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May 29, 2007

how do you spell poo-nah-nee?

Deb's Buffalo Marathon Report!!

It was only fitting that Madeline and I drove to the Nissan Buffalo Marathon in her brand spanking new car bearing the same name. The name Nissan, to me, connotes durability, toughness and reliability. As I write this just 25 hours after crossing the finish line, however, I feel less like a Nissan and more like a battered, corroded Hyundai with a badly knocking engine and a dragging muffler.

We arrived in style, with at least a half an hour to spare, and quickly made our way towards the Expo, which (stupidly) ends at 4PM. Following the Expo, we ate our faces off at the delicious free pasta dinner. Who knew that ten meatballs could go down so smoothly? (In my defense, they were meatballs of unusually small diameter.) I self-righteously warned Madeline away from the salad, as fiber and long distance running frequently result in a not-so-pretty aftermath, but she partook nonetheless. “Silly Madeline”, I smugly thought to myself, as I ate anything and everything that was NOT in the lettuce family. Unbeknownst to me, however, lettuce might as well be Immodium, compared to the evil Gu which I consumed the next day.

I had naively believed that the Gu would make me a running superhero, and that the caffeine would give wings to my feet and allow me to soar across the finish line, humiliating all the elite runners who were stupid enough to compete with me. Ha. It didn’t make my feet any faster, but it sure lent velocity to my traitorous bowels. By mile 13 I was compelled to make a port-a-potty stop, lest I soil my fabulous new turquoise running shorts. Imagine my horror, then, when said running shorts were down around my ankles and some JACKASS plows into MY port-a-potty head first, earning for himself both a noseful and an eyeful. I shrieked in a pitch frequently heard in horror movies, but rarely in real life, whilst Jackass slammed the door shouting “I’m sorry. Oh my God. I’m sorry.” “Oh my god”, indeed. Did I mention that prior to this very rude interruption I was experiencing severe technical difficulties with the toilet paper, and that my sweat soaked shaking fingers were just ineffectually leaving toilet paper balls all over my body? And that I have THE stankiest poo? And that I was scowling ferociously at my Garmin, (AKA “Vic” – don’t ask) which indicated that I’d never make my fantasy BQ time, and that I’d barely make my real goal of a sub-4 hour, if I didn’t immediately purge myself of the remnants of those ten tiny meatballs? [Editor's note: Deb's misfortune in the port-o-john is apparently a recurring problem at races. See Nytro's Ogden Marathon Report for another horrific example of poorly locking johns. Great. All I need--another reason to not be able to poo before a race.]

Immediately following this humiliating exchange, I seriously consider taking up permanent residence in the port-a-potty, because coming out of the port-a-potty and facing the CROWD of spectators sitting directly across from me is more than I can possibly bear. I have brief fantasies of Chuck and the kids coming to visit, and of quality family time conducted in the confines of our cozy shit hut. The stank of my own poo fermented with strange poo, however, brings me back to my senses and I burst out of there like a Kenyan off the starting blocks. A saner man would know better than to ever mention this incident again, but Jackass not only apologizes once more, he persists in speaking to me every time we pass one another. “Looking good,” he says, or “You’ve got it!” I don’t quite know if he’s referring to my speed or to my private parts (ok – formally private, now public. Very, very, very public), and so I do my best to ignore him.

The next thirteen miles pass in a haze of pain and fatigue. I talk occasionally to other runners, but mostly to myself. I wonder why Buffalo didn’t clean up the broken glass which litters the roads and which surely has cut the feet of the crazy barefoot runner I saw at the start line. I wonder how Madeline fared in her half marathon, and I wonder if there will be pizza left for me at the finish line. I wonder why it is that Gu is stronger than the double dose of anti-diarrhea medication that I take prior to the start of every long run. I wonder why they don’t just market Gu as the answer to your constipation problems, rather than as an energy fluid. I wonder if Jackass is even a runner at all or if he is just a dirty pervert who rips open port-a-potty doors to check out the poonanies of runners too weary and stupid to operate the lock. I wonder if we will make it back to the hotel before checkout, or if we will have to replace Madeline’s new car scent with the malodorous stank of sweat soaked pits, feet and other unmentionable body parts on the long ride home. With all of this wondering comes slow but steady progress, and I eventually see the obelisk which marks the near end of the marathon. A kind volunteer says. “You’re under four” and when he sees my skeptical expression he repeats himself with such sincerity that I know it must be true. I hear cheering around the corner, and through my sweat and tears I can make out Madeline’s orange shirt and the red numbers of the finish clock. Of the five numerals displayed, I note only the first, which is a beautiful, beautiful “3”.

Official stats– 3:58:24
9:06 pace

Posted by mryonker at May 29, 2007 09:03 PM

Comments

Posted by: susansinclair at May 30, 2007 10:50 AM