The much-anticipated "maratón" was a great success. More or less. I was pleased to find that the big race turned out to be a 10K...or a 5K should you so choose. I ended up being the only runner in the 11K...quite by accident, I can assure you. Allow me to elaborate. I'll start from the beginning...of the race, that is.
Outfitted in my new (rather ugly) running shirt, Nelson and I lined up with the rest of the runners. The course was a 5K loop and those who were running the 10K were to simply loop around again. If I am going to go through the trouble of running a race, you better believe I'm going to run the whole thing. I informed Nelson that I was going to do the 10K but that he could do whatever he wanted and the we did not have to stay together...trying to subtly insinuate that I did not want to run by his side for an hour. He said he was going to run whatever I ran. Ugh.
At that moment a little boy came up to me and said, "Hello."
Pause.
I need to explain something. Being fair-skinned and clear-eyed (as they call it here), I obviously stick out to the general Chilean population. However, there are a FEW Chileans that are not of darker complexion. So when I am labeled as an American/"extranjera"/"gringa" walking down the street, the only way they have to confirm their suspicion is by saying something to me in English and testing the waters. Thus, as long as I remember to respond in Spanish, I can continue on my way and deflect any excess attention.
Play.
So this boy catches me completely off guard and I instinctly respond, "Hi." The little niño squeals and runs off to report back to a large group of gossiping ten year olds.. Shoot. The damage is done. My cover is blown. Within seconds, I'm completely swarmed by a group of young boys asking me if I'm from Miami and if I know Obama. And then the race whistle blows. I resign myself right then and there from setting any personal records. I take a deep breath, put in my headphones, and start the 10K shuffle with my new fan club. Meanwhile, Nelson has been bumped to the outskirts of the swarm. The course weaves around plazas and through shop-filled streets. The race officials didn't bother to reroute traffic and as I discovered after I almost got my posse run over by a grape truck, Chilean drivers don't yield to pedestrians. Spectators were everywhere and shopkeepers were all out on their stoops to watch the race. Even through the music blasting through my headphones, I heard the cat calls, whistles, and cheers of the crowd...all screaming "Gringa! Gringa!"
After we had been running for a considerable amount of time, I saw a few runners branch off to the left as I was steered right by Nelson. A few strides later and I was crossing the finish line. What? Surely that couldn't have been right. If so, I had just run the 10K at the speed of an Ethiopian. Nelson waved me over (the now panting group of adolescent boys stuck by my side) and I asked him if that was actually 10 kilometers that we had just run. He stammered and said that he thought that we were running the 5K and that the course for the 10K had split off awhile back. He tried to blame the miscommunication on the language barrier. Don't even go there Nelly-boy, you wimped out and you know it. Fuming, I headed BACK out to find the other runners. Some of the boys weren't too keen to follow me around for another lap but the diehard fanatics stuck with.
I backtracked, tacking on an extra kilometer, and found the turn off. By this point, we were considerably behind so I was quite surprised to find that the crowd of spectators had not thinned out at all. In fact, it had multiplied. Word had spread quicker than I could run that a Gringa was in the race. Several people in the crowd had made makeshift cardboard signs that said, "Hello Gringa!" or "Thank you Gringa" or just "GRINGA." Everyone wanted hi-fives as I passed, one man gave me a wilted yellow flower, and cameras flashed in my face. For Pete's sake, people!
The boys and I crossed the finish line (for a second time...no thanks to Nelson) after the eternal 11K shuffle. And yet, we still managed to complete our two laps around the race course before Gloria had made it around once. As fast as that woman drives, she sure walks slow.
Gloria and I post-race
Outfitted in my new (rather ugly) running shirt, Nelson and I lined up with the rest of the runners. The course was a 5K loop and those who were running the 10K were to simply loop around again. If I am going to go through the trouble of running a race, you better believe I'm going to run the whole thing. I informed Nelson that I was going to do the 10K but that he could do whatever he wanted and the we did not have to stay together...trying to subtly insinuate that I did not want to run by his side for an hour. He said he was going to run whatever I ran. Ugh.
At that moment a little boy came up to me and said, "Hello."
Pause.
I need to explain something. Being fair-skinned and clear-eyed (as they call it here), I obviously stick out to the general Chilean population. However, there are a FEW Chileans that are not of darker complexion. So when I am labeled as an American/"extranjera"/"gringa" walking down the street, the only way they have to confirm their suspicion is by saying something to me in English and testing the waters. Thus, as long as I remember to respond in Spanish, I can continue on my way and deflect any excess attention.
Play.
So this boy catches me completely off guard and I instinctly respond, "Hi." The little niño squeals and runs off to report back to a large group of gossiping ten year olds.. Shoot. The damage is done. My cover is blown. Within seconds, I'm completely swarmed by a group of young boys asking me if I'm from Miami and if I know Obama. And then the race whistle blows. I resign myself right then and there from setting any personal records. I take a deep breath, put in my headphones, and start the 10K shuffle with my new fan club. Meanwhile, Nelson has been bumped to the outskirts of the swarm. The course weaves around plazas and through shop-filled streets. The race officials didn't bother to reroute traffic and as I discovered after I almost got my posse run over by a grape truck, Chilean drivers don't yield to pedestrians. Spectators were everywhere and shopkeepers were all out on their stoops to watch the race. Even through the music blasting through my headphones, I heard the cat calls, whistles, and cheers of the crowd...all screaming "Gringa! Gringa!"
After we had been running for a considerable amount of time, I saw a few runners branch off to the left as I was steered right by Nelson. A few strides later and I was crossing the finish line. What? Surely that couldn't have been right. If so, I had just run the 10K at the speed of an Ethiopian. Nelson waved me over (the now panting group of adolescent boys stuck by my side) and I asked him if that was actually 10 kilometers that we had just run. He stammered and said that he thought that we were running the 5K and that the course for the 10K had split off awhile back. He tried to blame the miscommunication on the language barrier. Don't even go there Nelly-boy, you wimped out and you know it. Fuming, I headed BACK out to find the other runners. Some of the boys weren't too keen to follow me around for another lap but the diehard fanatics stuck with.
I backtracked, tacking on an extra kilometer, and found the turn off. By this point, we were considerably behind so I was quite surprised to find that the crowd of spectators had not thinned out at all. In fact, it had multiplied. Word had spread quicker than I could run that a Gringa was in the race. Several people in the crowd had made makeshift cardboard signs that said, "Hello Gringa!" or "Thank you Gringa" or just "GRINGA." Everyone wanted hi-fives as I passed, one man gave me a wilted yellow flower, and cameras flashed in my face. For Pete's sake, people!
The boys and I crossed the finish line (for a second time...no thanks to Nelson) after the eternal 11K shuffle. And yet, we still managed to complete our two laps around the race course before Gloria had made it around once. As fast as that woman drives, she sure walks slow.
Gloria and I post-race
Surprisingly, I think you look darker than Gloria! 11K? I always knew you were an overachiever!
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