Finding my inner Rocky

Call me crazy, but I’ve always wanted to run a half marathon. Back in the States, I would run in 5K races, but never had the chance to run in any serious long-distance race. That may be because, truth be told, I do not like running. That’s right. I find little joy in running, jogging, sprinting, or any variation thereof. I find that going for a run is boring, tiresome, and often times painful. Although I love to work out, I prefer my cardio to come either in the form of biking, kick boxing, or heavy weight lifting. So why do I like races? I don’t know…there’s just something about running outside with a group of people, adrenaline flowing, in a competitive atmosphere. I like crossing the finish line and seeing that my time has gotten better, that I’m getting stronger, and that I’m gradually running faster. So, don’t ask me why, but one day I decided I wanted to run a half-marathon, just because I could.

My chance came, strangely enough, here in Peru. During a regional meeting in Ica, Taylor, a running-enthusiast PCV, announced that Movistar, a Peruvian cell phone company, was hosting a 10K, half-marathon, and full marathon race in Lima in May. She thought it would be fun to form a PCV team and enter the race together. Well, why not? At this point, it was sometime around late January or early February, which is more or less the peak of rainy season in my site. I had nothing to do and, since half of the town was gone, it was unlikely that my schedule was going to change much. What could be a better and healthier way to fill my time than train for a 13-mile race?

If you look online, you can find all sorts of training programs for half-marathon and full marathon runners. There are lots of little timetables that show you how many months out you should begin training, how many times per week you should run, how far and how long you should run each time, what sorts of cross training you can do to boost your endurance, etc. Unfortunately, I do not have the luxury of following those kinds of training program. I live in the middle of nowhere, with no paved or marked roads, at high altitude, in the middle of the rainy season. “Training” was sort of a loose term, given the circumstances. My site mate and fellow PCV, Jeannie, assured me that after the 4^th mile in a half-marathon “adrenaline just takes over and you run the rest of the 9 miles like it’s nothing.” I say that’s bullshit (side note: Jeannie was also a college rugby player and swimmer, so there’s a smidge of difference between our levels of athleticism). I knew that even though I couldn’t follow a strict training program, I most certainly did have to train. The question was, how was I going to do it?

Of course, running has to be included in your training in some form or another. This was a problem, since all of Aurahuá’s roads are dirt roads that thread along the mountains. Choosing a running path that was not a) purely uphill and downhill, b) not covered in rocks and potholes, and c) not a giant mud pit wasn’t exactly easy. Eventually I chose my path: the road to a satellite town called Percoyá which, according to local “maps,” was 5K away from the center of town. There are no road markers or really any way to measure distance, so I had to measure my running based on time alone. Knowing that an average runner needs 2+ hours to run a half-marathon, I created a long running playlist on my iPod. Every time I ran, I tried to run for one more song. Motivating myself to run at the crack of dawn in the rainy season and at high altitude wasn’t easy. Every time I ran, I thought I was going to die. Literally. My chest would clench, my throat would go raw, my heart would practically burst out of my ribcage, and my lungs turned to fire. This is what a heart attack feels like, I’d think, And if I collapse and die out here, there’s no cell phone service and it’s a 7-hour drive to the nearest hospital. Fortunately, I had other ways to motivate myself. Elizabeth, a nurse technician at the health center, was a running aficionado and got quite excited when I told her I needed to train for a race. She’d wake up and go running at 6:00AM with me, happily jogging along while I wheezed and puffed. Pretty soon, I got a reputation: I was that crazy white chick who ran to Percoyá. Soon the tall tales grew:

“Oh, yea Lyndsey? Yea I hear she runs every day!”

“Well I hear she runs all the way to Chancahuasi, which is more than 10K away! Then she runs back!”

“I hear she never walks.”

My running became the topic of many a conversation, at home and in the street. Over dinner, my host father would beam proudly at my newest running accomplishments and ask me my latest times.

Me: “Well, on average it takes me half and hour to get to Percoyá.”

Teodocio, laughing: “Half an hour! Hell, I walk to Percoyá in half an hour!”

Me, eyeing his short, stout little body with skepticism written all over my face: “Teodocio, do you own a wrist watch?”

Teodocio: “No.”

Me: “Cell phone?”

Teodocio: “No.”

Me, teeth clenched with forced composure: “Then how do you know it takes you thirty minutes to arrive at Percoyá?”

Teodocio: “Been doing it all my life!”

Me: “…how very nice for you.”

The rain was a real drag on my running, sometimes quite literally. The road would turn to slop and I’d find myself squishing and slurping up the roads, trying not to slip and fall flat on my face or get stuck in the muck. When I returned home, I imagine I looked something like The Swamp Thing. Again, this caused a lot of comments:

Old woman: “Eh, missy! Where are you coming from?”

Me, sitting on the curb, flicking mud off of my pants, face, and shoes: “Percoyá.”

Old woman: “Ooooh…did you take a motorcycle up there?”

Me: “No.”

Old woman: “Oh…” looks me up and down, “So you must have run there, huh?”

Me, looking at myself covered in mud: “Gee, what was your first guess?”

Thankfully, once the weather got better and the rain stopped, the soccer field stopped being a swamp and turned into prime running grounds. Although it’s kind of boring to run around and around in a circle, the ground is flatter and better suited for long runs. When I’m running on fumes, it’s nice to not have to worry about rocks, uneven ground, and cow poop. Once a week, I’d stroll over to the soccer grounds, play a Game of Thrones audiobook on my iPod, and run for an hour or more.

Most people will tell you that you shouldn’t run every day. I know, I know. There are those (crazy) people out there that do it and live to tell the tale. I am not one of those. Generally speaking, it is best to run 2-3 days a week and do some sort of cross-training on the “off” days. My cross training consisted of Insanity workouts. I’d wake up at 5:30 and crawl out of bed, whip out my yoga mat, and frantically try to keep up as Shaun T beat the crap out of my body. I’d do push up jacks, tuck jumps, mummy kicks, and God knows what else from anywhere between 35-55 minutes. My host family actually approached me about it, quite concerned. My room is over their store, so whenever I did my exercises they’d hear this mysterious banging and thumping from the second floor. They thought I was destroying the furniture in some sort of fit of rage. Well, besides Insanity, I’ve found other ways to cross train. I use P90X and, thanks to some inspiration from an Oxygen magazine sent from home, I designed a circuit training and high intensity interval training program that I’d do in the soccer field as well.

Unfortunately, exercise isn’t everything when it comes to training. Diet is an equally important part of the equation. Controlling what you eat is difficult, especially when you live with a host family. As you may remember from a past blog post, food culture is very important here in Peru and it is very easy to offend others if you reject a meal. To build endurance and strength, there are several key ingredients you need in your meals: protein, healthy carbs, and regular vitamins and minerals. It’s easier said than done to get all of those even on a weekly basis when you live in a carb-loving sierra culture. Most of the time, meals consist of potatoes, rice, and a watery soup that is little more than noodles and shreds of carrots. Every once in a while you’ll get eggs, which are heavily fried and covered in oil, or charky, dried sheep meat which has been hanging from the ceiling for God knows how long, or home made cheese, which is left out in the open, uncovered for weeks. Not exactly healthy or appetizing. So, I eventually had to broach the subject with my host family. I explained that, although I enjoyed their cooking and liked family meal times, due to a change in my work schedule it was necessary for me to start cooking for myself. A white lie, but a necessary lie. The change was wonderful, honestly. I loved having control over my food again, knowing what exactly what was in each meal, how it was prepared, and how fresh it was. I also loved being able to eat when I wanted to eat instead of waiting until nighttime to have dinner. Protein intake also increased dramatically thanks to an ample supply of lentils, quinoa, hardboiled eggs, yogurt, and whey powder. My energy levels skyrocketed, my health improved, and my training progressed leaps and bounds.

Before I knew it, May rolled around and it was time for race day. Our PCV team arrived in Lima on Saturday and checked into our hostel. Our desk clerk, an expat American, was heavily hung over and, seeing us in our cheery mood, decided to give some sass:

Desk clerk: “So, you guys going to have fun in Lima?”

Me: “Yea, before we check into our race we’re going to grab Starbucks.”

Desk clerk: “You know there’s a local coffee shop just around the corner.”

Me: “Eh, I really want Starbucks.”

Desk clerk: “…you came all the way to South America to drink Starbucks?”

Me, now peeved: “No, I live here. I came all the way to Lima for Starbucks.”

Desk clerk: “Still kind of a bit of a sell out, don’t you think?”

Me, now mad: “No, I don’t. I live in the middle of nowhere where there are perhaps more sheep than people, my room is currently infested with mice which enjoy running over me as I sleep, I have no Internet, ‘iffy’ cell phone service, and otherwise no other way besides traveling 7 hours on a broken down bus to have any form of civilization. Now that I get to be in the capital, I want my froofy, corporate-filled coffee and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. So lay off.”

After my glorious-tasting latte (screw you, desk clerk), we took a taxi over to a city park to check into our races. We had team members running the 10K, a couple running the half-marathon, and one brave soul running the full marathon. God bless him. We each signed in, received our racing shirts, time chips, and racing numbers, and went back to the hostel excited and beaming. We were ready to race.

That night, we had an amazing carb load dinner. One of the Peace Corps staff was also running in the marathon with us, so she kindly invited all of us over to her house for a gourmet pasta dinner. It was wonderful to be in her home, enjoy taco dip, root beer, and other “healthy” snacks and then sit down to pesto, spaghetti with meat sauce and, Lord be praised, home made mac ‘n cheese. To wash it all down, there was chocolate cake for dinner. Life could not have been better.

Sunday morning, we woke up bright and early to make it to the race. I was amazed at the crowd. I was later told that there were more than 14,000 people who ran that day, though I couldn’t tell. All I saw was a sea of yellow running shirts. With adrenaline high and music blasting, the race was kicked off at 7:00 AM and we all began our 21K trek to the finish line.

Running the half-marathon was perhaps one of the hardest and most satisfying feats I’ve ever accomplished. I had two goals: never stop running and try to finish in under 2 ½ hours. Despite my lack of affection for running, the race was, honestly, enjoyable. The weather was overcast, so the sun didn’t beat down on us and we didn’t have to worry about heat. The entire course was covered with mist, which, although a pain for a glasses-wearer like myself, kept you cool and refreshed. Every 5K or so there would be a refreshment stand and 30 or so enthusiasts passing out Powerade and water, and a short ways later you’d be bombarded by dancers, people with noisemakers, and other forms of entertainment. The course weaved in and out of various neighborhoods, so it was always interesting to look around. The ground was flat, paved, and easy to run on. It felt great…at first.

When I ran past the 10K mark, I remember feeling extremely proud. I had only ever run 5K races, so running past the 10K banner officially marked the longest race I had ever run. Things started to deteriorate a bit around 15K. I suddenly became acutely aware of every joint in my body and just how much pounding they were taking as I ran on the asphalt. Somewhere around that time, I also twisted my left knee. I don’t know how it happened, but boy did I feel it for the rest of the race. I had to decrease my speed considerably and by the 18K mark I was running on pure will alone. My entire body hurt and I felt like my joints were going to pop out of my body like rusty bolts. It felt like one of those cartoons, the ones with the old 1920’s car that hiccups and jolts along the road, gradually losing gears and parts until there’s nothing but the driver staring puzzled at the steering wheel. Oddly enough, I never found it hard to breath and my lungs and chest felt great the whole time. I guess it does pay to train at high altitude. The last 3K took an eternity to run and the temptation to stop and walk was almost overpowering. It sounded so sweet, to just walk 5 steps, maybe 10, and then begin running again. However, I knew if I walked I wouldn’t be able to run again. So, I just had to tell myself that I could do it, and that I would do it, over and over again until I finally crossed the finish line. I still had music blasting in my ears, but somehow I heard my fellow PCVs cheering me as I ran past them on the sidelines. I finished my race 2 hours 39 minutes and 8 seconds after starting, which was longer than I hoped but, considering the state of my knee, nothing to be ashamed of.

When I crossed the finish line, I limped over and received a medal, a ham and cheese sandwich, a Dunkin’ Donuts glazed donut, a chocolate protein shake, and a blue Powerade. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve enjoyed a meal so much in my entire life. I joined the other PCVs, cheered for the rest of our friends as they crossed the finish line, and enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing that I had pushed my body to the limits and somehow won.

After resting, showering, and kicking back some ibuprofen, the rest of the night was celebrated with food and fun. Lunch consisted of chocolate frosted donuts and a giant chicken burrito, followed up by an English showing of the newest Star Trek movie. Following that, we all went to an all-you-could-eat sushi bar and practically ate them out of house and home. Unfortunately, we were also celebrating the goodbye of our friend and fellow PCV, Vivaan. After working in Peru for nearly 3 years, he was returning to the US to study law. He had just a couple of days left in Lima before leaving, and we were determined to send him off well. We were all too tired and sore to do any serious shenanigans, but being together and enjoying a large, well-earned meal was enough.

So, call me crazy, but the half-marathon was actually quite fun. The training was difficult, but it kept me sane and healthy during the hardest months of life in the sierra. The race itself was painful to be sure, but I pushed myself past any point I had ever pushed myself to before and you know what? It felt good. I felt strong, empowered, and proud. Afterwards, I got to celebrate with my close friends and laugh and reminisce over our run. The best part? We all wore our medals for the rest of the day and into the night. After all, we had earned them.