Running to the devil, devil yeah
--Hootie and the Blowfish, "Running From An Angel"
It's late in the afternoon on New Year's day. He thinks it's about time to make some life changes, so he looks online for a website he has been to once before. There, he registers for a half marathon race to take place in twelve days. Over the past six months his training has been spotty--his typical runs were only 3 or 4 miles long and he has run no more than 9 miles at one time--so the thought crosses his mind that twelve days may not be enough time to truly prepare for such a distance. He shrugs and clicks the register button, telling himself this will be a diagnostic race, a measure to tell him where he is at in his training, which to the casual observer is pretty obvious. He is nowhere in his training. But at least the race will afford him a beautiful view of Lake Mead and a goal to get him started on what he hopes to be a year full of long distance running.
Over the following ten days, he attends a spin class at the gym a couple of times, and goes for an hour-long run one morning. Two days before the race he steps onto the treadmill intending to run at a 7-minute pace for an hour. After 30 minutes, he has had enough of running in the same place and cannot understand how people stay on such blasted machines for more than 20 minutes without going insane. Perhaps they are insane, he thinks to himself as he moves to the stationary bicycle for another 10 minutes before giving up and going home.
The night before the race, after picking up his registration packet in the hotel banquet room, he stops for some Panda Express. This is not a pre-race tradition. It's just, they do serve rice, and he does need some sort of complex carbohydrate. Not up-to-date on all the contemporary literature concerning pre-race preparation, he decides this will do as he lifts the chopsticks to his lips and tastes the kick of the Kung Pao chicken. He hydrates throughout the evening and sets out his racing clothes before spending a restless 8 hours in bed trying to sleep.
Finally, it is time to get up. Checking the weather forecast, he decides it will be too cold to race in short sleeves. Three wardrobe changes later, he is finally ready. Opting for the training shoes instead of the racers, he zip-ties the timing chip to his laces and heads out the door.
At the starting line, the typical pre-race jitters are eerily absent. He attributes this to his acceptance of the fact that he has not trained for this, that he would be lucky to place among the top runners in his age group, let alone the overall race. His warmup, therefore is minimal--a few minutes of light running followed by a hamstring stretch, some calf stretches and a bit of Powerade to maintain hydration.
There is no gun. The clock counts down to the start and the runners take off when it reaches zero. He starts off at a swift but comfortable pace. He runs in second place for the first mile. Checking his watch at the mile-marker, he is surprised at just how swift he is running. 6:14. Too fast for what he is capable of. Ah well. Better to start off too fast than too slow. First place gradually strides away from him and another runner passes him. He is complacent with running in third place. In younger years, (more competitive years), he might have fought to maintain the pace, to keep his competitor at bay, but 12 days of training offers him little encouragement, and so he lets the runner go. The second mile ends in 6:35--still under 7-minute pace, which surprises him, but there are 11 miles looming ahead of him.
The course is full of uphills and downhills with hardly a quarter-mile stretch of level road anywhere. He curses these hills silently. Should have run more miles to prepare for this. Definitely will if there are to be more of these races in the future. The true misery of the course is that it is an out-and-back course. He will retrace every step. The uphills that were once his enemy, will aid him on the return trip, but the downhills will prove traitors to his cause.
The third runner passes him, wearing what appear to be yoga pants made for a Patriots fan and offering him a bit of encouragement by signaling to him to draft off of him. He makes a meager attempt to stay with him, pulling up even with the Yoga pants, but then slowly dropping off the pace. At least he is still in the top 5, he tells himself. And then he tells himself if two more runners pass him, at least he will still be in the top 10. Optimism has always been one of his best traits.
By now he has settled into a 7-minute mile pace, which is faster than he was expecting, but still slower than he knows he should be. Or wants to be. By this time, he has started passing the marathon runners who started their race 30 minutes before him. They too are running an out-and-back course, which causes him to look on the bright side of the misery he is feeling. At least he only committed to the half-marathon. At least his tight back muscles that plagued him in the first two miles of the race have ceased bothering him. And at least his right shoe, which was tied too tightly before the race and caused his foot to go numb during the third mile (he knew it was too tight but shrugged it off thinking it would eventually loosen up), was still tightly tied but his foot had regained feeling. At least now he was battling nothing but physical fatigue and mental weakness...and the 4th place runner, who just passed him.
These runners can't keep passing him, he tells himself. They have all settled into their pace, and at this point, almost five miles into the race, few others will be able to match or exceed his pace. He is safe in 5th place. He will know for sure when he reaches the turn around point.
The miles are drifting by and seem filled with irony. He tries to push the pace, and finds himself clocking a 7:35 mile, then somewhat slowing the pace (he thinks) only to split a 6:58. At least he is still averaging 7 minutes.
At the 6-mile mark, just over half a mile from the turnaround point, he sees the lead runner already heading back to the finish line. What he wouldn't give to be there already. He tells himself, half-joking, that he could stop at the turn-around point. Quit. Give up. It would be a nice ride back to the finish in the back of that van. A long downhill and a long uphill ahead of him curving to the left and he can see the turnaround and all the other runners ahead of him. Their leads slowly increasing.
Finally he reaches the turnaround and pleasantly greets the volunteers, making sure they note his bib number. Hate to run all this way, only to be disqualified because he didn't check in at the halfway point. And now he has to run all the way back.
The good thing about the out-and-back course is the fact that he can see exactly how close all the other runners are. They are not close enough to worry him. He is safe in 5th place. The bad thing about the out-and-back course is that he must now run past all the other runners in the race. Over the laborious next 3 miles he is more a cheerleader than a competitor. He utters trite words of encouragement. Good job, he says, keep it up. Over and over.
As far as scenic views are concerned, the return route is much more enjoyable. At one point he crests a hill and realizes it might be the first time he has seen Lake Mead since the first mile of the race. And he sees it more, now that he is nearing the finish.
Three miles to go and he tries to tell himself it's all downhill from this point. But it's not. The course has far too many hills left, but at least now it is just him and the road. And it will be this way for the rest of the race, he says to himself.
At last he has reaches the 12-mile mark. This is it. The last mile. The road stretches straight out in front of him. A long, gradual uphill. He can see the last turn. To his left, he can see the lake, and the last stragglers in the 10K race that started 15 minutes after his race. Grateful they were on a different course and that he does not have to cheer them on as he is struggling to finish his own race, he tries to tell himself he can finish this race. He has averaged close to 7-minute mile pace, and this is the last mile. Just fight through the fatigue and the overwhelming desire to stop and walk. Over the last mile, his legs beg him to stop. They threaten to seize up, to cramp, to cripple him and drop him to the pavement if he does not listen to them. Their threats fall on deaf ears. Sort of. He does not stop, but he slows down. The last turn finally arrives and he is a quarter mile from the finish.
Suddenly he is struck with fear. Glancing back along the course as he makes the turn, he can see another runner close behind. Close enough to catch him, perhaps. Will he have to sprint to the finish to defend his 5th place finish? He thought he was safe, but now another runner has come too close for comfort. At point-one miles from the finish he checks his mile split and discovers why he has found himself in such a predicament. Mile number 13 took him 8:42. Pathetic. With what is left of his motivation he musters a push for the finish line. He finishes, safe in 5th place. 1:34:51.
Wanting nothing more than to collapse there on the pavement, he stands as a woman puts the medal over his head and clips his timing chip from shoe. Already the lactic acid is flooding into his muscles, and he hobbles over to the food stands to begin what he knows will be a long recovery.
And that's his half-marathon in a Nutshell,
Hop
