…But a few of my friends are.
As I said, the race was supposed to be this weekend, and for months my compatriots have been training for it. Unfortunately, due to another epic fíjese que, the race directors changed it at the last minute to next weekend instead. For most people I’m sure this is not a huge problem. Then again, most people in Guatemala don’t book non-refundable flights to the United States for a few days after the race.
My crazy friends decided to run it this weekend anyway.
Despite my epic walks through the very same mountains, I am in no shape to run 13 miles, much less through the wispy air at almost 12,000ft. Instead, I offered to be not the thoroughbred but the mule. I raced up the mountain in relative luxury, toting the accoutrements of distance runners: Sweatshirts, pants, extra bottles of water, cell phones, wallets, cameras, and—because it was almost her birthday—clandestine candles.
They started up the road shortly after 7am, with me following at 8. I was bent on arriving at the top first so I could cheer them through the final meters and snap “victory” photos of their triumphant arrival. Unfortunately, the only available transport was a microbus with a maximum capacity of 15 passengers. Unsurprisingly, it contained 22.
Motivated by my task, I handed off my grossly oversized costál (tote made from reappropriated rice sacks) to the driver’s assistant and squeezed into a jump seat already occupied by 2 others.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” I smiled weakly. They grumbled but said nothing; these sorts of inconveniences are expected in this part of the world.
I received my just desserts as a woman behind me attempted to get out and then 3 others get in. Only two of them could fit inside, with one sitting on the armrest between the front seats, staring despondently back at the rest of the micro. The other remained standing, my knees and his lost in a tangle of unclaimed limbs. The third, along with the driver’s assistant, clung to the luggage rack on top of the vehicle, waiting for more space to open up as we began to trundle off.
As I started up, I palmed a camera, hoping that I could whip it out to get an action shot or two of the racers on their journey. The standing man was forced to keep switching his stance as we swerved right then left along the serpentine road. His jean-clad posterior kept blocking the only window available to me. After a few unsuccessful—and entirely awkward—attempts to position my camera towards the opening, I gave up. I’d just have to catch them at the top.
I felt increasing admiration for the runners as our micro ate up more and more road without seeing them. Finally, far later than I expected, we began to pass my friends, two walking during a particularly steep stretch here, a solitary warrior winding their way up there, until I had passed all 7.
With about 20 minutes before I could expect the first runner to appear, I got out of the micro, paid my fare, and trudged off towards the Mirador (Lookout) recessed from the road that marked the race’s conclusion.
I became antsy. I kept checking the settings on my camera to make sure that it was tuned to the proper capture mode, and then my watch to estimate how much time it would be before the first arrived. I propped the costál against a stone, within easy reach but out of the way of the runners who were sure to be stumbling across the final stretch.
Again I checked the camera. Again I checked my watch.
I continued this ritual for an interminable length (ironic, since I kept fiddling with my timepiece) when the first, the only male, rounded a bend and exploded into view. I waved to him like an idiot, as if his success was somehow the exclamation point to my own. As he approached I began fumbling with the camera, suddenly unsure how to get it to focus. I trotted alongside until he burst through the imaginary finish tape and bent over trying to catch his breath, hands resting sturdily on his knees. He stopped his stopwatch before looking at it.
“Huh,” was all he said at first. “Huh.”
I gave him some water.
“I just ran that in an hour and 24 minutes.”
“Huh,” I responded. “That’s fuckin’ crazy.” I was impressed by the bounds of human endurance.
We both sat on a cement embankment and waited for the next runners. Slowly, they began trickling in, until we were all there.
Two more PCVs showed up, bringing along a clandestine birthday cake to compliment my candles.
“Happy birthday!” we all shouted to the birthday girl.
Her eyes lit up, and she immediately began picking at the chocolate, a slave to the restorative properties of calories and cocoa powder after a long run. As she picked at it I tried to place the candles, but my unobtrusive aim was no match for her barbarism: She executed the dessert with extreme prejudice.
We lazed around at the lookout, partly resting, partly waiting for the thick cloud cover to lift so we could see Huehue laid out below us. It never did, and after an hour we unstuck ourselves from the ground and hitch hiked to a comedor (independently owned family restaurant) nearby. Two decided to run there as a cool down to their earlier workout.
When we got to our table I picked the nearest seat and slumped into it.
“What’s with you?” One of the others asked.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m exhausted.”
They laughed politely, thinking it was a joke, but I had meant it. The thin air, the excitement of the run, the crowded jockeying in the micro…I was just a normal man among a table full of supermen.
Jesus, I really should start running.
Find the photos here: https://picasaweb.google.com/sigrinj/Week31?authkey=Gv1sRgCJHe3d-n_fGkDA
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