In 2009 when I ran the Thanksgiving Turkey Trot 10k in Detroit with two of my close friends from college, I was in a weird place — the year had brought significant job and relationship loss, a shifting set of life goals, and the fathomless end to a harrowing freelance project that left me with temporarily deteriorated social skills. I met Senny and Nicole and Nicole's dad in the early, chilled morning downtown, wearing nothing but shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, a thin hoodie tied around my waist. Though they upbraided me lightheartedly for being scarcely dressed, though my rule of thumb during cold-weather running (no wind) is generally: Over 45 degrees = shorts. I get hot very, very quickly.
For the first few miles, Senny and Nicole and I ran together. The route seemed clearly marked, and we relaxed, conversing rather than running competitively. At some point I spotted a girl wearing a shirt for the cross-country team I ran with in high school, and I ran ahead to say hello to her, tell her I used to be on the team, ask her if the same coach was coaching. We had a pleasant conversation, and then I continued on, looking behind to notice I could no longer see Senny or Nicole.
I guess I'll do the last few miles without them, I thought. No problem!
It didn't take much time for me to get to a point where the path split, and a man in an orange vest waved, "This way, 10K; that way, 5K!"
"10K this way?" I breathed hard, motioning to the left path.
He nodded, and his hand followed my motion. "10K that way," he yelled.
I cheerfully continued my run, developing that sliver of a notion one has during a race that you are suddenly ahead of most people. This didn't seem probable. I was running too casually in the beginning, and we started the race at the back of the crowd. Yet I pushed these concerns aside, rationalizing that I still had a few miles to go, and there were simply that many more 5K runners than 10K runners, hence the thinning field after the split.
Rounding a curve on Jefferson Avenue, I passed a spectator who began clapping energetically upon my presence.
"You go, girl!" She yelled.
"Thanks," I breathed. This has happened before, I thought. This could still be normal. Except that there were all these men suddenly running very quickly past me. Sprinting. Men sprinting. Sprints happen at the end of a race, and these were very fast men with bulging calves.
I quickened my pace, and entered a tunnel — but not before two or three other spectators screamed at me excitedly: "First woman! First woman!"
In the tunnel, I passed a sign that said Mile 6.
I had not been running long enough for a sign to say "Mile 6." Four miles, maybe. Not six. I resolved however that I was in a dark tunnel, and there was no where else to go but out.
Oh, out. Out was the finish line. I sprinted; I busted past that electronic mat; I heard people screaming: Girl! Girl! Woah, you rock! Oh god.
"Congratulations!" Someone handed me a card. "Make sure you come to the award ceremony!"
Mortified, I took the card and untied the thin sweatshirt wrapped around my waist. It's black, and zips, and—most importantly–has a hood. People were looking at me. That's the girl that just busted through with that time, they were thinking. Or, perhaps: Who does she think she is? Filthy liar!
I zipped up the sweatshirt to hide my runner's bib and pulled the hood as far over my forehead as I could manage, scrambling to the edge of the Detroit River to stretch. Somehow, I cut two miles out of the race unintentionally and "won" it—top female overall—a preposterous, Olympic time. I need to fix this.
"Are you at least going to claim your prize?" Nicole asks, after we find each other an hour later. Having been lost in the convention center, I thank her for not calling my name over the loudspeaker.
I clear my name on the phone later, desperate to crown the real female winner, explaining that I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere in the race. In doing so, I discover I was listed as having run several 5-minute miles. Well, if only.
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