Prepare to Meet My Roid Rage

Posted on February 8, 2010
Filed Under Daily, Life With The Boss, Life in L.A. | 6 Comments

Over the weekend, The Boss and I went to Huntington Beach to run the Surf City USA 5k, but ours wasn’t the only event on the Pacific Coast Highway. There were 20,000 people who came from all over to participate in the Surf City USA marathon, half-marathon, wheelchair marathon, and wheelchair half marathon. There were about 3,000 people in our race, and we finally made it out of the gates in the fifth wave.

But first, a back story.

For the past few weeks, The Boss has been telling me (and anyone who would listen) that he’d probably end up walking during the race. He wasn’t sure how his knees and hips would hold up, and he didn’t know if his lungs could make it the three miles. He was worried about his ankles, and his shoe laces, and his ears, and the cat he had when he was 5. I kid you not, this went on for weeks. But the most ironic thing about his constant race-day jabber, is that The Boss is not a complainer. AT. ALL. In fact, he doesn’t complain on such a regular basis that sometimes I feel like I’m married to a reincarnation of Mr. Rogers. I wouldn’t be surprised if I walked into the house one day and found our entire living room covered in miniature cardboard houses, while The Boss and Prince Tuesday talk about friendship as they ride in circles on the back of a red trolley. It’s the second most reoccurring nightmare I have right after the one where I never graduated high school because I failed 9th-grade math.

I’m not saying that his anxiety wasn’t real, but The Boss was a Division 1 basketball player in college, and ran cross country track in high school. I was certain he didn’t have anything to worry about. But for some reason, this race really got in his head. We left for Huntington Beach on Saturday, picked up our race-day packets and bibs, checked into our hotel, and then went to a family-owned Italian restaurant for dinner. While at dinner, The Boss kept talking about the race. He was like, I don’t know if my lungs can do it, and I’ll probably end up walking, and What if I don’t get a medal? His overly-dramatic antics finally embedded their last morsel of annoying into the only, VERY SMALL nerve of patience I had left in my body, and my head exploded right there all over the garlic bread basket.

“EVERYONE GETS A MEDAL!” I hissed. “STOP TALKING ABOUT THE RACE!”

You’d think that the mushroom cream sauce dripping from my snarled lip, would remind The Boss of one of those crazy animal shows where the silverback gorilla goes berserk because he’s been challenged by a younger male, and that the man I married would try to diffuse the situation by NOT TALKING ABOUT THE RACE before I broke off one of the table legs, bit it in half, and engaged in some hearty chest-thumping right there in the middle of the restaurant. But he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he yelled, “Carbo load!” shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth and goes, “I hope I’m not last.”

Our race was at 6:50 a.m. Sunday morning, and when we woke up, I ate a few dates and drank some water. I left the bag of dates, and a cup next to the sink for The Boss reminding him that we still had about 45 minutes before the race, but he didn’t eat or drink anything. Instead he rubbed his stomach and goes, “Ohhhh. My stomach. It feels funny. I guess I’ll just have to run through it.”

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAN! IT’S ONLY THREE MILES!

If one didn’t know better, one would think that we were about to do an Iron Man, which Holy God, I would NEVER EVEN SUGGEST we do lest he start talking about it to more people who would listen, like the homeless guy who lives on our street.

You know, man, I got this triathlon coming up, and I’m pretty nervous. Do you think I’m going to be the last one to finish? I have this pain in my side, and my toe hurts.

Oh, really? THAT’S your problem? Your toe hurts? I LIVE UNDER A TARP!

We jumped in a taxi, which drove us four miles to the last street that wasn’t blocked off. We jogged up the hill, and passed a perverse fountain structure of naked baby cherubs riding on the back of sea horses and turtles. We also met a 60-year old man without shoes walking toward the starting line. I asked him where his shoes were, and he said he only runs barefoot. On Sunday, he ran the half-marathon, 13.1 miles, WITHOUT SHOES ON.
I’m surprised The Boss didn’t tell the shoeless runner about his stomach ache.

Much before the race, The Boss and I talked about what we would do if one of us started to fall behind. We decided that whomever was ahead would just keep running. I thought we would at least stay together for the first mile (and then I assumed The Boss would pull out ahead) but about 500 yards into it, he fell behind. I thought he got held up at the starting line since there were about 500 people in our wave, but when I turned around, he told me to keep running. As I reached the 1.5 mile marker, we had to turn a corner, and I was now running directly into the sun. I tried to look for The Boss on the other side of the course, but the sun was so bright, I couldn’t make out any faces. I felt a little bad for leaving him behind since he was convinced he might die right there on the course, but I figured as long as I didn’t hear an ambulance siren, he was okay. I started to feel a little pain in my knee somewhere around two and a half miles when I suddenly envisioned The Boss creeping up behind me like he did that day when he joined me and FIL, UNINVITED on a run, so I kicked it up a notch and ran through the pain. The cheers from the crowd carried me through the last quarter mile, and when I crossed the finish line, I checked the time, and waited for The Boss. But as I took a few steps forward, someone stepped in front of me, put their hands on my shoulders and said, “Great job!” I looked up through the blinding sun, AND IT WAS THE BOSS.

He was already at the finish line, and waiting for me.

“WHAT?” I gasped. “No! You finished before me?”

“Yeah! Aren’t you proud that I ran the whole thing?”

“No I’m not proud!” I yelled. “I’m mad. How could you beat me? When did you pass me?”

“I passed you before we turned the corner,” he said. “But you were too far away to yell to.”

“I WAS LOOKING FOR YOU AFTER I TURNED THAT CORNER! I THOUGHT YOU WERE BEHIND ME!”

“So, you’re not happy for me?” he asked.

“No, I’m not happy for you!”

“But I was so tired,” he said. “And the only thing that kept me going was thinking, ‘I don’t want to embarrass Sabrina.’”

“The only thing that kept me going was THAT I WANTED TO FINISH BEFORE YOU!”

He beat me.
On an empty stomach.
Sore loser doesn’t even describe the half of it.

The Boss and I got our medals, and my mind was running in circles trying to figure out how THIS, THIS could be the outcome of the race. I replayed the whole thing in my mind. When did he pass me? Why didn’t I notice? At what point could I have ran faster? It took me about 10 minutes to get over the betrayal. Also, calling my dad to tattle helped a little, too. We picked up our t-shirts, and then hung around to watch the long-distance runners, and wheelchair athletes. While we soaked in the beauty of the athleticism that surrounded us, I started to plan out my training regimen for our next race. I imagined myself training like Rocky, gulping down raw eggs, running 30 flights of stairs dozens of times, and screaming for absolutely no reason at all. As we walked down the hill to catch our cab, I turned to The Boss and go, “The next 5k we run, I’m going to smoke you,” and he goes, “Well, I’m going to train,” and I go, “No, I’M going to train,” and he goes, “I’ll train harder,” and I go, “I’M GOING TO DO STEROIDS!”

Turns out, you can’t structure in your head, and then yell any sentence that ends with STEROIDS at a race where the guy who finished first place in the marathon ran five-and-a-half minute splits THE WHOLE WAY.
Word on the street is they’re thinking about implementing drug testing for several of the upcoming races, and I have no idea why.
But just in case, I might need to borrow someone’s pee.

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