Take it slow

Even though this was a run I was really looking forward to, I was still doubting myself the night before. Not so much about the distance or my capability to complete the course, I've had multiple 5ks under my belt at this point in the game regardless of whether or not they've been competitive...but because I was going it alone. 

This is one of those things you're supposed to do in a group of your closest friends like Bay to Breakers, only less intoxicated and without the flying tortillas. But after multiple mass texts and no replies, I initially do what I do best: say "fuck it, I'm doing it anyway." So I ponied up the $60 bucks and watched the color run video on youtube like a gazillion times to get pumped. But the day before the race came and as I waited in line to get my package, I realized how lonely this might potentially be. 

An awkward conundrum of sorts I suppose.

I mean, part of the reason why I love to run is because of the solitude aspect of the sport. Of course you can always run in a group, but you can always just decide to go for a jog around the block a few times an hour after dinner if it strikes your fancy. Go it without music and just get taken away in the blurbs of passersby's conversations, the gasp of a city bus on its way down Lincoln, the dirty hum of neon lights flickering on overhead signaling yet another night in Oakland...

I run for many reasons, and being alone without need to explain is most certainly one of them. But like anyone, active or not, there are times that companionship in whatever it is you love to do is desired deeply. Enter awkward conundrum. 

Sure I could've signed up for a group needing an extra person, but being good ol' introverted me, I decided it was better to face my fellow 15,000 color runners alone than to try and make friends with some folks from Sacramento that I'd never again see in my life. Either way I was going to run this race. With a price tag that steep, who cares if I had to run it naked and backwards. I was fucking running it.

The day of the race itself was much like that of my race back in June. Cold, congested, and electric. I managed to weasel my way into the group of the second wave of runners while I stretched and smiled at my sister who had tagged along for moral support. The first wave was off and we walked to the starting line, anxious to see what the course had to offer. Behind me a family reunion chatted excitedly, a couple in their late 50s beside me took pictures of the ever growing crowd, the Davis girl's soccer team stood a few steps ahead in silence staring out to where the first wave had already disappeared around a corner. And suddenly, the count down began:

10, breathe. 
9, breathe,
8, breathe,
7, why the fuck am I doing this again?
6, because it's supposed to be fun, remember?
5, breathe,
4, yeah, but I'm alone. What loser does this kind of shit alone?
3, too late
2, breathe,
1.

I tried and failed to jockey for prime running real estate as I got caught up in the family reunion who had swarmed me like a bunch of middle-aged drunk bees. I broke free only to get tangled up in a women's running group all wearing matching tutus and knee-high socks. Frustrated I skirted along a brick side walk, seeing the first cloud of orange snaking its way along a line of closed shops. I picked up the pace only to put on the breaks abruptly as runners and walkers bottle necked waiting for their turn to twirl and scream through the splashes of paint heading for their still pristine white race shirts. 

A little girl and her mother held hands as they ran through, shielding their mouths as they giggled uncontrollably before circling around for another go. A flash of tutus broke the orange smog as the women runners from my wave danced beyond the sprays of paint rejoicing the first half mile as if it was the last. 

No, I wasn't with my mom or best friends. But dammit if I couldn't enjoy myself anyway.

The rest of the race was less of a race. I still kept a good pace to feel like I had tried, but it became less about time and more about using these 3.1 miles to get as dirty as possible. I tuned into the running itself, letting myself get lost my natural rhythm, singing along with Pandora in the background. The blue station signified the end of the race, the finish line just beyond the rows of volunteers waiting to have at those almost done with globs of color. I smiled wide, coming in fast as I jumped past, arms open wide, hoping for the best. I sprinted to the finish, Kalena breaking past the barrier to pace me the last 15 feet or so. 

I hadn't gone it completely alone. She patted my back, tails of pinks and yellows and greens trailing behind me like rainbow exhaust. 

Munching on granola bars, we watched as teams came in through the finish while the last wave of runners approached the starting line. In the distance, runners threw off grenades of paint, gyrating to some terrible DJ they'd bused over from who knows where. Even the grass was saturated with color. I was glad I did it, more so at that moment of rest than any other. 

On the way back to the car, Kalena told me how proud she was of me, squealing with laughter as paint transferred to her black sweater after hugging me and I knew she meant it. I was proud of me too.