Rather than gradually return to racing, now that in-person races are happening again, I decided to dive in with both feet, both arms, and one torso as quickly as possible with a 5K followed by a half marathon. Never say I do anything by half measures. 

The Fetching Brews 5K is a new race to benefit the local animal shelter. The course goes from one brewery to another brewery, hence the name. There were also dogs, including little Bella who, if she didn’t already have a perfectly good family, I would have stuffed in my skirt pocket and run back to my car with. 

Adrienne with adorable puppy

Bella had just licked my nose, FYI. I didn’t mind at all.

My hopes weren’t high for a super fast race. Given that it was mid-June, the weather had swung to the hot and humid section of the dial, which meant I was already soaked and weary by the time I hit the start. Plus, the 3.2 mile (!) course was all big ups and downs — and, more importantly, it had been a very long time since I’d run a real race. 

Turns out, I hadn’t completely forgotten how races work. Yes, it was gross and sticky but it was such a joy to run with other human beings that I did not care. I placed 5th in my age group (and won’t dwell on the fact that many of the fast 50-year olds who usually beat me failed to show up) and had a super fun morning to boot, even if I didn’t take my beloved Bella home.

If there had been puppies at the Bristol (R.I.) Independence Half, my race would have been a better one. It also would have been a better race if I’d remembered my self-imposed rule about not running anything longer than a 5K in the Northeast in June, July, or August. But I was blinded by the idea of restarting my quest to run a half in all 50 states before my running years end. Rhode Island would be state number 13. 

So, really, what happened is all that unlucky number’s fault.

It’s not that it was a bad race — any race you finish upright and under your own power is a good race — it’s more that it was a dispiriting slog of a race that I was happy to see the end of. Much like the pandemic itself, truth be told.

Adrienne, her big sweaty face, and a bridge

This was mile four and I was already so very, very over it.

I cannot fault the scenery. In my brain, the New England coast, with all of its rocks and frigid water, is what a beach should be. Bristol may be the perfect expression of that belief. Each mossy stone and aquatic bird has been carefully placed by an unseen hand to celebrate the Atlantic’s majesty. I had hoped that being that close to the water would provide a nice breeze; instead, it was dead flat and calm the whole time. Besides, most of the course was in neighborhoods and on the Roger Williams University campus. Lovely, mind, but with zero wind. 

All the signs pointed to trouble the day before, when I swung into a nearby Panera to grab my traditional pre-race bagel AND THERE WERE NO BAGELS TO BE HAD. Is that, like, their thing? An oat-y roll and cream cheese but it just wasn’t the same.

I honestly considered stepping out of the starting chute and just hanging around until my BRF Lisa finished. But my brain helpfully reminded me that this is what I do for fun! I hadn’t gotten to do it for forever! This is just a big celebration of all of the training! Which is when the grumpy side of my brain started telling the overly positive side to just shut up already. 

I want to say that my race got better as the miles ticked by. Reader: it did not. The first half of the half took about four days to finish, even though I did my best to focus on little happy details I found on the course, like the wild roses and crushed shell paths. I spent the next three miles thanking every volunteer and/or cop. Two guys in an EMS cart trailed me through the last three miles. I wondered if they knew something I did not. 

Somewhere around mile 12, after the last big hill and with the knowledge I could stop running soon, I finally started to enjoy what I was doing. This could also have been delirium. 

Adrienne, near the end and delirious.

A local-ish mother runner snapped this picture right before the finish. My happy face is because I saw her, not because I was running.

Regardless, that last bit was my fastest bit. I actually felt pretty good as I rounded the corner and saw the finish line. While the medal was pretty sweet, what was even better was the ice-cold wet cloth a volunteer gave me.  Never have I ever appreciated a good scrub more than I did that one. 

As much as I’d like to blame my poor performance this being the 13th race in my quest, it was mostly the result of not being a warm-weather creature. From here on out, I promise to remember my rule about summer races. Unless, of course, a global pandemic forces me to go another 17 months between 13.1s. Then all bets are off.