Almost There. That’s the name of the rustic, pine-paneled bar and grill where my friend and I enjoyed a pre-race dinner last weekend in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Almost There Sports Restaurant and Tavern.
She was doing the full, I was doing the half. She chose boring old chicken parm with spaghetti. I went with a more exotic choice. My gut told me the broiled halibut special was the perfect pre-race meal.
Nine hours later my gut was telling me no such thing.
My friend and I had very different experiences on our separate three-thirty a.m. bus rides from town to the starting areas. I learned later that her only regret was having a chatty seatmate who had scouted the course the day before and was all too happy to share her many impressions. On my bus, I was full of regret for my exotic meal choice the night before and barely aware of having a seatmate.
As we bounced our way 13.1 miles up the winding mountain highway course, I clenched my cheeks and visualized how each passing bump brought me closer to the porta potties in the starting area. Almost there, I thought. Almost there.
Half an hour later my visualization became a reality. The porta potties at the starting area were clean. They were well stocked. And they were plentiful. I can speak with authority on all points, because I visited several of them, clearing my system of the fishy fish dish.
At six a.m. the race began, heavy clouds hiding the sunrise but the promise of a new day upon us. Minutes before the gun, the race announcer couldn’t get a recording of the national anthem to play. A random runner volunteered to sing. She did a pretty great job. We clapped and hollered and then we were underway. It was 45 degrees and I was grateful for the bright white cotton gloves we’d gotten in our swag bags at the expo the day before.
I was feeling good until Mile 3, when I had to admit that a bit more urgent system clearance was required. Hopefully the final bit. Almost there! I told myself.
I ducked into the first porta potty I spotted out on the course, sad about losing contact with a running couple whose pace and distracting chatter I liked, but grateful to have found a safe harbor in an approaching storm.
The storm was short and intense. Yet I sensed that this was truly the very last of the broiled fish special. This has to be the most perfect mid-race pitstop ever made, I remember thinking. And that’s when I noticed that there was no toilet paper. None. Not a scrap. Perfect pitstop? Almost there.
I thought of Seinfeld’s Elaine and her toilet paper dilemma. But unlike Elaine, I didn’t have someone in the next stall to beg a square of. All I had was the sound of racers just outside leaving me in their dust . . . and a pair of bright white cotton gloves.
A few moments later, I was back to running down the mountain, flexing and clenching my cold bare hands. As I clicked off the miles, I decided that the end couldn’t come soon enough to my half that was already feeling like a marathon. Almost there!
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