A messy bird's nest of a bun, piled on top of my head with the rest of my hair held back in a colored, plastic head band. When I first started running, I would wear my pony tail at the nape of my neck and it looked like a dead marmot hanging off my head because it was so long and lifeless. When I ran cross country in high school, I would clip my bangs back in with a bobby pin, but I've only gotten faster since I started with the headbands, and I love them.
Crusty, white salt marks under my eyes and at my hairline after a long race. Sweating against the wind makes these mini sand dunes when I stop moving, and after the Pikes Peak Ascent my co-workers were laughing hysterically becuase the white build-up under my eyes made me look like a little raccoon. I'm so used to them being there that I never remember to wipe them away after I run, and now, even when I remember, I don't wipe them away because it's a sign to me that i've worked hard.
Colored ribbons looping around my neck, a round medal dangling at the end and thumping against my stomach when I walk. Finisher's medals, first place, second place, third place, age group winner, overall winner, female winner. I've got a collection in my parent's house and a collection in my apartment, tucked away where no one can see them. But I know they're there. I don't really care so much that I have so many and I know no one else does, either, but every now and then I'll sift through them quickly, reminiscing on the memory attached to each one.
Runner's shorts. Different from other shorts becuase they are what they say they are, and to the greatest extreme. I have no less than ten pairs, and yet I usually wear the same two because they are the ones laying on my floor leftover from yesterday's run, easily accessible for today's.
Bulging--and when I say bulging, I mean it--bulging calves. My best friend is a basketball player and a sprinter and when she flexes her legs, her calves ball up in tight little packets of muscle--I think it's because she jumps so much. But not me. When i flex my legs, my calves jump to perfectly flat and elongated structures, like giant plateaus jutting out on the Arizona landscape. When i cross my legs at church, the leg on top automatically flexes itself and I always tell the person next to me to punch it. Their knuckles are usually sore for the remainder of the Sunday school lesson.
Desert-like achilles and lost toenails. I wear long enough socks, I really do, but with so much running, the skin on the back of my achilles is drier than a lizard's coat and about as attractive too. We don't have to talk about the toenails (or lack thereof), it disgusts me. That's not to mention the little leftover bunion pad marks. You know when you wear a bandaid all day and then you take it off and there's a little outline where the band-aid was and dirt builds up around the edges of it? I have bunions (not as nasty as their reputation makes them sound, as it turns out), and I used to wear little adhesive pads that surrounded my bunion and made them hurt less during the run. The little dirt marks which remained after the run are an endearing sight in my memory now. Needless to say, it's a good thing no one judges me by what my feet look like, or they might think I am some crazy runner girl who has too little time from one run to the next to actually take care of the vehicles which carry her so far. Heaven forbid.
Nike 410s, red laces tied up. Nike actually discontinued the 410s, but the image of them laying on my floor, ready to pick up and run at any moment acts as a memorial for the numberless shoes I've worn to shreds. When i was going to run the Boston Marathon, it was the middle of a stressful finals week for everyone in my apartment, and I was leaving to go to the airport hours before any of them woke up. When I walked out into the hall of our apartment that morning, my roommate had left a note on the floor wishing me luck and on top was a pair of red shoelaces. Shoes have come and gone, but those laces have run with me in every race since.
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