You can't really lose a half-marathon. You can win, sure. Anyone who has ever crossed the finish line first can attest to that. But you can't lose at running 21K. You show up and finish or you don't.
You can lose your keys.
At some point just after km 3, a fellow racer tapped my shoulder and said something about dropping things. I quickly assessed my being - ipod (check), timing chip on shoe (check), water bottles in belt (check, check), apartment key in back pocket (oh, crap).
Thus began the next fifteen minutes of retracing my steps, like a salmon against the flow of runners, eyes on the ground, asking each race official, "Perdi minha chave; você sabe algo disso?" (Loosely translated to: My dumb ass didn't zip the back pocket to my shorts and my key came flying out; have you seen it?)
|I think Bruno Mars was telling me something...|
Fortunately, the course essentially wrapped around the neighborhood where I live, so I removed my conspicuous race number and walked home. On the way I thought about how grateful I was that the gentleman in the race tapped my shoulder to let me know I dropped the key. Obrigado, Sir! This sentiment was short-lived, however, when I thought about the fact that this was a key. Not a few coins, or a water bottle. This is something people need to get into important life things, like cars and houses and safes.
So I call bullshit, Sir. Had I been running behind someone and they unknowingly dropped a key, I would pick it up. This was km 3, after all. You have not hit your wall; your brain is still functional for logical thinking. A considerate person picks that shit up. I'm just saying.
I'm not passing the blame here - I should have triple-check the zipper on the pocket - I'm just disappointed. It was a good three kilometers, though...
What amounts to the most expensive bottle of sunscreen ever.