Have you ever heard of Rosie Ruiz?
In 1980 Rosie Ruiz won the Boston Marathon with a time of 2:31.56.
A few days later, faithful marathon spectators from the first half of the race route noted how, oddly, they hadn’t seen Rosie run by...which led to an investigation...which led to the discovery that Rosie had jumped in partway through the race....which led to more investigation...which led to the discovery that for parts of the New York Marathon (which she had run the year before) she had ridden the subway.
In short, no runner wants to be compared, in any way, shape or form, to Rosie Ruiz.
Yet, there I was on a recent Sunday morning standing in front of the timer’s table, lumped into the same category as one of the most distasteful names in running lore.
Faith Korbel and Rosie Ruiz – cheaters.
The 5k had started out so well.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning, the course was flat as a pancake, I felt great, and the race route was incredibly simple to navigate. It went something like this:
You start.
You run.
You cross a bridge/overpass thing and see an orange cone in the distance.
(here comes the trickiest part)
You go around the orange cone.
You run back the way you came.
Done
All of these factors led me to believe that, if I could control my ever-present race nerves, I may just run a 5K PR (personal record)
….and, as I crossed the finish line, I happily found that I had.
I know that many of you are runners, swimmers, bikers and competitors in general and understand the euphoria that comes with a PR.
Did my time break any course records? Absolutely not.
Had I qualified for the Olympics? Not even close.
Was I even the first place female finisher in that particular race? Nope.
But none of that mattered, because at that moment (in my mind) I was: completely unstoppable, virtually unbeatable, unbelievably awesome, the best of the best, the queen of the 5K, and ready for absolutely anything.
And this state of euphoria/distorted self-perception continued for the next ½ hour as my fellow runners and I killed the time before the official results were posted by eating post-race bagels and oranges and talking about what races we were training to run/ had run/ wanted to run,
“You ran New York?” “Which year?”
“The weather was beautiful that year.”
“That last stretch is brutal.”
“Not as brutal as Boston, though.”
“You ran Boston?” “Which year?”
…because when runners get together they tend to talk about, well, running.
Now, I cannot overstate the importance of the official results of this race, as a PR cannot truly be claimed until you can see your name, right there in print, with the anticipated “net time” to the right.
Until a PR is officially posted, it is unofficial and not an actual PR – the time on your watch, the time you thought you saw on the clock when you finished, the time your friend clocked you at…none of those matter.
And that is why my heart sank when those official results were finally posted and my name (gulp) wasn’t there.
I looked again, was the list by time?
Was it alphabetical?
Was I accidentally looking at the men’s list instead of the women's?
No…no…and no.
(the next line needs to be read with drama – raw, honest, painful emotion – think the last 20 minutes of the movie “Titanic”)
This was earth shattering! How could this happen? Why me? Why today? Why this race? Why, God, why?
A friend encouraged me to investigate further at the timer's table, where I fidgeted nervously as one of the timers looked at my number with a hint of recognition.
“Oh yeah, #1661, we need to talk to you. Another runner said that you turned early. Did you turn early?”.
I instantly replayed the entire race in my mind….
start
run
bridge/overpass thing
orange cone
back
finish.
A more confident runner would bring it to his attention that the route was really straight and, for the most part, flat. They would make it clear that nobody could possibly be clueless enough to not turn around a very obvious bright orange cone that can be seen for a mile beforehand. They would clarify that cheating on a mostly flat course, where every single runner within a mile could see you, would be a completely ridiculous thing to do… and they may add the additional point that attempting this ridiculous thing would likely result in more than 1 complaint from other runners…and spectators…and would hopefully be noted by the volunteer whose entire job is guarding the orange cone.
My incredibly opposite-of-“a more confident runner” response?:
“Well, I think I turned around the cone…like everyone else?”
(the question mark is not a mistake…I’m fairly sure I managed to make this statement into a question)
He looked sufficiently unimpressed and told me they would investigate further and let me know.
Had I turned early?
No, of course not (for all of the reasons a more confident runner would have explained to the timer), but (we need the dramatic reading again) unless you have ever been falsely accused of a crime, you couldn’t possibly, possibly understand the weight of this level of accusation and the self-doubt now creeping into my mind.
The injustice of having my precious 5K PR time ripped away in such a cruel and unjust manner was crippling and my self-confidence was rattled.
As I walked to my car, head low, I ran through the race over and over and over again.
“Did I turn early?”
“Did I cheat?”
“Think, Faith, think… do you definitely remember going around the cone….the orange cone…the BRIGHT ORANGE cone?”
This happened to be a long weekend and we were leaving after the race for an overnight in western Virginia.
I would like to say that I am a strong enough person to shake off the incident and enjoy a nice relaxing trip.
I would like to believe that I have enough faith and trust in the running community to believe they would see my innocence and restore my official time.
I would hope that I would be able to recognize what most of you have probably already recognized - that this was just a 5K and not, I repeat NOT, a life altering event.
But no…while our mini-trip was wonderful, I definitely spent more than a fair amount of time reviewing the incidents of Sunday morning.
The trip to Front Royal, VA involved the constant retelling of the story to a very, very, very patient boyfriend.
A peaceful hike in Shenandoah National Park included a public declaration to all living things within ½ mile that “ I am not a cheater!”
The walk through Luray Caverns was an ideal time to review the race route over and over and over and over again (start, run, bridge, cone, bridge, run, finish).
And the drive home was the perfect opportunity to formulate a conspiracy theory involving the 3rd place female runner, whom I passed not long after turning around the cone and whom obviously had EVERYTHING to gain from claiming I turned early. She was likely in cahoots with the timing guy (or maybe she even paid him off…who knows what she could be capable of!), and by the time we arrived back in Arlington she had reached true villain status – along the lines of that blond kid from the original Karate Kid (“Sweep the leg!”).
I'm happy to report that, in the end, my name was cleared. I received very a nice email from the 5K race director explaining that they had followed up and had no reason to believe that I had turned early. My name was returned to the final results and I can, in good conscience, claim my time and my PR.
So, unlike Rosie Ruiz I did not cheat and, having spent a long, painful day and a half in her running shoes (as undeserved as it might have been), I guarantee that I never, ever, ever will.
In 1980 Rosie Ruiz won the Boston Marathon with a time of 2:31.56.
A few days later, faithful marathon spectators from the first half of the race route noted how, oddly, they hadn’t seen Rosie run by...which led to an investigation...which led to the discovery that Rosie had jumped in partway through the race....which led to more investigation...which led to the discovery that for parts of the New York Marathon (which she had run the year before) she had ridden the subway.
In short, no runner wants to be compared, in any way, shape or form, to Rosie Ruiz.
Yet, there I was on a recent Sunday morning standing in front of the timer’s table, lumped into the same category as one of the most distasteful names in running lore.
Faith Korbel and Rosie Ruiz – cheaters.
The 5k had started out so well.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning, the course was flat as a pancake, I felt great, and the race route was incredibly simple to navigate. It went something like this:
You start.
You run.
You cross a bridge/overpass thing and see an orange cone in the distance.
(here comes the trickiest part)
You go around the orange cone.
You run back the way you came.
Done
All of these factors led me to believe that, if I could control my ever-present race nerves, I may just run a 5K PR (personal record)
….and, as I crossed the finish line, I happily found that I had.
I know that many of you are runners, swimmers, bikers and competitors in general and understand the euphoria that comes with a PR.
Did my time break any course records? Absolutely not.
Had I qualified for the Olympics? Not even close.
Was I even the first place female finisher in that particular race? Nope.
But none of that mattered, because at that moment (in my mind) I was: completely unstoppable, virtually unbeatable, unbelievably awesome, the best of the best, the queen of the 5K, and ready for absolutely anything.
And this state of euphoria/distorted self-perception continued for the next ½ hour as my fellow runners and I killed the time before the official results were posted by eating post-race bagels and oranges and talking about what races we were training to run/ had run/ wanted to run,
“You ran New York?” “Which year?”
“The weather was beautiful that year.”
“That last stretch is brutal.”
“Not as brutal as Boston, though.”
“You ran Boston?” “Which year?”
…because when runners get together they tend to talk about, well, running.
Now, I cannot overstate the importance of the official results of this race, as a PR cannot truly be claimed until you can see your name, right there in print, with the anticipated “net time” to the right.
Until a PR is officially posted, it is unofficial and not an actual PR – the time on your watch, the time you thought you saw on the clock when you finished, the time your friend clocked you at…none of those matter.
And that is why my heart sank when those official results were finally posted and my name (gulp) wasn’t there.
I looked again, was the list by time?
Was it alphabetical?
Was I accidentally looking at the men’s list instead of the women's?
No…no…and no.
(the next line needs to be read with drama – raw, honest, painful emotion – think the last 20 minutes of the movie “Titanic”)
This was earth shattering! How could this happen? Why me? Why today? Why this race? Why, God, why?
A friend encouraged me to investigate further at the timer's table, where I fidgeted nervously as one of the timers looked at my number with a hint of recognition.
“Oh yeah, #1661, we need to talk to you. Another runner said that you turned early. Did you turn early?”.
I instantly replayed the entire race in my mind….
start
run
bridge/overpass thing
orange cone
back
finish.
A more confident runner would bring it to his attention that the route was really straight and, for the most part, flat. They would make it clear that nobody could possibly be clueless enough to not turn around a very obvious bright orange cone that can be seen for a mile beforehand. They would clarify that cheating on a mostly flat course, where every single runner within a mile could see you, would be a completely ridiculous thing to do… and they may add the additional point that attempting this ridiculous thing would likely result in more than 1 complaint from other runners…and spectators…and would hopefully be noted by the volunteer whose entire job is guarding the orange cone.
My incredibly opposite-of-“a more confident runner” response?:
“Well, I think I turned around the cone…like everyone else?”
(the question mark is not a mistake…I’m fairly sure I managed to make this statement into a question)
He looked sufficiently unimpressed and told me they would investigate further and let me know.
Had I turned early?
No, of course not (for all of the reasons a more confident runner would have explained to the timer), but (we need the dramatic reading again) unless you have ever been falsely accused of a crime, you couldn’t possibly, possibly understand the weight of this level of accusation and the self-doubt now creeping into my mind.
The injustice of having my precious 5K PR time ripped away in such a cruel and unjust manner was crippling and my self-confidence was rattled.
As I walked to my car, head low, I ran through the race over and over and over again.
“Did I turn early?”
“Did I cheat?”
“Think, Faith, think… do you definitely remember going around the cone….the orange cone…the BRIGHT ORANGE cone?”
This happened to be a long weekend and we were leaving after the race for an overnight in western Virginia.
I would like to say that I am a strong enough person to shake off the incident and enjoy a nice relaxing trip.
I would like to believe that I have enough faith and trust in the running community to believe they would see my innocence and restore my official time.
I would hope that I would be able to recognize what most of you have probably already recognized - that this was just a 5K and not, I repeat NOT, a life altering event.
But no…while our mini-trip was wonderful, I definitely spent more than a fair amount of time reviewing the incidents of Sunday morning.
The trip to Front Royal, VA involved the constant retelling of the story to a very, very, very patient boyfriend.
A peaceful hike in Shenandoah National Park included a public declaration to all living things within ½ mile that “ I am not a cheater!”
The walk through Luray Caverns was an ideal time to review the race route over and over and over and over again (start, run, bridge, cone, bridge, run, finish).
And the drive home was the perfect opportunity to formulate a conspiracy theory involving the 3rd place female runner, whom I passed not long after turning around the cone and whom obviously had EVERYTHING to gain from claiming I turned early. She was likely in cahoots with the timing guy (or maybe she even paid him off…who knows what she could be capable of!), and by the time we arrived back in Arlington she had reached true villain status – along the lines of that blond kid from the original Karate Kid (“Sweep the leg!”).
I'm happy to report that, in the end, my name was cleared. I received very a nice email from the 5K race director explaining that they had followed up and had no reason to believe that I had turned early. My name was returned to the final results and I can, in good conscience, claim my time and my PR.
So, unlike Rosie Ruiz I did not cheat and, having spent a long, painful day and a half in her running shoes (as undeserved as it might have been), I guarantee that I never, ever, ever will.
Comments
Post a Comment