The Chase for Virtual Glory
Image credit: Joe Daly
The meteorologist community of San Diego is a loathesome pack of smug, condescending hucksters who all need to be run out of town by threat of pitchforks and torches. I’d sooner put my life in the hands of a carnie with a lumpy bag of meth in his pocket, pulling absent-mindedly at the controls of a rollercoaster while regaling a co-worker with stories of his latest UFO abduction than take the word of a San Diego weather person.
At the faintest indication that storm clouds are gathering somewhere over the Pacific, the San Diego Meteorology Machine (“SDMM”), sounds the call and kickstarts the hysteria engine, filling the airwaves and news sites with hysterical blather about storms of the century and tips for surviving total annihilation (“Pack lots of snacks!”). The first reports are the most dire - the aforementioned storm of the century is heading our way and everybody has a thirteen percent chance of surviving with all of their limbs intact. Then, having secured the public’s attention, they start walking it back. The next day, that Grade 5 hurricane starts looking more like a Grade 4. Beware of downed power lines and mobs with shotguns looking to steal your food and abduct your children for barter with other roaming tribes. On the eve of the storm’s arrival, the hateful minions of the SDMM interrupt your regularly-scheduled programming and leap up in front of their beloved green screens and start pushing computer animations of the storm out east, cautioning that even though the storm is likely to miss 98% of the county, it’s still ok to panic and make a run on the supermarket. After they’ve worn the populace down to jittery, unshaven wrecks, they sneak in a quick update that the now-Category 3 storm will touch land sometime around midnight. Every online news outlet now has a “Hurricane Tracker.”
On the day of total annihilation’s expected arrival, reports start trickling in that the worst of the storm is going to be absorbed by the mountains and that in virtually all civilized areas, one can expect no more than a third of an inch of rain. Nonetheless, there will be a reporter in a royal blue windbreaker standing by the nearest palm tree that shows any indication of wind blowing through it, solemnly cautioning people that even in storms that deliver only a third of an inch of rain, you can still be hit by a piano while walking down the street. Then they throw it over to another reporter who’s tracked down a local estate attorney who talks about the importance of having one’s affairs drawn up in the case of a third of an inch of rain.
When the storm of the century arrives, it is announced by a few clouds floating lazily across the blue sky and maybe some area in east San Diego gets a sprinkle of rain for a few minutes. Cut to some reporter standing in front of a turned over patio chair, estimating the costs of recovery to exceed the quadrillions and providing FEMA’s number in a flashing red graphic.
So tomorrow we’re supposed to get Hurricane Hilary, which was a Category 4 tropical hurricane (rare as hell in San Diego, the SDMM advises), and which now has been toned down to something that might dump up to 2” of rain along the coast. Basically what Florida gets every Tuesday between 1 and 3 p.m. And I’m supposed to run a half-marathon at 7 a.m.
San Diego has a half-marathon “Triple Crown” every year and tomorrow will be my third of the year, so I’ll get a medal for finishing the race and another for having completed all three. Problem is, what if tomorrow is the day that the bloodthirsty cheats of the SDMM are actually right and we get battered all to hell? The race officials sent us all an email, saying that they are fully hooked-up with the SDMM and they have their finger on the gale-force pulse of this harrowing natural disaster and they’re pretty sure the race is going to go on. In fact, the race is still very much on. But in the event that runners don’t want to roll the dice on the very real prospect of running 13.1 miles through lashing rains, thousand mile winds and rampaging packs of wild dogs, they’re giving us the opportunity to run the race virtually. Basically just track your run with a device, run 13.1 miles and mail it in. They’ll send you your medal(s). In fact, if you want to come to the expo, you can pick up your medal(s) in advance.
This is normally an amazing race for runners. 6 miles downhill, followed by 5 or so of flat pavement around the harbor, with one bastard uphill mile and then the finish. Everybody’s time will be fast. If the race happens. Which it is very much scheduled to do.
For me, the race will involve waking up at 4 a.m., driving across San Diego County to the parking lot near the finish line, then take a shuttle bus to the start, then wait an hour or so for the race to start, then run the race, walk back to my car and drive home. An odious proposition from top-to-bottom, even on the sunniest of days. The reality is that I run 10-13 miles every Sunday. I’ve run three half-marathons in the past three weeks already. I’m not doing this to prove anything to anybody. And with a very modest, middle-of-the-pack training pace of 9:15/mile, I’m not in the hunt for any hardware. And so, for the first time in my racing career, I switched to virtual. Which means that at some point in the next couple of days, I’ll start my watch at my front door, run a 13.1 mile loop (or out-and-back), and send the run to race officials to prove that I (or someone, to be fair), did the official distance.
If it’s sunny and mild tomorrow morning, we’ll know the SDMM has won again.