Sea Isle City 10-miler = hard

The plan was drawn in the sand, marked in footprints left 25 years ago when Rocky Balboa capped the Rocky III montage by kicking sand in Apollo Creed’s face en route to winning the world’s most dramatic footrace on a beach ever.
I had hoped to reenact that scene during a scorcher Saturday at Sea Isle City, but instead of finishing a seashell-chuck away, I ran 10 unforgiving miles, all while not wearing knee-high striped tube socks.
Instead I stunk up the beach worse than a month-old horseshoe crab carcass.
To know just how bad I performed, you first need to meet my competition.
Some opted to forgo socks or sneakers, a smart decision if not for the 2.5 miles of boardwalk, the stretches of burning sand, the rigid shards of seashells and the surrounding stampede of feet.
It’s not unlike a beach setting to inspire men of all sizes to show off skin, but during a race dynamic, some things are better left tucked within ones’ XXXL shirt. There’s no excuse for people to get seasick while on the shore.
Some topless runners reminded me of moving coat racks and others seemed as if they just stepped off a Venice Beach leg press.
As for the women, they always remembered to say “Excuse me” when passing.
The race started 5:30 p.m. on the boardwalk at an ugly 94 degrees.
Unless positioned in the front or the back, you couldn’t spit anywhere near the start without getting slapped or punched. I don’t know how camels do it.
An estimated 1200 sweaty runners huddled within a narrow block of boardwalk and did their best not to touch each other while awaiting the starting horn. Some must’ve not heard it go off. These people were soon trampled.
Stuck near the back, I zigged and zagged my best past the crowd, fully prepared to get between any handholding couple.
The crowd disintegrated with each passing souvenir shop. Once off the first mile-stretch of boardwalk, runners fell victim to the small patches of soft sand – the antithesis of quicksand – including me.
I trudged through the dunes until reaching the shoreline, pocked with bucket-sized waterholes, some serving as moats to sandcastles, since stomped on by me.
We rounded the cone, allowing me to see everyone slower than me. I took little satisfaction in this fleeting fact, feeling fatigued and my legs.
At Mile 3, I clocked in at 22:35 and thought about ending it and writing about my 5K within a 10-miler.
But there was no escape, even mentally: my imagined “happy place” was the beach.
So I bit down on my lip, turned my baseball cap backward, grew some facial hair and tried to hide the fact of running like a little girl; that is until a couple girls passed me.
Now off the sand, I pulled over to the side and put the ‘walk’ in boardwalk and stretched out any hidden kinks while sucking more air than a Hoover.
The rest of the race involved more sand, more stops and my same goofy grimace. If knowing my time makes you feel better in a depraved, sadistic way, I finished in an unofficial 90:45.
Although a loser shouldn’t be giving any shout outs, I’d like to thank the dozens of volunteers who handed out water. It
I’ll hopefully find a race to rebound at this weekend. But until then, you can find me at the beach doing my best ostrich impression.