Besides volleyball, I dehydrated myself in coffee, would jog a little, say, "Damn Hill!" Whine about it, drink beer, eat sushi, lay in bed all day watching gossip girl, that's about it. So to say the least, Anders & I were not so ready to run the race. We flew in, went on a run to the market, ate a weiner, ran home - thank god I didn't poopee my pants. We spent the night in fernpatch with mother, who had set up a tray of cookies, nuts, chips, and candy, you know, pre-race food, a bell for service, and bunches a bunches of lilacs.
We woke the next morning at 4:30, got our gear on, and drove to Baker. Compared to Boulder it felt like a jungle. We carpooled up to the ski area, passing badass no-car competitors, who made the whole trip without transit - real freaks of athletes. Imagine a couple on a tandem biking the 8 miles uphill. At the top, the 20-line of porto's smelled fresh, my teammates were high in need of success, the race helpers were bike gang members 6'5'' and taller, with leather tassels, who according to Kyle Johnson, "eye-fucked the shit out of me." There were interesting cats running around, which was awkward but wonderful.
At the starting line I eye-fucked the competition. There was a beautiful European blonde who looked like trouble. Then she got her little bracelet and took off! At that point I thought the person to win the sweet ass gold winged shoe meant being the first woman down the mountain, so I got mad. And I considered this halfway down the mountain. About 60 people later the lovely Amber, downhill skier, came in, and I began the hamstring dance of DEATH.
At some point I considered what being the fastest woman on the mountain would mean. And I thought surely it could be good for something. (Yes the race was for fun, but it was a stepping stone for me. I needed to find a reason.) So I just tried to maintain pace, and when packs of people would come in sight, I'd give myself 40 seconds to get to them. It turns out the race was much better than 2 years previous. I iced my legs in the snow runoff with a bunch a men complaining about small wieners. The results read all day that I was 42/500, fastest woman down. My team got 2nd in the division, 41/500 overall. We waited at the beer gardens in fairhaven park all day, sipping beers snuck in with a baby carriage by the leader of our gang, watching kayakers blow against the wind. I was really excited about the damn gold winged shoe trophy compliments of Fairhaven Runners, but when they called the name of the fastest woman, it was someone else. As it turns out, the woman's time was a fluke; timing chip troubles, and Success if Restored!
I consider this year's ski to sea a platform upon which I can begin to define myself as a different runner. I don't think it means that much that I can run fast downhill - it's kind of just real special - but it defines me as a certain type of runner, straining for balance, for balancing drinking beer/s, fucking with pertinent volleyballers, doing 5:30's downhill, and having a hundred small circle bruises on my legs from a hailstorm. Anders' asks me why I didn't hide under a car when the hail came hard, and my best answer is I like what I don't expect, because I think I know everything, and it means I don't.
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