with nervous energy, he looked at me.
“How did I let you talk me into this? I hate you.”
Moments later, myself still laughing, the gun went off. Eighteen seconds later I was in oxygen debt.
Leaving one’s comfort zone can be difficult. Earlier this year, one of the things I was simultaneously looking forward to the most *and* the least was how gosh darn competitive these post-high school autumn XC races were going to be. I was both excited to get my ass kicked, and dreading it. I have not been disappointed. A lot of guys named Chad are beating me.
For myriad reasons, the people who choose to run XC tend to be on the whole a *bit* faster, on average, than those who run, say, the Fremont 5k, or whatever 5k is occurring on Alki Ave this Saturday in West Seattle. This in turn makes “slower” runners less inclined to want to run XC, which in turn makes it more competitive, which in turn makes it even scarier to would-be first timers, etc etc. A vicious circle that carves interest in races like last Sunday’s XC 10k down to a mere 42 runners (+46 in the Open Womens 6k race, and +50 in the combined Masters men/women 6K). Or about the amount of people in a typical Trig classroom at your local public high school. Despite the fact that these races are MUCH MORE cost-effective; I will spend a total of $35 for five races this season…including my hip new race singlet.
The carving down also makes things decidedly more competitive at such a race. The races are broken up into “Masters” (ages 40+) and “Open” races (myself, Uli Steidl, and seemingly every fit 25 year-old in the county). And due to the intimidating reputation XC has to many otherwise possibly-interested runners (despite the word “championships” in the title, anybody can run this race; you don’t need to qualify, you don’t need to be “professional,” or sponsored. It’s frowned upon but you *can* be bald.), most everybody next to me on the starting line had those six-pack abs skinny guys get because they’re emaciated, and I saw some sorry-looking early “Movember” experiments on a few upper lips. Some may have even shaved their legs.
At a local road race like the Fremont 5k’s start line, I’ll also be surrounded by current or past collegiate running bros, with their headbands and Bieber-hair and names like Tyler, but there are also a loooooot of normal people lined up behind me, with varying levels of running interest and speed, some maybe even bald, and I’ll find myself managing to finish 10th out of nearly 600 runners.
I feel certain that today I would easily defeat that guy in 2012 who got top-10 with a 16:59 in Fremont. But Sunday there I was, running a seemingly smart and close-to-ideal pace en route to a 35:34 10k. On Lower Woodland Park’s slow & relentlessly brutal course. A 10k PR. And….I’m rewarded with 30th place. Thirtieth. Out of 42 runners. I distinctly recall wrapping up the 3rd of five 2k loops (or maybe it was the 4th?) and noticing “Wow, it’s kinda sparse back there behind me.” And you notice the fans on the course starting to spread out again, their backs turned to you, having seen the front-pack guys go by and possessing negative interest in your physiological stress or whether you can hang on for top-30.
I joked to others about how I fully intended to finish “2nd to last” at the National Championships in Bend, OR in mid-December. That was and still is my end goal. Just toe that championship line with an SRC singlet covering my hairy chest, and try my darndest to not get last. Humbling, but in a way that’s good for a guy whose mother is usually flabbergasted that her bald son finished before most people in that local small-fry trail race.
Patrick, about 43 minutes after telling me he hated me, got 3rd to last on Sunday. I hope he doesn’t still hate me.
Top image: Win Van Pelt
