I accepted the fact, long ago, that I am a prissy, squeal-at-the-spider-and-ask-the-boy-to-kill-it type girl. Despite a stint in Peace Corps, a decade of softball, and multiple hiking, fishing, and camping trips, the truth remains that I feel naked without mascara and I cannot fathom going to the grocery store in sweatpants.
Running has been an interesting adventure for me in many ways, not the least of which is the gradual realization that my pursuit of the perfect shade of copper eyeshadow (it's out there, I can feel it) does not negate the worthiness of my sweat. Every race I run I line up at the start and do what every other runner does, I size up everybody around me. I wonder if they're faster, slower, if this is their first race or their 50th. I debate how much more body fat I have than the girl-child standing next to me and I come to the conclusion that if we were stranded on a desert island, I would at least be the last to die. The vast majority of women at these races do not wear makeup to run. I get that. Totally legit. You sweat, makeup can smear, clog the pores, and the race is often damn early and lipstick just doesn't seem that important (to some women) at 6 a.m. I don't judge them for that, and if anything, on occasion I envy their nonchalance. I, however, am different.
I wear mascara to every race (and every occasion whereby I am deemed "in public" because I have a hangup about my redheaded translucent eyelashes). I'm quasi-addicted to lip gloss so that usually gets tacked on, too. And for the sake of not scaring small children, I might sweep a bit of blush on my cheeks to help the freckles blend a bit better.
At no race has the juxtaposition of my perfect sweep of mascara and the activity upon which I'm to embark proven to be more opposed than at the Trail Mix 2011 25K, which I slogged through this morning. Trail running is messy regardless of the circumstances. Today, however, was especially challenging because 1) it snowed and 2) the snow melted. What would have been a mildly soggy run, became a slow traverse over hill and dale punctuated by mile after mile (15.5 of them, to be exact) of black, sticky mud.
As would be no surprise given my affection for lip gloss and all things stereotypically feminine, I tried to be dainty about the mud at first. I tried to figure out small sidesteps around the worst of it, losing seconds here and there with the mental geometry games of getting foot A and foot B to solid ground C without a tumble. That lasted for the first 4 miles or so. Coming down a hill after the second water stop, foot A made a solid landing in 3 inches of black slime that crept up my ankle and into my sock before I had the footing to wrench it free. Several nearby runners heard my horrifed, fiddle-dee-dee Southern groan of "Ewwwwwwwww." But once you've dipped a full foot in the mud, there's really very little purpose in being ladylike.
By the time the second lap stretched before me (the race was two laps of 7.75 miles of trail), I was reveling in the worst of the mud pits. The occasional stretches of hard, dry ground felt tough on my knees after the softness of sludge, and the sick, thick splash of mud on my calves was a welcome distraction from the ache in my lower back. My nose began to run in the cold, and sleeves became kleenex quickly, another girlish hint of propriety tossed casually aside out of necessity.
By the time I rounded the last edge of trail and came in view of the Finish, my shoes were black and my calves were streaked with alternating streaks of dry and fresh mud. I'd slipped at mile 12, catching myself with my right hand wrist-deep in gook, which was promptly wiped on my thigh, so a nice brown handprint greeted the casual observer. I was frozen and exhausted, calves twitching and stomach churning, by the time I made it to my car.
I turned on the engine and waited for the seats to warm as I willed my fingers to lose their numbness. I flipped down the visor and peeked in the mirror, a habit borne of two decades of girlish primping. I could feel a layer of freeze-dried sweat at my hairline, hidden by my St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap, and was interested to find I'd managed to splash a wee spot of mud onto my right ear.
True to form, my mascara looked fantastic.
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