I had barely taken my suitcase to my room when Mark spied the 5K run advertised in the local newspaper. We quickly agreed to enter our names (though I had some misgivings, still not feeling fully adjusted to the altitude). That night we drove the route of the race, and with a GPS device as well as the odometer on the car we measured the distance. It turns out that "5K" actually meant 5K each way. So the 5K to which I had readily agreed had just turned into a 10K I was dreading. Now you may be snickering at my reluctance to run a 6 mile race, but that is because you didn't have "tacos al pastor" from the local marketplace the night before. At the time even I was still unaware of the full effects that dining decision would have. The night before the race all I felt was a slight queasiness, a rumor in my gut of impending doom. I know Cortés befriended Montezuma and then betrayed him; I'm not excusing that behavior. However, I think anyone who has had what the natives fondly refer to as "Montezuma's revenge" will agree with me that Montezuma is misplacing blame in a very cruel way.
I woke up the morning of the race with a sense of urgency. While Mark was getting dressed, drinking some water, and pinning on his racing number, I was dutifully worshipping the porcelain goddess. My bowels were on fire; my stomach, now in a million separate but miserable pieces, was floating up and down at will within my abdominal cavity. While my organs continued to play anatomical bumper cars, I tried to steady my mind for the race to come. I knew the whole game had changed. The six miles would no longer be measured by strides but rather by the number of times my red, swollen butt cheeks rubbed together, stealing a little more skin from each other with each loving stroke.
With these pleasant thoughts and many more, I suited up, and Mark and I set out for the start line a few blocks away. A pastor friend of Mark's named Mauri met us there. He and I had some time to get to know each other before the race began, and I actually began to feel slightly recovered from my earlier sickness. An odd assortment of participants lined up in front of the "Nueva Allianza" building. One professional runner wore shorts coming down no farther than his high thighs with expensive running shoes and a slim build. Others looked well over seventy and wore jeans and sandals. After several speeches (the race was sponsored by a political party), we were off. Mauri, Mark, and I ran abreast for the first half a mile, but their stride didn't feel quite right to me. So I increased my pace a little and soon left them behind.
I felt good, cheered on by the many smiling faces and eager exclamations of bystanders. A mechanic looking up from his work to see the runners go by. A mother and her daughter eager for diversion on their walk home. Many kids who gave each and every runner the feeling that their performance meant something. It seemed the whole city had turned out to watch my elation turn to suffering as I realized that the bridge I thought was the halfway mark was not, my pace was much too fast, and the relief I was feeling at the beginning of the race would soon be ending. Though we had driven the route the night before, I got confused. I only remembered one yellow bridge, the one that came just before the turnaround, but apparently there was another much earlier in the race.
By the time I got to the actual halfway point, my chest felt like someone was beating on it mercilessly with a sledgehammer, my legs wanted to give out, my mind wanted to give up, and my breakfast wanted to come up.
I walked.
Mauri and Mark caught up with me, looking as fresh as they had at the start of the race. Their coming spurred me to pick my pace back up at least enough to run with them for a while, but I soon slowed to a walk.
Clasping my water bottle in one hand and stomach in the other, and with head held not all that high, I finished the race walking. I had started well enough that I still ended up finishing in seventh place within my age group, but my body paid me back for that foolish feat for days after. My pride still pays me back.
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