Don't race when you're sick.

I ran a 10-mile race this morning.  It was the Arny Johnson 10 mile race they have out at Harlem High School every year. It's a nice race, and for a good cause--all proceeds go towards the Rockford Area Habitat for Humanity.  This has been a prime motivating factor for me doing this race, especially when I want to wimp out of going anywhere near it after waking up.  The 10-mile course goes through Rock Cut State Park ("The largest state park in northern Illinois"), and looks like a big ol' lasso:

This course is gorgeous and green and full of allergens this time of year.  It also has hills straight from the depths of hell.

There was a slight chill to the air, the wind wasn't too bad, someone told me my purple running tights were freaking awesome (thanks, lady in the bathroom!), and there were lots of runners there whom I had seen before so I knew that about 75% of them were going to kick my ass in this race.  I think they have all been running for about 3 billion years, so they have some experience on me (June will mark my 2-year running anniversary), so I knew better than to expect any medals or age-group awards.

But that didn't really matter to me.  This wasn't my goal race, the half-marathon race for which I had been training. I vowed to take it easy, have fun, get some good hill-training in, and beat my time from last year (1:31:59).  I wanted to run my own race, and not get trapped in that mental "holy cow she just passed me she looks like she's in my age group I will catch up with her or I will die trying" trap I always tumble down into, causing much internal grief, anguish and dirty looks at volunteers standing perfectly still on the side of the road telling me to "JUST KEEP GOING" by mile 7.  (Don't get me wrong--I love all of the volunteers, especially after there weren't enough at my last race and I missed the last turn towards the finish line.  But when you get in that bad mental running place, you get a little cranky.)

But I wanted to take it easy primarily because I have had this crazy lung-thing going on this week.  By "crazy lung-thing" I mean that my lungs have trying to convince me that they are sick, but I have not been listening to them.  I do not believe them.  I can't believe them, because my half marathon is two weeks away and I'm not listening to such whiny talk from my own internal organs.  And besides, they haven't been sick in over two years; there's just NO WAY they could be experiencing technical difficulties.

Well. (Or "WeeEEEElllllll..." as my mother would say in her southern drawl.)  Let me just tell you about the race.

First off, the idea that I was going to "take it easy" went right out the window in the first mile because I'm a total moron. I was zipping along down the path towards the hills from hell at a much faster pace than I should have been.  And, I don't know about you, but whatever pace my feet find at the start is the race is the pace my feet fall into for the entire race, not matter how long it is.  That is because, really, after the gun goes off, my feet are really in charge.  My brain is just along for the ride.

So, by the 5th mile, my feet were taking me up and down the hills from hell.  This is where my lungs started to whimper a bit.  My feet told them to shut the hell up they were trying to race down here, dammit.

By mile 7, my lungs started to get louder--literally and figuratively.  My feet tried to ignore my lungs, clad in their Ryka-neon-goodness, but by mile 9 their sounds overpowered even the brightest yellow neon hue of my awesome running shoes.  Specifically, those sounds were *WhEEEEEeeEeEeeze*  and *hackwheezehack*  It sounded like I was a 2 pack-a-day smoker again masquerading as a runner.  Other runners were turning to stare at me in that last mile (being able to hear me OVER their headphones) with looks that said, "Geez, lady--if you're going to run a race, lay off the cigs for a while, willya?"

My feet never did slow down.  But my lungs finally got a word in edgewise as I was running down the very long finish-line chute, when a runner I had been admiring during the hills of hell for her hill-tackling strategies passed me in the last 30 feet, and my lungs didn't have any more oomph to even attempt to overtake her.

All they had left was "wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeZE*

For all my body parts arguing, hills from hell, and people staring at me and my wheezes, I did manage to beat my time from last year by about 4 minutes, and came in 7th in my age group.  I even ran the entire course this year--last year the hills around mile 6 got me, and it took a friendly runner with some kind words to get me out of my "WHY ARE THESE HILLS SO MEAN i'm going to cry now" mental rut.

I also managed to lose my voice entirely, which my husband considers a "win" for the day.  But my fingers still work, hence this blog post.  I'll force him to read it later as the price for his sarcasm.