Finished last

I love long distances. If I’m going to sign up for a race, I want to get my money’s worth, and that translates in my brain to committing to the longest distance available in the event.

When I first started running, I fell in love with the half marathon. It was a distance that was long and hard enough to feel challenging but not so long that I wasn’t able to enjoy the rest of the day. I’ve run very few fast 5Ks and 10Ks, and it has often seemed like the longer the distance, the better the race for me.

While living in Peru, I ran my first races and traveled several hours to a town in the Colca valley for a half-marathon. It was common for these events to be largely communicated via Facebook and word of mouth, but I had heard from several sources that the race was a half marathon, so I went. The town was about 12,000 feet above sea level and the race was a road and trail looped course through several villages in the area.

I showed up on race morning, full of excitement, only to have my hopes dashed by the “men only” race category. Women were not allowed to participate in the open 21K category, but there was a 7K option for them. I was furious. I’d trained and mentally prepared for a half marathon, not a 4-mile sprint. Of course, there was nothing I could do to protest as the categories had already been established. One thing is for certain, though: I was not prepared to race a 7K and hadn’t traveled for hours just to find out my uterus was the one thing keeping me from running a half marathon.

So I signed up for the 7K and lined up with the men. I tried to quell the butterflies in my stomach, but I knew if there was one race I had to finish, it was this one. There was no way I could defy the race directors and townspeople only to collapse mid-race. Collapsing mid-race seemed like a real possibility, though. I was inexperienced at running at high elevations and had only run a handful of half marathons with significantly flatter courses (all of which were much better marked and had at least several female participants).

The first half of the race was easy as it was mostly downhill, but the male runners dropped me early on. I ran alone, relying on the occasional spectator to point me in the direction of the runners. When the uphill climb started around the halfway point, I passed a runner or two. Minutes later, though, I saw an ambulance speed past with the runners in the front seat. I was again alone, and I struggled up the remaining hill accompanied by a police motorcycle. The finish was at a dirt track, and I had to do a lap to officially cross the finish line.

I was the last person to finish the race, but I finished. There were at least three runners who dropped out and had to hitch a ride with the ambulance back to town.

I didn’t feel like I was trying to prove a point or anything. I just wanted to run the race I’d planned for and so I did. I know that equality in running has made quite a few strides in recent decades (pun intended, ha!), but we still have a long way to go.

Crossing the finish line!