It seems strange to me that I can feel humbled by something I did, but that’s exactly how I feel. I had an outstanding race today. Despite all my worries about under training, despite having run only 5 times– at all– in the last two months, despite the rain and the clouds, and a hurried start, and almost no warm-up, I turned in a half marathon race that I didn’t know I had in me. And while I’m proud of what I’ve achieved, and of the hard work I’ve put in to get here, the overwhelming feeling in my heart is one of being blessed, like I’ve been given a gift. I can’t explain it.
Dinner the night before can make or break a race.
It had been three months since I ran for distance, when I hit my PR at the Heights Half Marathon. I’ve done some running since (ten runs, to be exact), but nothing near a simulation distance (~9-10 miles). I’ve hit a couple of 5ks, done some interval training with my running club, and put in a few easy jogs, but nothing like what most training plans would have you doing to get ready for a race of this length.
I’ve already hit my goal for the year at this distance, so the self-induced pressure to go fast has somewhat relaxed. With the 5k being cancelled last night, that pressure returned a little, but I still wasn’t terribly worried. I wanted to beat my previous PR, but if I didn’t, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. The Air Force Marathon features pace groups, led by experienced runners whose job it is to help you maintain level splits and hit your target time. My strategy was to go out with the 1:50 group, see how long I could hang with them, and then drop back when I had to, still finishing ahead of the 2:00 group, and setting a new PR.
The buildup to a race like this starts days in advance. I stay away from the beer fridge, start loading up on water and salt, and limit my dairy intake. My workouts taper off, generally ending with a gentle bike ride or a long walk with Max. The night before, I have a larger-than-normal dinner, heavy on complex carbs and protein, to make sure my body’s stores are topped off. The morning of the race, I wake up 3 hours before the start, have a small breakfast and a little coffee, and get together my stuff for the race. Cell phone, arm band, shoes, socks, heart rate monitor, lucky shorts and shirt… It’s a careful, well-rehearsed ritual that I’ve developed over the dozens of races I’ve done over the past couple years. When it all goes right, it almost always leads to me having a good race.
Hydrate, nourish, caffeinate.
This morning’s ritual went mostly according to plan. I had wanted to ride my bike to the start, since it’s only five miles from my house, and thus avoid the traffic. But a rainy early morning nixed that plan, so we drove the truck down, instead. The parking situation was the usual level of chaos, made more exasperating by the cops not allowing left turns into the gates. We finally got parked 45 minutes before the race was scheduled to begin, but had well over a mile to walk to the starting area. The field we were parked in was a veritable swamp, so I chose to hand carry my shoes in and walk in my flip flops, which cost me more time.
To warm up before a race, I usually like to jog a mile or so. A slog through a muddy field in flip flops wasn’t what I had in mind, but it had to do. At the start area, I took a quick detour to the porta-johns and then changed into my shoes, trying to wipe as much of the mud from my feet as I could. This wasn’t the calm, relaxed start I like to have, but sometimes there’s no helping it.
I arrived at the line in a rush, a cough drop tucked in my cheek and my phone still booting up Strava. I found the pace group sign for 2:00, and was surprised at how far up they were in the crowd. I presumed the next sign I saw was for the 1:50 group, but couldn’t get close enough to tell. Soon the announcer was calling “1 MINUTE!”, and the crowd crushed forward in anticipation. This is normally one of my favorite parts of the race, as the building tension of thousands of runners surrounds me. But due to my late arrival, all I could do was try to get in a notch for a good start, get my GPS running, and wait for the gun.
Did you ever get the feeling that you were being followed?
Starting a race with almost six thousand other runners is an amazing experience, but the first few moments are always a little strange. The crowd presses forward toward the line, the anticipation builds, the gun goes off… and nothing happens. There are so many people ahead that it’s often a couple minutes before you can do anything but shuffle forward, and sometimes you can barely jog even after crossing the line. I was far enough forward in this race that there wasn’t an awful delay to get across the line, but it still seemed anticlimactic.
The first half mile was an obstacle course. I’m normally happy to just roll along with the crowd while my legs come in, preferring to make my first moves once things are a little more spread out, but I had to catch that sign. I weaved in and out of traffic, putting in little bursts of speed when I had an opening, until I was running just a few feet from the pacer. There was a huge cluster of runners around the sign, and I realized that the mental benchmark of coming in under two hours was a powerful draw for a lot of runners. The herd thundered up Springfield Street to the top of Huffman Dam, angled slightly left, and started down a gentle descent. Our pacer, sensing a lot of us were holding back, said “if you want to let loose, go for it!” And I did, allowing my stride to stretch out and gravity to pull me forward. Soon I could see the sign for the next pace group up, and I momentarily toyed with the idea of reeling them in, but cooler thoughts prevailed.
Just after the water station at the bottom of the hill it started to rain. The sky hadn’t given any clues as to its intent all morning, and I had worried that I might spend the whole race getting wet, but this turned out to be the only real precipitation we experienced. The rain spritzed us gently for a quarter mile, and then stopped.
I was running easy, making sure not to waste myself in the early stages, and paying attention to my form. I kept listening behind me to hear if the 1:50 pace group was catching me, but I was surprised to find that they were still 25 yards or so behind. I thought I was going to have to work much harder just to stay with them from the beginning, so when I was staying ahead of them without pushing at all, it was encouraging.
I dunno what the lady on the right is all smiling about. This crap hurts!
They finally caught me at the water station on Skeel Avenue. I only started using water stops this season, preferring to run with a pack before. My relative inexperience was costing me time at each station, something I’ll have to remedy in the future.
We came upon the 4 mile mark in what seemed like no time at all. I said “wow, already?”, mostly to myself. A girl running next to me heard and agreed, and we struck up a conversation. She was from Canada, and this was her first half marathon, although she had benefited from training advice from her father, who was running his 66th full marathon this morning. Crucially, the small talk kept me distracted, and the Blerch off my back, for the next several miles, until we got separated at a water stop and I couldn’t reel her in again.
The second and last little hill, climbing up State Route 844, wasn’t nearly as steep or long as I remembered it being. A death metal band was jamming for all they were worth at the bottom, giving us a little boost before we started up. An interesting side effect of running in a much faster part of the race this year was that there weren’t nearly as many people struggling to make it up that hill, either. Last year, it seemed like I passed half the field going up that hill, as so many people in my speed bracket just weren’t prepared for any sort of climb.
Things got serious for me right around nine miles. I was having to really work to maintain the pace of the group, and joints were starting to hurt. This isn’t unusual for me, as things usually start to hurt around the 9-10 mile mark, but then I’ve never had such a strong anchor pulling me forward through the pain, either. I had drifted back from the group by about 20 yards, and felt that I was in serious danger of being dropped, if I didn’t catch them and hang on through the next water station. I had to hang on as long as I could, and I was starting to think I just might be able to make it all the way to the finish with them!
But right at mile 10, the unthinkable happened. We reached the top of a roller and the pacer pulled up and limped off to the side. He had cramped, and couldn’t continue. He called out to us to press on, that we had this, but I wasn’t so sure! The pace group had been my life boat for the last couple miles, keeping my speed up and pulling me forward, but in the absence of that little sign on a stick, it fell apart. I hadn’t been paying much attention to my pace for most of the race, as I just allowed the group to do my thinking for me. Now I was forced to reengage, and I have to admit I was a little disoriented.
Over at last. After running for so long, walking actually feels a little funny.
I looked ahead for other people in the pace group, but couldn’t find any. I had slowed considerably and I knew it, but I was having a hard time picking back up to the pace we’d had. My right foot was starting to become an increasing problem, as a blister was forming under my arch and one of my toes started to feel funny.
Strava would show, after the race, that I lost about 30 seconds per mile on my last three miles. Not all of that was down to having lost our pacer, but that did allow me to concentrate on my own problems more than I had been. Without the ability to focus on staying with the group, I was left to focus only on myself. After running over ten miles, that’s not a particularly good thing to focus on.
I was getting passed by a lot of runners now, which added to my mental struggle. I hadn’t been passed much for the whole race, but now that we were nearing the home stretch, other runners were picking up their pace, just as I was struggling to maintain my own. I knew this part of the course well, since I’ve biked and run countless miles along this stretch of road, and I tried to break it down into smaller pieces in my mind. As runners came past me, I tried to latch onto them for a tow. I calculated the miles to go, and how long that would take at what I guessed was my pace. But try as I might, none of my tricks were working. The throttle was as far forward as it was going to go, and I just had to keep trying.
Some may contend that a finisher’s medal is a reward for mediocrity. To them I say, I beat myself, and that is enough.
I had been looking forward to going down the Springfield Street hill on the way to the finish, as a way to make up a little easy time and pass some people. But with the problems my right foot was having, each step on the downward slope was excruciating, and I barely gained any speed at all. Whatever pace I did pick up didn’t stick with me as the ground leveled out again, and I was back to what was becoming a survival jog.
We passed the one-mile-to-go mark just as we turned back into the gate to the base, and I wanted to kick, but I just couldn’t. I got some water from the final station and tried to pick it up, tried to talk my body into some sort of acceleration, but my body wasn’t answering the phone. In a way, it was a satisfying feeling, because it meant I had put in everything I had to this point, and I wasn’t leaving anything on the table. But racers race, and I wanted to pass some people before this thing was over!
I was in the loop now, the 3/4 mile finishing area that takes you between the Air Force Museum’s outdoor display aircraft and thousands of cheering fans. I saw Bonnie, an old family friend and my second mom, and she cheered me on as I rounded the final corner. Finally, my body responded to my demands for more speed, and my stride lengthened. It wasn’t much, but I was kicking now, and passing people on the way to the line and picking up steam.
More for my growing collection!
The familiar euphoria of the finish overwhelmed me as I reached the line, and exploded over me when I saw the clock. I felt like I had slowed so much since losing the pacer that I would be lucky to beat my PR at all, but the clock showed me finishing in 1:52, and my chip time would be faster still! I did it, and in grand fashion! The child inside me leapt for joy even as the grown man around him wanted to cry. I slowed to a stop, dumbfounded at the performance I had just completed.
Katie was there at the finish, and she was as emotional as I was. We shared a long, sweaty kiss over the barriers, and her eyes shined at me to underline her words, that she was so proud of me. I laughed the breathless laugh of a man who has cheated death, collected my medal from the throng of officers, grabbed some recovery drinks, and wandered into the crowds of victors to bask in the glow of an unbelievable personal victory.
This same race last year was my first ever half marathon. I had trained hard for it all year, slowly increasing my distances, fighting through injuries, and learning by my mistakes. Last year, I had exceeded my expectations and finished in 2:17:43, which satisfied me entirely. This year I finished in 1:51:49, an improvement of nearly twenty-six minutes! That’s an eternity that I feel represents the hours and miles I’ve done in the year between. It’s a reward for hard work, but one so rich that it’s hard to feel anything but awed and humbled. I am a very blessed person.
