Beach Race - Article Eight

If you’ve read my previous articles, you might notice that this is the second one I’ve written about the experiences I’ve had while running here in Costa Rica. Yet chances are you probably haven’t, so this one should sound fresh. (Don’t feel bad – I have doubts my mom consistently reads my column.) Plus, this is Hopkinton – hard to find a place that likes running more than we do. And in light of the bright white start-line in front of the town common that makes our town more than just a dot on a map, it only seems fair that I write about how I was lucky to have the experience of a lifetime, running the “Boston Marathon” of Costa Rica.
Being a foreigner, people like to invite me places, without regard to how well they know me. Friends, parents of friends, even my school-bus driver. There seems to be no, “Do I know this person well enough to be with them all day?” rule that prevails in the States. So following that pattern, as I struggled to keep my eyes open during a civics class on Costa Rican government, the girl in front of me, Kari, turned around and whispered in Spanish, “Can you run?”
I was a bit baffled, and tried to use my limited knowledge of street-Spanish to decide if this was some type of innuendo. Luckily she continued, telling me that if I thought I could do it, her family was running the “Sol y Arena (Sun and Sand)” beach race, and she wanted me to come along. I’d seen posters for this race, plastered on the wall at the local gym – 10km, the entire course along the edge of the ocean. But 10km (that’s about 6.5 miles) I’d never run that far in my life. Doing some quick math in the margin of my civics book, I figured I could run it in about an hour. What the hell, I thought, if I can make it through this civics class a race that long should be a piece of cake.
Kari and her mom picked me up early the next morning, driving a small bus. My questions about the vehicle choice were quickly answered as we made stop after stop, picking up what seemed to be every relative that Kari has. It was like we were creating a Costa Rican “clown-car.” I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by all the Spanish and laughter flying by my head, until someone handed me a hotdog with ketchup – just what I needed to feel at home. I talked with Kari as I watched the green mountains in the distance, feeling the air get more humid with every mile that brought us closer to the coast.
When we finally arrived, we walked along the beach and dipped our feet in the warm ocean for a while. Kari and her family wandered over to the starting line, blending in among the throng of racers stretching, talking and checking their watches. Kari’s uncle bought a bag of strange-looking fruit from a passing street vendor and handed one to me as he told what they were called. It was an indecipherable combination of vowels that I now assume translate to “vacuum fruit of death” -- just one bite sucked all of the liquid out of my mouth, leaving me gasping for water. Needless to say I didn’t end up finishing that one.
As it drew closer to the 4 p.m. start time, the still-growing crowd of what seemed like thousands pushed towards the start, trapping me among them. Everyone around me was drenched in sweat from the humidity and close-quarters, cheering and waving as camera-helicopters flew over us, broadcasting the race. I waited for a gunshot or some type of loud start signal. It never came. Suddenly it just felt like someone stepped on the gas, and I was carried along with the crowd pouring out onto the beach, only keeping my balance by pressing my hands against the runner in front of me, wondering what death by trampling would feel like.
Yet as I hit the beach, I could suddenly breathe again. Runners of all shapes and sizes drifted by me, footsteps muffled by sand being the only sound. The backs of everyone’s legs quickly became covered with the spray of wet sand, turning their bright white running shoes to grey. As I ran along I started to notice things in the sand which on closer inspection turned out to be beached sea creatures. I stepped over deflated pufferfish, small eels, and even the occasional jellyfish, like little pink blobs of jello dotting the beach.
Every two kilometers, a rest station would appear with volunteers frantically handing out water and the occasional Gatorade. The water came in small tube-shaped plastic bags, letting you bite off a corner and suck the liquid out as you ran. Once they finished, the runners just dropped their deflated water bags along the way, leaving the beach looking like the scene of a massive impromtu college sleepover.
As I got further into the race, I noticed the crowd that had cheered on the runners at the start had long since dwindled, leaving just small huddles of families, waiting on the dunes, hoping to catch a glimpse of their loved ones. On the beach side, small children lay in the surf, watching the never-ending stream of people flow by. I glimpsed a strange looking child lying in the surf in the distance, either with some type of deformation of just morbidly obese. As I ran closer I couldn’t believe my eyes – it was a huge beached sea turtle, waves slowly lapping over its shell. If it wasn’t obvious already, I certainly proved myself an American then, stopping and staring in wonder at this majestic-looking creature, slowly beginning to run again as it became apparent it was dead.
Living in a running-fanatic town like Hopkinton, I’ve heard people talk about “runner’s high,” the feeling like you could run forever. I never quite knew what they meant, but I think I felt it for just a moment during that race, palm trees to my right, endless ocean to my left. I suddenly realized there was only one thing missing. I bent down, took off my running shoes, and ran barefoot in the surf towards the setting sun.