In A Pickle

For my first race of the season, I’d planned on running the Ambler Frostbite 5-Miler. I’d planned to sign up the week of the event,  figuring that any race over 5k in Pennsylvania in winter would never stand a chance of filling up.

Silly me.

The weather forecast was 40 and windy, with 50mph gusts. I knew if I told myself, “I’ll just do a workout instead,” there was a good chance that workout would end up being sitting on the couch reading magazines. I had to find another race. In Pennsylvania. In February.

Which is how I found myself at the Winter Pickle Run.

Held in a local state park, the Pickle is a 3.2-mile prediction run: Before the race, you write down the time you think you’ll run, and those who come closest to their predicted times win prizes. I love low-key winter races like this, largely because of the motley crew that shows up.

There are the families, some of them out for the kids’ first 5k (yeah!), led by parents whose expressions clearly read, “We’ve had way too many snow days this year.”

There are members of a tribe I’ve dubbed the Enlightened Cyclists (think bike jerseys paired with sweatpants), who have finally realized that even a run in 50-mph winds is still better than a ride inside.

There will be the parade of frantic latecomers (although in this case, tardiness was somewhat justified -- a downed tree had blocked one of the main roads going into the park).

Inevitably, there will be one spectator with a dog the size of a small cow.

Finally, there are the chicken-legged guys in their Sunday best: Short- shorts (no matter what the temperature) and shirts or jackets from more-prestigious events. They're the ones running strides around everyone else (including the dog) in the parking lot*, looking mildly perturbed at the fresh hell developing around them. 

And of course, there were the pickles. Pickles in pint glasses on picnic tables—spoils to be bestowed on event victors. Dressed-up pickles—decked out in pipe-cleaner hats and googley eyes—which were hidden on the course for us to find.  During registration, the event director wore a brimmed hat festooned with gherkins; for the start, he changed into a full-body pickle suit, complete with Mickey Mouse-style gloves.  You really haven’t raced until you’ve been sent off by a pickle with a megaphone.

“Picklers ready…Go!”

I never did find any of the trailside pickles, but the search proved a welcome distraction from things such as my burning lungs, the flailing trees and downed power lines on the course, and the fact that an autumn’s worth of leaves was barreling down the hillside toward us at 50 mph.

After I crossed the line (nearly a minute sooner than predicted—no pickle for me), I sat on a bench in the sun, attempting to ward off the chill with free hot coffee and freshly popped popcorn, as I watched the pickle cheer, heckle and direct runners at the finish. It was a surprisingly perfect way to spend a winter afternoon. But don’t take my word for it: Your next (and final) chance for briny glory in 2011 is March 19^th.

*Full disclosure: I’m a parking-lot strider too. But I’m a big fan of pants.