Stairway to Pain

Who hasn't cried during a race? Typically as the finish line comes into sight; the sensation of emerging as the unlikely hero of a battle with the playground bullies inside your head. Trail races typically last hours, so the feeling of relief as we drag our often bloody, grimy bodies across the line is usually met with sympathy by onlookers. This sympathy is synthesized by the inevitable groups of children lining up to high five every runner. No doubt these kids build enviable immunity to diseases science is yet to discover. (Side note: where and who are the parents of these children? Perhaps they all succumb to the bacteria their offspring can't wait to take back home?)

Yet, this isn't a typical race. I dare say it isn't even a running race, not for mortal humans anyway. Those that manage anything resembling running in these races have either given up and started on their way back down or clearly have at least one parent of the hoofed variety.

I fully expect the regular junkies of this 'sub-niche' of mountain running to have unusual but definitely sadistic other interests in their everyday life. There's no other explanation for regulars of this discipline, the Vertical Kilometer. As I think about this I glimpse a 50 something year old competitor through the gap between my thighs and I try to quickly shake off the frankly disturbing image of him in leathers and a whip on 'rest' days.

This is seemingly taking forever, as the vertical meters and the seconds take on each other in a slow race. Next time, I think to myself, I'll see if I can set my watch to read in centimeters so that it looks like I'm making more tangible progress. Sarcasm is not usually the variety of humor most associated with the Italian wit, yet they have decided to describe this a fast course for a VK. Meanwhile, as I try to get out of crawl mode before it becomes finite, the pain in my thighs, calves and lungs reaches a climax I had never thought possible before. And just like a toddler being vaccinated, I shed a tear even before the pain becomes very real - the last 100 meters of climbing. For in spite of the genuine encouragement of many, including the children who at this point are a biological hazard, I find it impossible to finish energetically.

My competitive spirit, my will to live and my dignity have all been left strewn somewhere on the thousands of irregular steps that brought me here, by now betrodden and disfigured what was left of them. Amongst this annoyingly joyful crowd I find solace in the warm sweet tea until I become a social animal once again. Predictably, the all encompassing thought on the way down as I try to avoid tripping on my ego is 'I'm sure I can do better at the next one . . .'