Via Lilu: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!***
Remember when I said that I was done with TMI Thursdays for a little while? Well, I was. Then this happened.
The other weekend, I participated in the Rockville Rotary Twilighter 8K. A long name for a race in which you’re actually just running five miles at night (trying not to trip), with the neighborhood cheering for you, while waiting for their streets to not be blocked off anymore.
In an effort to be properly fueled, we went to dinner beforehand. Nothing too heavy – just some dinner salads. No biggie. I should have known something was off when I couldn’t finish my meal. Since when have I not been able to finish a salad? And then the nausea started while on the metro out to Rockville. (It probably didn’t help that it took forEVER to get out there – stupid red line delays.) But I was determined.
Fresh air helped a bit, once we finally arrived. And there was no way I was sitting out while everyone else ran. (Way to go, pride. Thanks for that one.) And actually, I felt surprisingly good for the first half of the race.
Around the 2.5 mile mark, though, I felt it again.
Around the 3 mile mark, I promptly threw up a little bit in my mouth.
You’d think, after that, I would stop. You’d also be wrong.
I continued to spit my way through the course and chug water at each station. And finally, finally, I could see the bright lights at the finish line. So I sprinted. I was flying and it felt fantastic.
Right up until I crossed the finish line and booted on the pavement.
There were so many people that I couldn’t even get off to the side for the first round of vomiting. The volunteer firefighters who were on call for emergencies just stared at me, as I purged my dinner (and probably my lunch), as they took a tiny step back to avoid the splatter effect.
For round two, I successfully made it around the fencing, and into a trash can, and was finally given a bottle of water and some Gatorade – as well as concerned looks, and offers to lie down in the medical tent.
But, the worst part of the entire ordeal was this: I made a point of crossing the finish line before I really let go and let my stomach do its thing – and the sensors didn’t even pick up my time! According to the results page, it’s like I wasn’t even there!
What a load of crap.
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