World record marathon delusions.
Today it was 100% gorgeous out, which necessitated an impromptu fast-paced two-hour run, the aftereffects of which I am currently suffering, as I totally ignored the whole post-run stretching thing and leapt directly into a kayak for a long paddling excursion with my cousins.
I use my longer runs to indulge completely mortifying fantasies. The embarrassing aspect of this is that the fantasies are usually about, well, running. An escape within the escape, if you will.
There I am, bussing my booty along at a comparatively comfortable trot, but in my head, it’s the final mile of the Olympic Marathon.
Typically a British announcer features heavily into this reverie:
“A course record, an American record, an Olympic record, and a World record – if she keeps up this pace, she’ll have it all. And heah she comes! Sweaty Kid is rounding out the final tuhhhn in what has been an absolutely miraculous show of athleticism and courage! Her form is suffering, she’s locking up, but she’s going to do the unthinkable! The crowd goes wild!”
Sometimes this fantasy is so vivid that I forget I’m just out on a normal run, and I’ll be grimacing with the effort of holding my fake 2:15 marathon pace and accidently act out the whole locking up thing; at worst, I even throw in a stumble or two. Then I look around sheepishly and scan nearby lawns hoping that nobody has been privy to my histrionics.
Naturally, it doesn’t end there.
I lurch heroically across the line in my world record effort and it’s all tears and flag across my shoulders and camera flashes and my sweaty self up on the jumbotron sucking for air and then the announcer is talking about who will be crossing the line in second, and I look and see – no, it’s impossible – but wait, yes, it is! It’s her! My training-partner-and-sometimes-rival, Kara Goucher, has earned the silver! The Americans go 1-2! American distance running is back! Take that, hatas!
Later, we take the podium and weep attractively during the national anthem.
Dare to dream.
Or in my case, dare to be absolutely delusional.
‘Fess up, I need to know I’m not the only one with embarrassing delusions of grandeur out on my runs.