Editor's note: The Daily Cardinal's Maria Boncyk ran in the Crazylegs Classic this past Saturday. Here is her account of the experience.
For the past few weeks, I'd felt different from everyone. While they were counting down the hours to Mifflin, I was counting down the days to Crazylegs. While my friends were preparing for April 30 by buying kegs and getting their tolerance up, I was hydrating (with water) and going to bed early.
While they were trying for pleasant inebriation, my goal was beating my previous (and respectable) Crazylegs time of 38:58.
Saturday morning, I went up to the Capitol Square and looked around for my running buddy and fellow former cross-country runner, \Spanky"" (he picked his pseudonym), but all I saw was a man carrying a full-sized cross (?? la Jesus Christ) and a man wearing a pink bunny costume and a Georgia Tech basketball jersey. Then I spotted him. He said earlier that he was going to try hydrating with beer to make things ""interesting.""
I'd been drinking water religiously, eating healthily and tapering my workouts, as my cross country experience had taught me. But I was worried that, with a hungover partner, beating 39 minutes would be a long shot.
Now hydrating, while quite beneficial to a runner, has its side-effects. And sure enough, up on the Capitol Square with 20 minutes to the race, I was a victim. So I went into the Capitol building seeking a bathroom. It was an adventure.
The line for the women's room wound around three corners before one even caught sight of the door. I checked each floor and each wing, but the bathroom on the first floor was the only one open. However, I stumbled upon a hidden men's room and tactfully struck up a conversation with some of the guys, who then helped me find an open stall. Eww. But they seemed cool with it.
Spanky and I started the race, making our way around the Square and down State Street, dodging people, strollers and bike-racks, nearly biting it on the gray waist-high poles.
Around mile three, I told Spanky knowing my mile splits was going to jinx my chances of beating my time. That's when he hit me with, as I call it, ""some Prefontaine shit.""
""You won't get jinxed,"" Spanky said. ""Leave nothing to chance.""
This from the guy who got plowed not eight hours prior and was running on four hours of sleep. But I have to admit, it got me pumped.
At last, we reached Camp Randall and were pretty much home free after the 200-yard hill. I picked up the pace and caught sight of a woman who'd taken off her shirt and stuffed it into her running tights. I was not about to be beaten by her, or the 8-year-old boy running just in front of me. I sped up for my final kick and saw the kid pass me. I wanted to knock him over and stuff him into that lady's tights. But I was too tired and just ran as hard as I could through the finish line. Then I threw up what was left of my banana and peanut-butter toast.
I looked at my watch and saw the time: 37:20. So, subtracting the time it took me to throw up, it turns out I ran a 37:04. I'd beaten my time-soundly. To celebrate, we took our complementary beers and got started on Mifflin.
