We huddle together, our little group, and I watch my breath exit my body. I'm in the middle of the desert just past six and it is motherfucking cold.
Someone takes our pictures. Someone else leaves to use the restroom. I grab Menfolk #2 with a, "Hey, I need a paper towel, come with me." He secretly wants to fuck me and, as such, does not argue. More on that later.
My running partner returns from the bathroom and says, "I was talking to a runner in line and I said it was my first half marathon. He said, 'Oh boy, you picked a challenging one for your first.'"
A collective "fuck my life" sigh.
A woman gets up on stage next to DJ Made and is apparently someone important, and then we are herded towards the starting line. We face the opposite of where I thought we would: the one road we are on leads in two directions. One remains paved and civilized, and cuts straight through. One turns to dirt and curves with the mountains. Naive thing that I am, I thought this would be easy.
Ha, ha.
I start out in the middle of the pack, slow and steady, with my windbreaker on. In less than ten minutes my knees are aching, and in less than ten minutes the windbreaker is tied around my waist.
Mile one comes, goes, flat and easy. I can do this, I think. I consider the waivers we had to sign, ridiculous things promising we wouldn't stomp any endangered desert tortoises to death should we come upon them. Like us runners would like nothing better than to crush indigenous wildlife.
Well, actually, now that I think about it.
Mile two approaches with an upwards slope, steep at first, and then reasonable. I catch up to my running partner, who confesses gastro-intestinal problems.
"I feel awful asking this," she says, "but will you stop at the restrooms with me?"
Of course I will.
The trip sets us back fifteen, twenty minutes, and a mile later she speeds off ahead of me.
"Sorry for not waiting when you waited for me," she says.
Whatever. Par for the course, humanity.
I plug along alone through hills and hills and hills. I mistyped one of those as "hells" and damn near left it. The Owner told us the course was one small hill, then one big hill, then one small hill, spread out over thirteen miles so it wasn't supposed to be very intense. That was a goddamn lie. The course was hill after hill after hill, followed by some more hills an served with a side of hill. Hills, you might think, aren't so bad, because after the ascent at least there's a descent. The descent is worse; with the disparity in elevation one lands hard on one's knees. My problem area.
Achille's knees.
The water stop staff are supportive and cheerful, and one plays music with pounding bass. As I run, I try to remind myself to look around, to enjoy nature. Everything is dulled by my pain.