On Being Vulnerable... #IceSkatesRequired

Sometimes, I feel superhuman. Mostly because of what’s projected back to me about me. I think I’m a pretty sensitive, needy, softie. Don’t believe me? Watch me interact with my nieces, nephews or goddaughters. Or any kids for that matter. All that developmental stuff goes out the door. My singular priority becomes their smile. Seeing their cute lil’smile.

But, that’s not really who I am (to people). I’m Wonder(ous) Woman! I’m not afraid of anything. I can do everything. Tears? Tears are for suckas (not really, just making a point). And above all, I am not vulnerable.

Only, that’s probably what I am, mostly. Vulnerable. I’m the most fragile thing I know. Consistently in danger of breaking. Vulnerable just looks a little different on me. You might not see my cry. Or have an emotionally charged outburst. Or call you for closure. That’s never been me. Maybe I would be more emotionally balanced if I did those things, but, it’s not my style. So, the question becomes, when will you see my vulnerable?

Ice. Skating.

What person, clearly high on some illegal substance, invented this? I know how it happened. There was a group of them smoking said substance, eating cheetos, and acting like Introduction to Philosophy students discussing the meaning of motor oil and tooth picks. Someone was looking for a knife to spread some peanut butter on a piece of fried chicken skin because they eat all the same color foods together, and slipped and fell. Then they thought to themselves, “I bet I would have been able to keep my balance if I strapped this butter knife to my Timberland work boots.”

Yep. That’s the etymology of ice skating.

I had no plans to skate on ice. None. I attended this event to hang out with friends, have a few laughs, and watch other people fall down. Maybe get a picture or two of said “falling” and look cute in my winter scarf and gloves. Those were my goals.

How did I get on the ice? A challenge. All it takes is a competition. “Oh, so you scared?” … “Don’t tell me you can’t ice skate?!” …and the statement that had me in line requesting size 10’s: “You’re just gonna punk out, huh?”

Peer pressure is the last pair of Jessica Simpson heels you’ve been looking in store and online for, only to find…for full price. Of course I bought them.

#RealTears&Prayers

And I’m on the ice. Only, I don’t know how to ice skate at all. I have some rhythm (it’s genetic) but seeing that I have fallen down attempting to stand up, I didn’t get an A in balance. Balance happens to be the one skill needed to ice skate. Or ice shuffle. Or ice stand. Or just be physically out on the gottdamn ice whilst holding on to the side.

But I’m a competitor. So I fought through every inclination to get off the ice and find a seat in the bleachers huddled with the smarter people. How did I get around on the ice? I hate you asked. Well, I did a couple of laps holding on to the side. Waiting for little kids clearly practicing for the Ice Capades to pass, cringing at grown ups with "coverage" #ChrisRock falling down (Lord don’t let it be me!), and praying. Lots and lots of Dear Father God in Heaven’s were prayed that day.

Then my friend. A guy (stay with me, there’s always a guy) saw me probably praying and clearly searching (without movement on the ice) for the exit. About to give up. He held my hand and encouraged me around the ice. He was in awe that there was this thing, this particular activity that showed him a proverbial birth mark he never believed to be on my brown skin. Vulnerability. I was born vulnerable. Who knew? What’s more, was his reaction: Shock. It shocked him to see me that way. I’m Wonder(ous) Woman, remember? That's what he projects back to me.

There. Is. Nothing. Fun. About. This.

But he kinda liked it. #NoRingOnIt Me. Vulnerable.

Shortly thereafter, he saw me on a bench ready to hurl the first ice skate off my foot at someone.

I hope he got a screenshot of that. Of me, vulnerable. It ain’t happening again, boss.

Only, it’s absolutely happening again. It’s happening again this very Winter. This very December. Because the only thing worse than being born vulnerable, is being handed a challenge – and not accepting.

Running Redemption & Real Tears

I should have known something was up. It was too damn easy. I wrote Michelle that letter. She was sooooo apologetic. I let 2012 pass. Nothing. Then 2013 rolls around. The homey (e-boogie a.k.a alicia keyeky a.k.a the real donut monster #nomnomnom) hit me up about it. Vegas. Las Vegas. Strip. THE Strip. At night. #REDEMPTION

Then it happened. I got a $20 off the race registration fees. There is a “free” backpack offer if you register by a certain date. Free entry to pre and post race parties. Hotel vacancies ON the Strip, NEAR the finish line, for HELLA cheap still available a month before the race. I. Should. Have. Known.

Race preparation went well despite an ankle sprain Labor Day weekend. I injured my ankle doing something really physically challenging. Standing up. Ankle compression sleeve seemed to take care of the minor pain and swelling as I continued to train. I was even almost to the point of wearing heels again. These. Were. Signs.

Road trip to Vegas did not work out. Had to find flights at the last minute. And I did. Reasonably priced, considering I bought them the week of the race. And I did not pay attention to any of them. The. Obvious. Signs.

Despite the minor emotional breakdown at baggage claim, I made it to the airport shuttle, to the hotel and even checked in two hours early for free #VegasTotalRewards #MoreCluesIPaidNoAttentionTo. I unpacked my clothes, shoes and flask. I grabbed my wallet and phone, and went for a walk to the Expo. With all this extra time, I thought: Why not stroll down the pavement I intend to run in 24 or so hours? Why. Not?

Expo! I’m there. I’m ready. I even have my pre-printed waiver completed, in hand, ready to be turned in to the next available volunteer. All I need is my bib number, so I can get in the correct line, and its happening. It. Is. Really. Happening.

the devil in a red race bib

Bib 3375? Isn’t that cool? Love the #3. There are 7 of us girlie gurls. And the number 5 is important too, but #illnevertell. Then, I noticed a rather physically fit runner with a bib number 19,000+ pass by. I thought to myself, that’s odd? I registered for this race much later than I did in 2011. Welp?! Maybe they thought to give me this more awesome number since they dissed me in 2011. It’s not like they could forget the epic correspondence from Virginia, right?   

Corral 3? Isn’t that cool. There goes the #3 again. It must be fate. Wait. Last time I did this race, I was in Corral 38. Maybe they don’t have as many corrals as they did last year. But how does that work with thousands of people registered for the race? Whatever, it ain’t my program. Yea I said it. Program #HigherEd. Maybe they want me in the front because I’m cute. That’s cool. I can dig it. I mean, I Am Cute.

Now, all I need to do is get into this expo and make it happen! Free stuff everywhere! Why buy supplements when they are being given away?

     Guy: Yea! Let’s get this done! Are you ready?!  
     Me: Yea, I’m sooo ready for this!

     Guy’s Friend: Let’s Rock This MARATHON! 

     Me: Um, let’s rock this HALF marathon! 

     G: You’re running the Marathon, right? 

     Me: I’m running the Half. Maybe next year I’ll think about a Marathon.

          #ANGTFaMarathonInVegas 

     G’sF: So, why are you registered for the Marathon? O_o

And now we’re all looking at my race bib. It’s red. It’s red just like their race bibs. They are running the Marathon. And apparently, I am too. Running. 26.2 miles. At night. In Las Vegas.

Have you ever heard the expression “real tears”? If you haven’t, you could have seen one in that moment. I shed a single “real tear” in the middle of the Rock N Roll Las Vegas Expo. For the next 20 minutes, my response to everything was “no”. Are you okay? No. Ready to run? No. Are you doing the Marathon? (Hell The F) No. Do you want me to call someone for you? No. What’s your name? No.

I do not recollect many times I have been so scared that I could not come up with a single intelligible response to a question I knew the answer to when my grey matter was still forming. My mind was going in circles #roundandround. I love a challenge. But, I am also quite fond of living with ample health to actually accept and succeed at said challenge. Did you know that the first person to run a marathon died? And now, I have one handed to me in the form of a red race bib. What’s it gonna be?

It’s going to be traded for a gold one. Damn that. To hell. All the way to hell, with a pit stop in Marathon, Greece. Damn that straight to hell on the Las Vegas strip at gottdamn night. I was still trying to figure out how I was going to get my almost healed ankle 13.1 miles, and you want me to do it twice? I would rather (not) leave Las Vegas without a medal, dust my Asics off and try again. #aaliyah

I mean, I do like the number 3.

Well played Michelle.

#BlackGirlsRunLasVegas

I made it to the SOLUTIONS station. They had the solution (what TV show reference was that for bonus points?). After the synapses started working in my brain, I came up with more than just “no” in response to the kind young woman waiting for me to tell her my actual name. She quickly exchanged my race bib. Red became Gold. 3375 became 17864. Corral 3 became Corral 17. And I "became" redeemed.

You know I love a good prank. That was pretty damn good.

Very Well Played Michelle.

13.1 Medal(less) Miles

I ran a half marathon in 2011, I think. I mean, I have a medal to prove it, but no picture. No medal, no staged photo at the finish line, no nothing. Just a memory. A dream I dreamed – but it feels like it’s gone from me. So I did what I always do in moments like these. I wrote a letter. A manifesto if you will about 13.1 medal-less miles.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Competitor Group

San Diego, California 92121

To Whom This Concerns,

 

I was a participant in the 2nd Annual Rock & Roll Half/Full Marathon in Las Vegas this year. I have/had been excited for the experience for quite some time. Having been to Las Vegas numerous times, clearly this event provided me a unique and exciting Las Vegas experience – one the competitor in me just had to be part of! I even attempted to get my friends to join in. Though many could not make it, we have already begun talks of participating in the event next year!

Fairly new to running, I’ve eased myself into it, taking on shorter distance races in my area (Virginia Beach). It just so happened that I participated in the Wicked 10K... An absolutely amazing time running in costume at the beach. Not really knowing what to expect, when I crossed the finish line, I was greeted with a sea of smiles, congratulatory wishes, and a medal of accomplishment – I Finished!

My only goal for the half marathon was to finish. This was a personal goal, and the sentiments of my best friend who awaited me at the finish line. His parting words to me were, “If you want a ride home, I’ll see you at the finish line.”

Between mile 7 and 8, I took my break from running to relax my legs. I told myself this would be a short break, don’t stop moving, finish, because my best friend and that awesome medal is waiting for you at the finish line. As the cold set in and the wind and drizzle came upon me, I shortened that long statement to “medal, finish.”

I crossed the finish line...looked for my best friend to smile for the camera, and gazed around for medals. Though my feet were chilled to the core and my teeth began to chatter, there was enough adrenaline to find it. I joined the line at the information booth, headphones still blasting, waiting in line for a medal. I noticed that the two young ladies in front of me walked away upset. Upon taking my headphones off and observing the irritated look on the volunteer’s face, I soon learned what they did. No more half marathon medals. I was told rather coldly that I would receive my medal in eight weeks via mail.

 

I left perplexed. I debated whether or not to address the manner in which she spoke to me, but knew that no matter our discourse, I would leave empty handed. As I recall the events of this past Sunday, I cannot help but feel that my achievement, finishing my first half marathon EVER, all by myself, is a little sullied. After all, everyone wants to see a photo I cannot produce; me at the finish with my medal. Further, I cannot help but be saddened that whenever I receive my medal it will not be engraved. I was so excited to learn that this could be done at the finish line... I already planned what I would engrave and how my best friend and I would laugh and reminisce on all our accomplishments in that moment. Sure, this can be done by other means, but the nostalgia, memory and feeling that would have been wrapped up in that special moment is gone; he lives in Las Vegas and I reside in Norfolk. That would be an expensive memory to remake.

 

In reflecting on this experience, I think back to the registration process. As I logged on to the “strip at night” website and began the process for what I expected to be the most amazing experience ever, I noticed all the rules, regulations, and disclaimers. Once I signed up and paid my $125 that was it. No changing, no giving my registration to another person if I couldn't make it, no refund if something happened – done deal...show up or lose out.

 

I didn’t register in November or days before the race. I registered around May/June. I agreed to your terms, followed your rules, paid a ridiculous amount to fly across country, was on time for the race, went to my proper corral, competed and most importantly, I finished. While there were thousands of people who performed more excellently than I, besting times and exceeding their personal goals, the fact remains, I did everything I agreed to and was instructed to do, and you did not hold up your end of the agreement.

As a programmer in a University setting, I can imagine the amount of time, energy and effort than goes into large scale events; however I would not presume to know how that is magnified when organizing an event such as a half/full marathon, add to that the location, the Las Vegas Strip! With that being said, I can take a volunteer maybe being a little rude, some piece of the event starting a little late, long lines, or having to stand and wait for an informed and accurate response. What is still difficult for me to excuse is being told that my $125 translates to my receiving specific products, and leaving Las Vegas without a particular item – the one in which I desired the most. Furthermore, there was no consolation, no fix, nothing offered to lessen the disappointment. “We know who didn't get medals; you'll get it in the mail in eight weeks.” It’s not like I could wait eight weeks later to pay you. I received a half-hearted, unapologetic “apology” and a look past me to the next person in line as they prepared to deliver the same news in a similar uncaring manner.

 

I will put what’s left of my faith in your revised word, mail receipt of my medal within 8 weeks. Please know that I am very disappointed. While this has not deterred my desire to run and compete, it has made me question if I should continue racing in your organization's events. I realize that the threat (and this by no means is that) of losing one registrant is not the end of the world and will certainly not ruin you; however, my personal ethics have always been that I first inform the source of my malcontent, before sharing it with others.

Best Regards,

Bib #39840
 

I went back to Las Vegas. #redemption

I received a call the day this letter was received. It was from a rather kind woman named Michelle. We spoke for about twenty minutes about my experience in Las Vegas. She listened as I recited my impassioned story about my less than satisfactory experience. Michelle apologized profusely. She sent me a t-shirt and a medal. Weeks later I received another medal. I consider this matter henceforth, now and forever more…UNRESOLVED!

I want my damn picture! Michelle was nice though…