I've discovered that the trick to looking less alone and awkward than I feel in a crowd is to act like I know what I’m doing. So I attempted a purposeful, yet casual, air as I strode toward the gathering throng at the starting line for the 2015 Beat the Blerch 10k. My father and his friend had begun two hours earlier with the marathon event, leaving me to deal with my apathy-defying power walk alone. "It's just like a training walk," I told myself as I slipped my earbuds in. "Same songs you've been using, same pace, same workout tracker--" or perhaps not. My phone, finding no internet, would have none of this workout-tracking. “No matter! It’s better that way. It’ll be just me, House of Heroes, the trail, whatever pace my body settles into… and a ton of other people here.”
The throng of fellow racers didn't make me feel ridiculously self-conscious, though. Sure, being alone within it wasn’t ideal. But I’d learned a couple years ago that the runner crowd is quite a friendly bunch. Does the scent of competition waft a little through the air at events? A little, yes. Yet we were all rooting for each other, and only really competing against ourselves and our own laziness. We were all lapping people on the couch.
We were all there for the same reason: to beat that blasted Blerch.
***
A Seattle web cartoonist named Matthew Inman, better known as The Oatmeal, coined the concept of the Blerch, which he explains as follows: “The Blerch is a fat little cherub who follows me when I run. He is a wretched, lazy beast. He tells me to slow down, to walk, to quit… The Blerch represents all forms of gluttony, apathy, and indifference that plague my life."
Having struck a nerve with his cartoons about running, The Oatmeal decided to host a race for all those who seek to outrun this Blerch. And so in September 2014, the Beat the Blerch race began. Its appeal comes from the promise of real-life Blerches on the course, Matt Inman himself running the course, couches throughout for quick naps, and—most importantly—cake, Nutella, and magical grape beverages at every aid station and the finish line.
Dad and I, both fans of the Oatmeal and his unorthodox humor, didn’t find out about this race last year until the race had long been sold out. In fact, the race had sold out within twenty minutes of registration going live! We were determined not to repeat the same mistake this year. After urgent texting the fateful day of registration, I found myself signed up for this year’s Beat the Blerch race. Never mind the fact that I hadn’t exercised properly in months. Fitting for the spirit of the Blerch, I continued failing to train for several months after. Finally, about eight or so weeks before the event, I realized, “Well, it’s probably too late for me to get over that old running injury and train to jog this one. But for goodness sake, I’ll power-walk that sucker. There’s cake to be had!”
***
About five minutes before the 10k start time, I looked around and realized that I'd somehow wound up smack in the middle of the starting gate crowd—a place a walker among runners ought not to start. With much apology I made my way to the very back of the crowd, and settled in for more waiting, knowing that this lot will start much later than everyone else. To my left stood a woman with a stroller bearing a tiny, tiny child. My brain indicated the child to be less than a month old, but I cannot believe a child that young would roll along for this ride. Since runners tend toward friendliness, I asked the precious child’s age and name, careful to avoid gender pronouns, lest I assume incorrectly. The woman confirms my initial suspicion: the little girl was three weeks old. Three weeks! Dumbfounded, I continued, “I… assume you’re this child’s mother?”
A laugh. “Yes.”
“You’re doing a 10k three weeks after giving birth.”
Another laugh. “Yes, I am.”
Incredulous, I exchanged glances with another woman to my right. We assured the woman that she was a goddess among us mere mortals, and could pass us as much as she liked. Any woman doing an event so soon after childbirth deserves that honor.
Soon, we crossed the starting line, and others around me caved to the pressure to sprint from the gate. I settled, using my music's tempo, into the fast-walk pace I hoped to keep for the next six miles. The mother I’d just queried went into a solid jog, indeed passing me. With a sigh, I accepted the fact that she would stay past me for the duration of the race.
***
Not every serious runner comes from a long line of cross-country jocks, born and bred on miles-long jaunts washed down with spinach smoothies. Though I have nothing against those who did, the Oatmeal himself sure didn’t. He explains in his book on running, “Many years ago, I found myself working a job where I was spending seventy hour weeks in front of a computer… I was spending my entire life staring into glowing plastic boxes all day. So, on one chilly evening of no particular consequence, I went for a run. I didn’t get far. I hadn’t exercised in years so I could only go for a few minutes. The next day I ran again, and I was able to make it a little bit farther." Bit by bit he inched his way from “overweight tyrannosaur” to ultramarathon runner, and in his work he encourages others to do the same. Not for the sake of physical health, mind, but for peace of mind—and the ability to justify eating one’s weight in snacks.
His story is a familiar tale to this lazy nerd. Two years ago I underwent a similar process, except I didn’t make it even to half-marathon heights before a calf injury. That injury became an excuse: for the next two years I gained back all the weight I’d lost and more, and lost all the fitness progress I’d gained and more. But life is too short to live like a sad, obese dinosaur. And I'm certain that if dinosaurs found themselves unable to run, they’d just walk super fast until they could run again. That’s what I decided on this go-round, out of sheer necessity. Dad had so valiantly braved the challenge of getting our registrations in on time, after all. And there was cake to be had.
***
Without iMapMyFitness as some measurement of progress to think about during the race, I resorted to a concept Dad taught me: the kill count. Runners use this gruesome slang to tally the number of people passed during an event. I discovered it makes for pretty good motivation. Fellow run/walkers became markers to speed past, and the mental number kept climbing as fast as I could set new goals. I quickly noticed, however, what I deem “zombie kills”—those folks who inconveniently paced the race in intervals. I would pass them when they walked, they would pass me when they'd run. I reluctantly took off mental points for zombies. After the second pass from the same zombie, I memorized the outfit in order to stop counting that individual entirely.
Some outfits I memorized easily, because this race has a costume contest aspect as well. At the starting gate I’d seen several people dressed as Blerches, Krakens, Japanese hornets, and even one Godzilla with his middle fingers in the air.
At some point I tired of the kill count, having concluding it’d probably wind up around 75—a fine number. Instead, I started thinking about what sort of costume I’d like to wear in a future event. I decided that someday, I want to gather a group of friends for us to run together as the Avengers. I considered how fearsome it’d look if we all listened to the same playlist as we ran, in order for us all to keep the same pace the whole time. Imagine the finish-line photo with that—all the Avengers lined up across the breadth of the arch, running in unison. My goodness, it’d be spectacular and fabulous.
See, runners are a highly philosophical crowd as well. Such important thoughts we concoct as we race.
***
During the terrible run with the Japanese hornet encounter, The Oatmeal relates the following internal monologue that occurred: “I’ve always considered the question to be ‘Why am I alive?...’ And to that I say: ‘WHO CARES! Forget the why. You are in a raging forest full of beauty and agony... This is better than the why.’ I run because I seek that clarity…maybe it’s just the adrenaline and endorphins and serotonin flooding my brain. But I don’t care. I run very fast because I desperately want to stand very still. I run to seek a void." That last sentence references a book titled “What I Talk about When I Talk about Running,” by Haruki Murakami—a book I’ve seen referenced by multiple runners, so it must be popular among the runner crowd. Maybe running crowd tends toward such positivity, such camaraderie, because of this mutual joy we feel when using our legs for their intended purpose. Maybe it’s something about living in the moment, and seeing so much nature, and breathing so much fresh air.
Or maybe we’re all just high on endorphins.
Eh, forget the why of our happiness. We’re too busy enjoying the cake to be had.
***
Speaking of which, I ignored the cake and Nutella at the aid station. I’ve always questioned the sanity of people who want that much bloated carb nonsense mid-race. Instead, I grabbed for a cup of the supposed magical fizzy purple beverage, and found it neither magical nor fizzy, and only slightly purple. But hydration is hydration, so after gulping one cup, I turned around and said in my best small-Cockney-child voice, “Please sir, may I have some more?” Unfortunately, the female volunteer bearing beverages seemed to miss the reference, so she seemed annoyed. Regardless, she handed me another cup, which I gulped gladly before continuing on my way. This station meant it was only the halfway point. An exciting marker!—signifying that I had as far to go as I’d already walked. Joy.
But the remainder of the event didn’t impress itself much on my mind, aside from the last three miles feeling slower, and admiring the sheer gorgeousness of the Snoqualmie Trail.
Finally I passed the 6 mile marker. Knowing that only .2 miles remained, I decided to jog the rest. If my calf couldn’t handle that, it needed to stop being a little sissy. I skipped my iPod to a song with a decent jogging pace, went for it, and crossed the finish line. I, clueless, wound up way too close to the side of runner #4153, spoiling both our finish-line pictures. I noted that the time was higher than I’d hoped, but still less than the drop-dead slowest pace I’d allowed myself, so I considered the day a victory. Around my neck went the medal, into my hand went a cup of water, and a man approached me with a tray and a can of whipped cream. “Bacon marshmallow?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I responded. He handed me one, though not much bacon made it onto that particular marshmallow. No matter.
“Whipped cream?”
“You know it!”
I popped the sugary goodness into my mouth. I’d decided ahead of time that the strict dietary regime I’d been following the past few months was out the window for this weekend. I’d just beat the Blerch, God bless it, and there was cake to be had.
