Every runner is a kindred soul after the race. They know exactly how hard you worked to place where you did, because they did too. They know the hours spent and the effort expended.
The storytelling begins in the finish chute, continues at the water station, and becomes serious bullshit during the warm-down. Everyone tells stories about who did what, where, and when. Who went out too fast, who made a big move in the middle of the race, who could not hold the pace, who dogged who during the race, who ran like crap, and who ran well. There are discussions about whether the mile marks were right, the length of the course, whether this course is harder than another, the number and operation of the water stops, the course monitors, the traffic, and the weather; it all gets covered with good-natured gusto. On and on it goes, like Indians counting coup after a battle.
There is a sense of happiness and satisfaction knowing that you did the workouts necessary to prepare for the race, and ran it as well as you could, given your current fitness level. On the other hand, if you wussed out during the race, I pity you. Wusses can’t get dates; dogs shun wusses; wusses can’t get jobs; wusses can’t graduate from high school; priests won’t forgive wusses; wusses are the lowest life form on the planet; wusses hate themselves, at least until the next race.
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