In 48 hours I'll be running a half marathon. A pessimist might say that it's a bad sign that I just pulled my hamstring. But I couldn't help it. You see, I was behind in my training from having hurt my back last month. My body is telling me that this might be my last race. Which also means it might be my last "running diary."
10:00 p.m. Friday Night
The race is in the morning, I'm registered, my race clothes, mp3 player, sun glasses, running watch and inspirational anti-cancer wristband are laid out. Now that I've idiot-proofed my race morning, I should probably get to bed and rest up for my 13.1 miles. If only there weren't a party going on across the hall of my apartment complex...
1:00 a.m. Saturday
That was a nice nap, rudely interrupted by the escalating party down the hall. As I try to sleep, the rudeness of the late-night endeavor claws at my brain: half of Livermore is there--how did I not get invited when I live two doors down? The noise isn't the best thing for my race preparation either.
On the bright side, at least there's a guy peeing in the bushes out front. With the drought and all, that will help.
2:30 a.m.
Hmm. If I pulled out my baseball bat and approached the party across the way like WCW wrestler Sting, would my neighbors be intimidated or call the police? Hmm. I should try this some other time, when I don't have a race the next day. Unless I get invited to the party next time, that is.
3:00
Finally, sleep...
6:30
The alarm just went off and the race is in 90 minutes. Usually I'm a nervous wreck at this point. Today, I just want to go back to bed. I drink some coffee, put on my race clothes and sea of accessories and get ready to walk over to the start line a few blocks away. I try to get some adrenaline flowing by trying to remind myself why I'm doing this. I just can't seem to remember.
7:52:
It's a beautiful day, and not just because that song is on my mp3 player. The race will start and finish in downtown Livermore, and the organizers are already setting up for the party to follow. I can walk to the start line from my place, which meant I got to avoid the hordes of motorists still fighting for parking spaces. On an even better note, it also meant that I had a built in bathroom nearby. And, unlike my neighbor, I don't mean the bushes.
7:55: I've found a quiet corner to stretch, say a prayer and pump myself up for what's to come. I try to remember why I'm voluntarily putting myself through this. Two years ago I ran my first half marathon with my brothers shortly after one of them got cancer. That one was a symbolic triumph over hard times, and fittingly, we ran it through a monsoon. I wear the wristband we wore for that race, and the triathlon we did before it. "Hope. Faith. Courage" it says. Today, I'm going to need a healthy share of each.
I survived that race just ahead of my 2-hour goal (9-minute miles), which felt triumphant at the time, but I didn't know much about running or how to train. I've wanted to hit the 1:45 mark (8 minute-per-mile pace) ever since, to feel like a real runner. Instead, I keep slowly increasing my time while feeling increasingly old. I keep getting hurt while training every subsequent race. I have a bad back; I'm getting old. I keep improving my race time through better techniques and training methods, but I'm just about the point where Father Time passes me on the home stretch.
I was actually on pace for my goal this time until I hurt my back and couldn't run for three weeks. My back has recovered, but my knees have been popping for weeks and I felt a tug in my hamstring when I pulled up at the end of my last training run. So, the moral of the story is that regardless of how fast I run this race, I'm almost 40 and it seems like my time is running out.
I ran my last race at an 8:28 pace, and my best training run for this one was 12 miles a 8:24, but I think I have a little bit more inside of me. And this might be my last shot at finishing a race 1:45. Or finishing at all.
7:58:
We're off! I coast to a 9-minute first mile, saving energy in accordance with my plan. But my ability to coast is hampered by the small kids running ahead of me and the slow-movers who for some reason needed to start at the front of the pack and are forcing me to jog around them. I try to stick to the plan and move slowly, but somehow the second mile was a minute faster than the first. I have the feeling I'm going to regret that...
8:15 (Mile 3):
This course is not well marked. The first mile marker came .92 miles into the race and it's gotten worse with each mile. The 3 mile-marker came 2.77 miles into the race. But on the bright side, if this keeps up, I might be done by in an hour.
8:23 (Mile 4):
The roadside spectators and their signs are always a highlight on these races. It's nice to feel supported. I wish I could hire these people to cheer me on at work, or when I need to clean the bathroom.
A little kid has a sign with a button painted on that says "Press here to run faster." I briefly wonder if it might work. My legs are already starting to hurt, and I need all the help I can get (I mean, in addition to the help from the person who mapped out the course. I pass the "4-mile" sign 3.8 miles into the course). But the kid is on the other side of the street, so I don't want to take the chance.
8:31 (Mile 5):
Sign: "Go Joseph. Don't poop your pants."
I wonder how Joseph feels about this sign: happy that a loved one came out to support him, or angry that someone is bringing public attention to an embarrassing personal problem?
8:39 (Mile 6):
Meanwhile, my time is great, but my energy is lagging and my hamstrings both are burning. On the bright side, the one I thought I pulled doesn't feel any worse than the other one. I pop my first energy gel packet.
8:50 (Mile 7.5):
I've past the halfway point (both by the course markings and actual mileage). That sounds nice but doesn't make my legs feel any better. I've run 8-minute miles since my purposefully slow mile 1, but I'm starting to fade. On a related note, I'm on a familiar street now, but have no idea how I got here. My mind has gone blank. Usually this doesn't happen until about mile 10.
9:13 (Mile 8.9):
Saving my strength for mile 9, the most uphill stretch of the course. A boy holds up a sign: "Run faster, my arms are getting tired." I reach for the energy gel. I'm going to need it.
9:21 (Mile 9.9):
The most beautiful stretch of the course is also the most painful. A 100-foot climb through the vineyards of Livermore wine country starts this segment through a running trail too narrow for spectators. I have enough energy for this mile, but the last three just might kill me. I take a look at my wristband. "Hope, Strength, Courage." I tell myself that if my brother can do 12 rounds of chemo, I can run three more miles. I just hope they don't tack that extra mileage the course has not accounted for on the back end of the race.
9:22 (Mile 10):
As we leave the wine trial and get back to the road, a spectator had an inspirational sign that boosted me fading energy and almost made me cry. I would tell you more, but I have no memory whatsoever of what the sign said, I just remember feeling the emotion of the moment. As the incoherence begins to take over, I find myself counting down every tenth of a mile. It's the only thought of which I'm capable.
9:35 (Mile 11.7):
Signs of my creeping running dementia: I'm back on a small trail and have no memory of ever turning off the main road. I spend two minutes listening to a painfully slow song on my mp3 before I realize I can skip it ahead at the touch of a button, something I hadn't thought to do the entire race. As I can barely hold my head upright, I see a sign related to the post-race festival: "Go Faster, some Kenyan is drinking your wine." I smile and nod, thankful for the five seconds of entertainment. Then, the pain returns. "I only have to run for 10 more minutes," I remember.
9:39 (Mile 12.):
My miles are getting slower now, but taking more energy. This is the cruel irony of the end of a half marathon: it takes more energy to run slower. I go as fast as I can, but I've once again failed to save a kick for the finish. I resign myself to the idea of unknown Kenyans enjoying the spoils of the post-race festival in my absence, and stare down at my wristband. I don't care about my time at this point, I just want to finish before my legs fall off. And I'm back on the main road again, somehow.
8:47 (Mile 13):
That looks like a finish line. It's only 13.05 miles in, but I'm certainly not complaining.
1:47:31.
I didn't meet my original goal, but it's a personal record by three minutes. I ran faster, for longer, than I thought I could have a few hours ago. I managed an 8:13 pace, tantalizingly close to my multi-year goal. As I stagger to a water booth, the attendant tells me that I look wobbly. I agree and almost fall down.
I collect my medal, stagger home to shower and amble back towards the festival. As my head begins to clear, it dawns on me that my back and legs--considering what I just put them through--feel fine. I have the expected soreness, but nothing out of the ordinary. I'm tired, but I don't need medical assistance. All things considered, I feel pretty good.
Most importantly, I finished soooooo close to my time goal, and I have at least one more race left in me to get there.
But first, it's on to the festival...
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment