I ran the Marine Corps Marathon in 2011. I don’t want to run it again; it’s far too crowded. Maybe if I get fast enough (or slow enough) that I’m not packed like a sardine in the middle of the bell curve I’ll consider it.
The Boss, though, is determined to run it until she beats her goal time. She missed it by just a few minutes this year. Right after the race she said she was done with this course, but that only lasted a few hours. She’s planning to run again in 2014.
I spent a fair amount of time out on the course in various places trying (and mostly failing) to catch a glimpse of her. I had some good experiences anyway:
Watching the front of the race come through was sublimely awesome. The wheelchair and handcycle division came through first, of course. The leaders were freakin’ flying. I didn’t care so much about them. Soon after, though, mixed in with the first elite runners, came the real stories – the men and woman who’d lost multiple limbs and were using this race to prove to themselves that they could still do epic things. Or maybe that they would now do epic things for the first time. Screw you, fate, screw you, war. I was standing at the bottom of the first hill, just after they made the turn off of Lynn Street onto Lee Highway. Some of them were already struggling. One seemed to be having mechanical issues, a problem with his chain. One guy was missing both his right arm and right leg; he was on a strange four-wheeled contrivance, but he seemed to be managing OK. Several people seemed to hit an impasse, unable to continue, almost falling back, but were caught and aided by others. Somehow they all managed to recover and continue inching up the hill and out of sight. Only 24 miles to go.
Soon after this the main mass of runners started coming through. I saw near about every type of runner imaginable. I saw old men who must have been in their eighties, eyes a’twinkling. I saw people running barefoot. I saw a woman holding a bloody rag to what appeared to be a fresh wound on her head, but still moving determinedly. I saw people so overweight that I knew they’d be flirting with the time cutoffs all day, but they were giving it all they had.
Then there were the families following in the Team Hoyt tradition, God bless them. I couldn’t keep my eyes dry, I admit. They aren’t completely dry as I write this, I admit. Those kids, those parents. What a truly awesome thing.
I saw Tim Stanley around mile 9. He is one of the Bull Run Run streakers, having finished all 21 versions of that event so far, along with Tom Green* and Frank Probst. Tim was wearing the same purple shirt he has worn at every BRR. He doesn’t know me from Adam, but I called out to him “Tim Stanley, tear it up!” He looked over his shoulder, trying vainly to recognize me. I know what he was probably thinking: “Do I know this guy? I must, why else would he know me? No time to think about it, have to just start calling out a response and hope his name comes to me before I finish it.” He wound up drawling an extended “Heeeee-eey . . . maaan!” It was awesome.
I saw an older guy wearing a Duke t-shirt and I yelled “Go Heels!” He started to react like “Thanks, man!” then realized what I’d said, and what he was wearing, and he laughed. He was a good sport.
I saw several people from The Boss’s training group. Rachel T. was running with her husband Robert. I know Rachel is kind of fast, maybe about a 4:15 to 4:30 marathoner, but they were on more like 5:30 pace. I called out to her and gave her the “what gives?” gesture, shrugging with hands slightly raised and out to the side. She responded with a grin and a mock-exasperated gesture at Robert who was happily, obliviously trotting along in front of her.
I was waiting around at mile 25 in a last ditch effort to finally succeed at seeing The Boss. This is the death march zone. When I got there the 4:00 to 4:15 runners were passing through, and there were already a lot of people walking. Later runners were looking pretty haggard. I started calling out encouragement to them, but I felt a little awkward and self-conscious. I saw one girl who was really looking beat down and I hollered “Looking good!” Then after she passed I turned to this Asian dude standing near me and said “but not really, though.” Kind of a jerk thing to say but he laughed and we got to talking. He was waiting for his girlfriend to finish. He had finished in like 3:09; his girl was a sub-5 runner but she had stayed out late the night before, or something, and he was expecting her in maybe as late as 5:00 or 5:15. We got to talking about his prior running exploits and he allowed as he had run across Tennessee this past summer. “Oh, was that the Vol State?” I asked, shocking him a little. The Last Annual Vol State 100π mile road race is small enough that I had been able to stalk everybody in it while it was going on. Turns out I already knew the name of this guy I’d randomly struck up a conversation with – Sung Ho Choi. The world is always smaller than you imagine.
I saw Gene P. and coach Bruce W. from The Boss’s training group in this same mile 25 area. I forgot Gene’s name for a second after he recognized me and I was reduced to pathetically calling out “Hey, uh, Glenn! Uh, Gerry! Uh, uh….”
I finally got to see The Boss when she came by the mile 25 marker. I ran along the sidelines with her most of the rest of the way, but I got stymied by crowding near the finish line and didn’t get to see her go under the arch.
*Tom is a minor legend – he was the first person to complete the “Grand Slam of Ultrarunning” back in ’86. I nipped him at BRR and came in well ahead of him at the Rosaryville 50K this year. Surely he was taking it easy and he’s got 16 years on me, but still: come at me, legend!
“Nuh-uh, they don’t have races that long!” says co-worker K. when I explain why I’m gimping down the hall. “Oh, I assure you,” I reply, “they do.”
I was undertrained going into the Tussey mOUnTaiNBACK 50 miler, as I always am for marathons and ultras. I was a little concerned about the 12 hour time limit, but I had done some research into comparative finishing times at this race versus the BRR 50, and it looked like people who’d run both tended to finish a little faster at Tussey. I’d finished BRR in 11:07, so I figured I should be able to sneak in under the time limit even given my questionable fitness.
Pre-race
The weather is perfect on race day. The day before the weather report had been showing rain all morning for Sunday, but when the sun rose there was nary a drop to be seen, and this condition held throughout the day. The temperature was in the low 40s, maybe even dipping down into the 30s, but it was slated to rise up to maybe 55 or so. I thought I might wear two shirts while running, but just before the gun I ditched the long sleeves and went with just a very thin tech t-shirt. This turned out to be the right decision; I was comfortable most of the day.
Tussey Mountain is a little unusual in that it is both a relay race and an ultra. All of the relay teams and many of the ultra runners had support vehicles, which shared the course with us, each vehicle leapfrogging ahead of its runner to meet them at the next aid station/transition zone. This got annoying very quickly, but mostly was not a big hindrance. The support crews also felt the need to shout encouragement at all the runners, which was nice, but having to acknowledge each “whoo, go ultra!” with a wave or a fist pump or a salute got old in short order. This would go on throughout the race.
As we line up to start I spot a sixty-something-looking Asian lady and I think “as long as you don’t pass me I am good”. Then I see a kind of hippie-looking dude, probably late fifties, pony tail, skinny legs. “I’m beating you for sure.” The Asian lady would pass me at around mile 25, loping along at a steady pace as I suffered through an extended walking spell. It would be ten miles more before the hippie dude was to pass me.
Leg 1
After a brief downhill start, the next three miles were all uphill. At each mile marker I stopped and walked for one minute – this was my new strategy for preserving my legs, which always fail me in the latter half of long races. I felt a little goofy when I was the only one walking 10 minutes into the race, but I found that I didn’t lose any net position to any other runners. When I started back running I would leapfrog all of those who had passed me during the walk breaks. The first mile passed very quickly, and the next two only slightly less so. I had barely broken a sweat when we crested the hill and arrived at AS 1.
Leg 2
An easy four mile downhill. Time to get some cushion in the bank. I do easy mid-eights all the way down. I chat for a while with a couple young men who I think were doing their first ultra, or at least their first 50M. They tell me it looks like I’ve done this before, and ask me about my run/walk strategy. “One minute walk at every mile marker,” I tell them, “but I’ll probably skip it on this downhill.” I run past them and don’t look back. I am on pace to finish in eight hours, but I have no illusions that this will last. The fastest time I will let myself dream about is 10 hours, but I don’t really give this number any credence either.
Leg 3
There is a short out-and-back section to get to AS2. On the way in I get a hand slap from some random guy. On the way back out I spot the two young men I’d chatted with earlier. The rest of this section is not very memorable, just flat and easy. I saw a small snake, long dead and its body driven down level with the surface of the road by passing cars. This made me sad; it seemed so improper, undignified. I wanted to grab the body up and at least fling it off to the side of the road where it could rest a little more peacefully. I wound up just running on.
Leg 4
This was the leg where I’d planned to start doing some extended walking, and I adhered to this plan. I think it was on this leg that I met J., a very nice young woman from Ottawa whom I’d wind up leapfrogging most of the rest of the way. We chatted for a while. I asked her her time goal and she told me she was hoping to use this race as a qualifier for Western States. “So, eleven hours, then?” I asked her, and she nodded, looking a bit startled that I was nerdy enough to know this off the top of my head. I mentioned that at least the cool weather must be comfortable for her, given her origins, but she said it had been a warm year so far, so she was not really acclimated to the cold.
The first wave of relay runners had started an hour behind us, and I had predicted I’d see the first one passing me around mile 15. This turns out to be very close; a guy with the white bib indicating relay teams barrels past me at about mile 15.3.
Leg 5
I don’t remember much at all about this leg. The splits from my watch show that I was keeping a fairly decent pace, even though I was probably continuing my “run one mile, walk one minute” strategy. I think it was somewhere in here, or maybe the previous leg, where the two young men from the early legs pass me. I offer them an encouraging word as they go by. I felt OK pulling into AS 5.
Leg 6
Going into this leg I expected to walk the whole thing, and this is pretty much what I did, aside from a little running near the beginning, and a brief pride-jog into AS 6 at the end. I dropped J. near the beginning of this climb, but she’d catch me before too long. For most of the three miles of this hill I chatted with A., a nice guy who had done some three or four 50 milers, but was here for the first time. He claimed time goals that were similar to mine, but he’d wind up beating me by a little over an hour. When the grade of the hill started to level off he was ready to run before I was, and we wished each other well as he trotted up ahead. “That sucked!” I advise the volunteers when I finally reach the aid station, and we exchange grins.
Leg 7
Most of the scenery so far has been undifferentiated – gravel road with trees lining both sides. Pleasant, but far from spectacular. This changes here in this leg. About midway through the trees open up onto fantastic vistas on either side. A volunteer whom I recognize from some previous aid stations is standing here near her parked car, admiring the view. “This makes it all worthwhile,” I say to her, and she indicates agreement.
I think it’s somewhere early in this leg where U., the lady I’d picked out as an easy mark at the start line, catches me then drops me like a hot squat. I want to try to hang with her, but I have no response. She trots easily ahead and disappears around the next bend.
But somewhere before the vista and the volunteer my legs start to wake up a little. I have a habit of counting steps when I get tired – usually I will count them in bundles of 100, but I don’t keep strict track of how many bundles I’ve notched. It’s just a way to pass the time while dividing the race up into very short segments. During this stretch, though, my focus narrowed down to sets of only four steps. “ONE two THREE four, ONE two THREE four,” over and over and over again. This had an almost hypnotic effect, and I kept up a steady running rhythm without stopping much to walk. Somewhere in this leg we pass the marathon distance and transition into ultra runners.
Leg 8
I am starting to flag. J. catches up to me again and says I must be sick of seeing her. I smile and say she’ll drop me for good before too long. she expresses polite doubt.
The terrain here is not too challenging, but the cumulative distance is. I see a couple woolly caterpillars blundering across the road, and I toss them back off to the side – I don’t mind taking the time now. We pass the 50K distance before we get to the aid station. I am hurting pretty bad. My goals have been tempered – I vacillate between thinking I’ll be lucky to finish and thinking I may be able to eke out 11:30 and maybe avoid DFL. After partaking of the aid station I ask the volunteers how far to AS 9 and they tell me it’s only 2.9 miles. “That’s it? Pfft, hardly worth doing!” I am trying to keep my game face on.
Leg 9
Death march. I am lit up, I am done. Nobody can run 50 miles. I’ll drop at AS 9. No, I have enough cushion that I can easily make the last cutoff at AS 10, but I’ll time out before I get to the finish. Maybe I’ll sit at AS 10 and rest for a while, maybe 30 or 40 minutes. Maybe I won’t want to get up and continue on.
I stop a few times and lean on my knees. I can’t finish this race, I am done. I pluck a few more woolly caterpillars out of harm’s way. I think not all of them are living.
This race has 12 legs and a time limit of 12 hours. One hour per leg, I had thought when planning my strategy. I figured I could probably build a two hour cushion over the first 4 or 5 legs and then try to hold on over the second half. I never got up to two, but I was hovering around 1.25 to 1.5 for a long time. I was still in that range when I staggered into AS 9, but this had been the shortest segment of the whole race. A volunteer calls out “What can we get you?” and I reply “You got an IV and a gurney?” She laughs, heartily and sincerely, and offers me a nurse instead. I later think I should have replied “That doesn’t sound too comfortable, but if that’s all you’ve got I’ll lie down on her,” but I am not that quick-witted even when I haven’t just run 35 miles.
The hippie dude I’d targeted at the start line passes me by while I am trying to snarf some calories and electrolytes. He looks pretty fresh, at least compared to me. He rolls on.
I ask the volunteer to confirm that the cutoff for AS 10 is 10 hours, but she is not sure.
Leg 10
J. drops me for good somewhere early in this leg. We leapfrog for a little bit, she complaining of IT band issues and I of calf cramps, but I also have dead quads and soon I can’t answer when she pulls ahead. This section is mostly downhill, but it is a long, slow slog on my useless, dead legs. In desperation I take a couple of ibuprofen tablets – I’ve never gotten much benefit from them in the past, but I am willing to try anything to reduce the suffering.
The last mile or two comes out on paved road, and there are homes and lawns and fences. The change of scenery gives a sense of progress, and I start to feel marginally better. I meet up with guy who is also complaining of IT band problems, and I offer to swap him mine for a pair of quads, which garners a laugh.
As I hobble into AS 10 there are cheers from the volunteers and the relay teams waiting for their runners to arrive. I do what is becoming my standard trick: I extend my arms low, palms up, and wave them up and down in the universal “come on, let’s hear it!” gesture. Works every time – they cheer louder, and I pump my fists over my head in response. My mood improves another notch. I also realize that the mile markers now start with a “4”. Yet another notch.
A girl in her early teens is manning the aid station. I try to one-up my gurney joke by asking her if she has a coffin I can use, but this falls kind of flat. She offers me a chair instead. Avoiding my premonition I decline. “Thanks, but I have to keep moving.” This AS has Apple Cinnamon Hammer gel and it tastes like the sweetest nectar imaginable. I suck one down and take another for the road.
I am a little over nine hours into the race – I’ve got an hour cushion left on the “one hour per leg” schedule, and I think I’ll need all of it.
Leg 11
“Oh come on!” Most of the aid stations have the elevation chart for the next leg posted on their table, and this is not what I want to see. A hefty 5.3 miles to AS 11, most of it uphill. “Yeah, but then it’s all downhill from there,” a volunteer reminds me, and I head out with a resigned “okayyyyyy”.
The volunteer checking numbers at the front of the aid station directs me back onto the course and says “see if you can catch up to that next guy and give him some encouragement; he looked pretty rough.” I accede to this plan and trot off after the guy. Having a target in my sights improves my mood yet further, and I catch up to the guy in short order. “How you feeling, brother?” “Mumble wumble PAIN,” is all I hear in response. “Uh, well, hang in there buddy!” Lame, but it’s all I can muster.
I am able to do a little running here and there. I catch up to a relay runner and mention that I think she has the worst leg of the race – she gets the nasty uphill and the next runner gets four miles of down and the glory of crossing the finish line. She doesn’t seem to mind. We chat for a while, then she gets up ahead. I catch another relay runner, though, and I give her the same line about drawing the short straw and winding up with leg 11. She says that she mostly does half marathon distance or below, but she got talked into the 2014 Hyner View trail Challenge 25k. “Watch out for the first hill,” I warn her, “it will change your world.”
Something strange happens right about this time. We’re at mile 41 or 42. The upward trend of this leg is interrupted by a brief downhill. Without much hope or expectation, I try my running legs as the road starts to slope down and I find that somehow they’ve risen from the dead. I feel fresh, like I just stepped out the door. Was it the ibuprofen, the cheering crowd at AS 10, the Apple Cinnamon gel? Was it the ego boost from catching the relay runners? The good conversation? The paved road after so much dirt and gravel? I’ll never be able to say for sure, but I felt fantastic. I lean into the hill. “A wise man told me ‘don’t waste the downs’!” I call over my shoulder to the girl I’d been running with, and I am gone.
I know I will finish. Eleven and a half hours seems very doable. I am running even much of the ups, and power-hiking the rest. I catch up to and pass the relay runner I’d chatted with early in the leg. “You’re digging deep, sir!” she calls after me. “Got my fifth wind!” I run on.
There’s a long climb near the end, and I walk all the way up it, trying to save my energy for the final push. My legs are tiring only slightly; I still feel good. I might even beat 11:15. I run into AS 11 determined to just grab some water and go.
Leg 12
I linger a little, grabbing water and some pretzels. My watch reads 10:15! There’s 4.2 miles to go, almost all downhill. Amazingly, the eleven hour goal is back on the table. It’ll take a gutty effort, but this can be done.
The attempt on 11 hours starts inauspiciously as I head the wrong way out of the aid station. I get some 20 yards away before I hear the volunteers calling me back. Oops. Reoriented and chastened, I head out the right way. I see the second relay runner I’d chatted with and call out “See you at Hyner next year!”
Near the top of the brief uphill that starts the leg I catch sight up ahead of Mr. Natural, the hippie dude I thought had dropped me for good. I steadily close the gap on him and catch him shortly before the mile 47 marker. “This is about to be the slowest 5k I’ve ever run,” I tell him, earning a hearty chuckle. “That’s right, man, but we’re getting there!” “Git ‘er done!” is the dopey thing that comes out of my mouth; I am giddy with having a goal, and from the effort required to meet it. “Gettin’ it done!” replies Mr. Natural to Mr. Clean.
Very soon we hit pavement. Two and a half miles or so to go. I can run this all the way in, I have to run this all the way in. The phrase that keeps running through my head is one I hate: “gut check”. But it keeps me focused somehow. Up ahead there is a cluster of three ultra runners that I might catch before the end. Stay under 10 minute miles and this is in the bag.
Two miles of down to go. Less than twenty minutes. I haven’t caught the cluster yet, but the distance is closing. Don’t stop to walk, you may not be able to start again.
One mile left. You can’t walk in the last mile, no matter what. It’s a done deal, I’ll finish under 11. The cluster is just up ahead. I converge on them and a female runner as we reach the last turn back to the finish. The woman is momentarily confused by two conflicting arrows at this turn, but I tell her that one of them is the one we followed at the start this morning. “Hey, you can do another loop if you want,” says one of the cluster runners to general laughter. The cluster and I are moving faster than the woman at this point, but as we pass I encourage her to push and get in under 11 hours. “I don’t need it,” she says. I’m not sure if she means that she has her WS qualifier already, or if she is just not hung up on arbitrary round number goals. She will go on to finish under 11 anyway.
Just ahead I catch up to the two young runners from early in the race. One of them is obviously hurting, stiff-leggedly hobbling down the course. “Been a while since I’ve seen you guys,” I call out, and they allow as how that’s the case.
There’s a short rise at the end, but we can see the banner over the finish line. The cluster pulls ahead and I let them go – I have my goal in hand. There are people lining the finish area, cheering. In the last 50 yards I break into huge, goofy strides, mugging for the crowd, which roars its approval. Then I sprint across the line, finishing in 10:56:20. I have met every one of my goals – including (by 2 seconds!) my standard goal of finishing in less than double the time of the winner – which means I set them too low. I’ll adjust them next time.
The aftermath
“Can I get a fist bump?” One of the cluster is walking over to me, and I offer him a clumsy bro fist. “Man, where did that come from? We thought you were dead!” I didn’t recognize them, but they must have passed me during my death march miles and seen how bad I was struggling.
I meet J. in the food tent. “How’d you do?!?” we ask each other. She finished in something like 10:46, achieving her WS qualifier. She congratulates me on my time and reminds me that I am now WS qualified as well. I tell her that I don’t want to run it, but she seems to think I should give it a try anyway. I will probably put my name into the lottery – there’s usually less than a 10% chance to get in, so I should be pretty safe.
The post-race food was delicious.
Back in my car, I took my time changing my clothes and shoes as the last few finishers straggled in.
The temperature was nice, but there was moderate rain fading in and out during the entire race; my clothes were drenched within minutes of starting. People were dodging around puddles in the road for no reason. Your shoes are already soaked, what’s the point?
There was only one difficult hill but the constant rollers ground me down a little bit. I kept pretty close to an 8:00 pace through the first half or so, but fell off pretty hard in the last 10k, finishing with an average pace of about 8:22. I felt better than usual during the last 5k of this race. I was tired and slowing, but I never felt a strong urge to stop and walk, and my suffering index was lower than normal for that point in a half.
I’d been thinking that I’d be happy to stay under two hours, so I was quite pleased with my 1:49:32. Almost five minutes off my PR, but on this course, at my current state of fitness, I felt like this was a very good result.
The volunteers were fantastic. They kept great attitudes while standing in the rain for hours, and were very attentive to all runners.
Some recollections:
I saw Paul P. on each of the three out-and-back sections. He would go on to finish his first half marathon in a very respectable 2:22:xx
In the second mile I passed Andrew A., who’d worked an aid station with me at this year’s VHTRC Women’s Half. He soon caught up to me and seemed startled when I greeted him by name. I reminded him of our shared service and we chatted a little before he dropped me. I kept him in sight for a while, gaining some on the ups and giving it back on the downs, but he kept his pace when I fell off in the last five miles and came in some five minutes ahead of me.
In the last mile I kept leapfrogging a woman who would stop to walk briefly, then run past me while I kept a steady pace. She finished ahead of me and gave me an extended high-five at the finish.
At one aid station the young volunteers had a fantastic technique of running along with the racers to make it easier for us to grab their proffered beverages. This worked amazingly well, but probably wouldn’t be possible in a larger race.
Miles this race – 13.1
Miles raced in 2013 – 244.1
Runkeeper supports the hypothesis that my run reports are related to miles run, as I have not reported since the BRR 50 in April. With two marathons on the schedule, at least one of which I plan to actually run, and that a mere three weeks away, I realized last weekend that it was panic time. My last outing was a ten-mile tourist jog along the Sea of Marmara, great fun but not great training.
So I declared to a few friends that I would cover twenty miles on Sunday, hoping that shame would do the job where common sense had failed.
While I did not expect that distance to be easy, I supposed I could somehow push through it with willpower. Which, in the end, is about all I could do, but the second half was much more a shambling mess than I envisioned, and completely outside the realm of the Oprah Line territory which I am considering a goal for the MCM. If I had added an 6.2 additional miles at my average pace, my marathon time would be 5:38. If, realistically, the last six were done at the same speed as the last six of my 20, my marathon time would be closer to 5:50. Perhaps even that is not realistic, because I was not being lazy during the last two miles and simply could not propel myself faster than a 15-minute pace.
My discipline was not very good, and I hope I can improve on that score. Several times I broke pace for no good reason. During the long boring stretch alongside Four Mile Run, I got passed for the first time. I kept the runner in reach by running on her head’s shadow while I tactically prepared for an overtaking maneuver by laying in some more of the Powerade I grabbed at the Arlington Exxon and squeezing in another gel. But then instead of a civil passing, I took advantage of a corner like it was some kind of Formula One race, then to “put some distance between us” and “destroy her will” I posted my fastest mile (9:11) since the first two. This strategy had the obvious result, as I was gassed after making the turn north by the airport. I resisted the urge to look back but thought it was likely she was pulling me in. When I did look back, I realized that my hypoxic brain had memorized a rather unhelpful feature to recognize a runner: yellow headphones. But eventually the yellow headphones pulled alongside and then on ahead, maintaining a steady pace. I kept her in sight and decided that if she stopped at the potties at Gravelly Point, I would take the chance to regain the lead. But she did not stop, she did not look to the left and she did not look to the right but kept on like she had cruise control. I started walking, at first to look for a water fountain and then because my will was broken.
That first long walk was finally ended by a goose. It was thinking about crossing the path in front of me and gave me an evil look as I approached. I glared back, and he opened his beak to prepare a hiss. I hissed first, and somehow channeled that aggression into resuming a run.
I brought my headphones along, correctly anticipating that running for hours on paved trails would be a bit tedious. This probably made it easier to walk, providing one more distraction from my goal. At some point I was passing time blabbing to myself in broken French, and it occurred to me that the word “courier” means “runner.” That seemed kind of cool and evocative and worth looking up.
A little later I had another breakdown of discipline. I was starting to get thirsty and planned to cross the pedestrian bridge to Roosevelt Island for the water fountains. When I saw the locked gates I was more than a little annoyed; I had not anticipated that the island would be shut down along with the federal government. I would have to detour to Gas & God to get some more fluids. While jogging along and entertaining such thoughts, I saw some dog-walkers on the path ahead. I moved to the left lane to pass them and resumed my beat-down, hunched-over posture. I looked up a bit later and realized that I wasn’t gaining on them. This was so infuriating that I burst into a flat sprint, which continued as I climbed the roundabout ramp bridge over GW Parkway. I was breathing pretty rough when I got up to Lynn Street, and the “Pacers Oasis” set up there was about a welcome a sight as I could imagine. I assumed they were set up for an event, but they called me over and said the water, sports drinks and snacks were there for everyone. I drank about a quart on the spot and topped off for the way home, glad of an excuse to linger through another streetlight change. They didn’t have a tip box out, so I had to express my gratitude on Twitter.
I started with two Clif bars and four gels, one with caffeine. I took that one and two Advil at the oasis, but didn’t sense any obvious effect. By mile 16 or 17 it was obvious that poor conditioning and not discipline was keeping me down. No amount of cursing or promises of self-bribery could get me into a decent pace zone.
As I waited at the last road crossing a guy came up on a bicycle and said “hola amigo.” He was all sweaty and told me it was 90 degrees out, maybe 100. I was ready to believe the 90. (It was actually 70 in the morning and 79 when I got home.) We both complained a bit, then he told me he was from Honduras, where it was “tres veces más caliente.” Maybe I should run a marathon there, so at least I will have a good excuse.
A very flat race on the C&O Canal Towpath. I’d hoped to beat three hours and was under that pace through about 12 miles, but crashed in the last eight and wound up finishing in 3:19:31. A 20 mile PR by default.
I was accompanied at this race by four FotBs (Friends of The Boss):
A. was running her first 10 miler (a companion race to the 20). She finished a little over her goal time, but gained confidence going into the upcoming Wilson Bridge Half.
K. and Ca. were using the race as a long training run in preparation for the Marine Corps Marathon. They did not run together but finished within a minute of each other anyway, pretty much right on their goal time.
Cy. was running her first 20 miler and babying an injured foot. She started out running with K., but K. dropped her when she lingered at an aid station after complaining of dizziness. When A. and I saw K. return with no Cy. and heard what had happened we were a little concerned that we’d later find her floating in the canal. But after about 30 minutes we saw her coming down the trail, finishing at a dead sprint trying to beat out the guy she’d been running with the last few miles.
This was a small race, with only some 300 finishers between the two distances, but the support was very friendly and well-organized. I’d like to do this race again when I am better trained.
It was still a little warm, but almost getting down to good running temperatures. This was the first time I have run this race when the course was dry – the previous two times (2010, 2012) were after fairly heavy rainfall.
I am getting to the point where I know this course pretty well, which means I am about ready to stop running this race. It’s a little strange that I feel this way about road races*, but the opposite about races on trails.
I have been injured most of the year and training has been very light, so I didn’t expect to perform particularly well. I lived up to this expectation, finishing in 1:52:23 – pretty much right in the middle of my two prior times. I did manage to run the whole distance without walking, which was encouraging after a rough summer’s results.
*Much of the Parks Half is on trails, but they’re smooth, paved trails.
A few recollections:
Around mile 6 it strikes me that there seems to be a lot less music on the course than last year. Just a little later we round a bend and there is a guy in a tuxedo playing a grand piano for the runners. A tall dude running next to me yells out “Freebird!” and I’m thinking “douche” – but then the guy starts to play it! A few runners let out obligatory whoops and somebody asks for a lighter. I immediately revise my estimate of the tall dude’s douche status. This really lifted my spirits for the second half of the race.
In the last mile I notice a guy just in front of me is looking rough, shuffling along with his feet barely rising off the ground. Just as I am about to pass him he trips over something and faceplants, landing spreadeagled on the ground with a cringe-inducing “Unghf!” A lame “You OK, bro?” is all I can manage as I nip around to his left. I look back and am relieved to see that he’s back his feet, looking not much worse for wear.
Just a little later I see Michael Wardian running back down the course, calling encouragement to us mid-pack runners. I holler out “Mike!” and say to the girl beside me “That was Michael Wardian,” but she doesn’t know who he is. I later find out he finished 15th.
The Boss’s friend C completes her first half-marathon in a quite decent time, supported by Boss-friend K. C complains of cramps and soreness, but looks very happy with her achievement.
When we arrive at the metro for the ride back to the start I notice an older gentlemen with a race bib gingerly walking backwards down the stairs. He looks like he’s really suffering. I offer my standard commiseration – “That’s how I feel too!” – even though I didn’t really feel quite that bad – and am rewarded with a grin.
The Boss sets a new PR for the half marathon distance: 2:18:17.
I would not have considered running this event – or any long race where there is a chance of temperatures over 80F – except for a confluence of four factors:
I’ve been finding excuses to avoid or cut short my long training runs, and I figured that being in an official event would be good incentive to complete the distance.
It was the first year for this event, so at least for one year I can say I’ve run it every time it’s been held.
The organization was outstanding. There may have been more volunteers than runners, and they were uniformly friendly and enthusiastic. The first half of the course was somewhat rural and scenic. The second half was less so. The roads were not closed except for a short stretch in the beginning and another at the end.
Final time, 4:51:26, a personal worst by some eleven minutes, and almost an hour slower than my previous marathon time. From now on I’m sticking to October through April for long races**.
Miles this race – 26.2
Miles raced in 2013 – 197.9
*While I was scouting the course I drove over a rattlesnake which was stretched out in the road. I stopped the car and got out to see if he was OK. He was coiled up and vigorously rattling at me. I figured that if I’d hit him it would have been either his head or his tail, and both parts still seemed intact and menacing. I called it good and skedaddled.
Not much to say about this race. At last year’s event I had run a trail half marathon the day before and suffered from cramps after the halfway point, posting my worst half marathon finish by far.
The course is difficult and I’ve basically not trained at all the entire year, so I knew I was unlikely to PR. I figured anything under two hours I was good with. I was more interested in seeing how The Boss performed in only her second road half.
As usual, I started pretty strong but faded late. My first two 5k splits were identical: 24:36. This turned out to be too ambitious for the hilly course, and I was reduced to walking a few short stretches of the second half. The weather was decently cool, but there was a light rain falling throughout most of the race.
I ended up finishing in 1:52:41. My third fastest road half, but also my third slowest.
The Boss was not ready for the challenging course either, but she did break her PR by about a minute per mile, finishing in 2:25:55.
Miles this race – 13.1
Miles raced in 2013 – 145.1
On Mon, Feb 4, 2013 at 11:51 PM, Steve Gadd wrote: “so you finish a marathon, and instead of sitting and resting and gloating, you … do a marathon: boggle”
Thus did this wannabe grapple with the concept of a 50-mile trail race, the 2013 Bull Run Run. My first two official races were a local 5K in 2010 and the Marine Corps Marathon in 2011, so I don’t mind skipping over intermediate distances, but I had plenty of time to train up for my first marathon. The Bull Run Run was coming up in two months and would extend my maximum distance by over twenty miles, as well as adding an awful lot of hills. The organizers talk these hills down — “An elevation profile map would be a straight line with a lot of very little bumps” — as if a breath-stealing hike up a minor mountain is no big deal compared to the uncommonly long horizontal distance you are expected to cover.
I also had plenty of mental time to worry about the October marathon, since I had to commit far in advance during a frenzied registration in February, allowing plenty of time for research and a pretty regular training regimen, albeit on my lazy once-a-week schedule. The BRR, in contrast, is a model of fairness and sobriety, with no mad browser refreshing, no panic buying under a deadline. In fact it is a seductive trap, promising all manner of outs while you are still unsure of the whole concept. The initial signup is free, so there’s no good reason not to sign up. Then they hold a lottery to cut the number of runners down to 350, so you can let fate decide for you. Except there aren’t very many more than 350 applicants, so most everyone gets in. Then you have to pay, within some comfortable amount of days, or someone on the waitlist will take your spot. But even then it’s hard to make excuses, since you can transfer your registration later. It’s all very seductive, and suddenly the race is a week away, you haven’t been running for a month, and you realize you really want to at least start this thing, just to see what happens.
We got going at first light, right at 6:30. The first ten miles were just fine, easy and fun. Ray and I started near the back of the pack, with no complaints about the energy-conserving traffic jams. According to plan, we walked up anything with a positive grade from the start. There were lines for troublesome rocky passages and stream crossings, another excuse to break cadence for a minute or two.
Ray kept me company a while, then said something about “moving up a few positions” and that was the last time I saw him going the same direction. At the Reston ten-miler in March, I was too disciplined with maintaining my pace and did nothing to keep up when he pulled ahead. If I had pushed harder, I probably would have flamed out before the end, or been more hampered by blisters, but an hour now seems like a pretty short time to suffer for a cause. This time my conservative goal was to finish a marathon distance — barely more than half the course — so I was determined to observe the mantra “my race, my pace.”
My goals were, in increasing order of desirability:
Cover 26.3 miles: Beat my distance record, in the hills. This seemed like an accomplishment, especially since I had run fewer than 50 miles total all year. I would have to find a place to declare myself a quitter, then make my way back to the start/finish, head hanging. My first DNF.
Do the marathon distance and keep going until breakdown. Less convenient, more noble.
Finish the course before the cutoff time of 13 hours. This seemed too unlikely an outcome to give much thought to.
The first aid station was at mile 7. Not needing my stopwatch to time the event (the time of day, or even the movement of the sun was accurate enough), I decided to use it to measure my stopped time at aid stations and other interruptions. I spent over four minutes at that first stop, walking in circles, confused, trying to figure out what to eat and what to do. I had already eaten a Clif bar and maybe a gel. I grabbed a cookie and a potato chip and drank some Gatorade, and used it to wash down my first S-Cap. Then I saw the sign indicating that we would be back after 4.5 miles and realized I was wasting time. I moved on.
Soon, the leader passed me going the other way. As usual on the trail, my brain was overwhelmed with thoughts of root-avoidance and it took me a second to realize that he was in my race and that the first turnaround was ahead. The expressions of the lead runners (certainly not jogger/walkers like me) were positively inspiring, showing hunger and drive and determination. I continued along the sometimes rocky, sometimes muddy trail, now watching ahead for oncoming traffic.
The first thought of quitting came during the eighth mile.
I hit the first turnaround after about two hours, 9.3 miles. Overall pace 12:38. I recalled prior estimation that a 15 minute/mile pace would get a runner to the finish on time with a bit of cushion, and I started performing the tedious, simple calculations that would tax my mind for most of the day. I also counted the people I saw behind me after the turn. By the time the crowds thinned there were about 70. A few stragglers and a few passes got me up into the mid-80s by the time I got back to the aid station. I restarted my stopwatch and added another two minutes to my stoppage time, refilled my bottle with water and remembered to dump the trash I had been carrying since before the first stop.
Ten miles in 2 hours 5 minutes; overall 12:30 pace.
The next ten miles were not painful, but I slowed down significantly, from 12.5 minutes/mile to 14.5. I was still on track to beat the cutoff, but didn’t know what to expect in the afternoon. The weather was perfect in the morning, comfortably chilly, but it was supposed to get up to 70. I felt a need to eliminate, but it wasn’t urgent and I didn’t want to lose time squatting in the woods, watching my stopwatch count up idle minutes. I started making plans for when I reached my drop bag at the start/finish area near mile 16. I ate a second Clif bar to make space and made a mental review of my inventory.
I started the race with
my dirtier pair of sneakers
Drymax lite trail running socks (an excellent recommendation)
compression shorts
bathing trunks (left front pocket for gels, right for trash)
Nathan Triangle belt carrying water, two white chocolate macadamia nut Clif bars, three or four Gu gels, and two small zippered pockets transferred from another belt with Band-Aids, tissues, S-Caps, ibuprofen
smartphone in armband with Runkeeper recording
digital watch
tech shirt
hat
sunblock cadged from Ray, mixed with borrowed bug spray, tasted awful
My drop bag contained
spare shoes
spare socks
spare shirts
spare belt
headphones (prohibited during the early part of the course)
I spent an unconscionable amount of time fussing with my drop bag despite careful planning. Before the race I had done my best by the instructions for the anti-chafing stuff: “APPLY WHERE NEEDED.” I had never needed it before and so rubbed it on places I imagined were likely to be annoyed by a day on the run. Now I added more around my waist where the belt was rubbing. My phone was still mostly charged, but I plugged in the backup charger and put it in my pocket, feeding the cable through my shirt. I was afraid I might be stranded somewhere remote come evening. I emptied and restuffed the belt pocket, rooting for more gels I felt sure I brought. I put the headphones in a pocket in case I needed inspiration later, but would never use them. I chugged the chia seed mix. I then walked the aid station, which was looking more like the sizable buffet later stations would have.
My estimated position was 92 from the back. In recent years roughly 30 starters failed to finish, so I felt like I was in a good spot. I was determinedly walking the rises with a hunched-over, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal plod, and usually returning to a regular trot at the top. I felt like I did pretty well on the climbs, where I executed a lot of my passes. Going up one hill, I noticed a novelty: I could hear my heartbeat. It made it easy to measure my pulse, 150 bpm. Safe enough, but I decided I wouldn’t start running while I could hear my heart pounding. Fortunately, after that climb I never heard it again. There were also some tricky descents which I also walked, telling myself I was avoiding a turned ankle but also glad of the excuse to take a break.
I chatted briefly with some other runners and eavesdropped on others, but usually didn’t keep pace with anyone long enough for much conversation. I tried to memorize bib numbers of interesting participants, but couldn’t keep them straight. There was a surprising amount of math involved in the endeavor. Simple arithmetic, but I couldn’t divide by 4 with my legs, where most of the oxygen was going. I calculated again and again my ETA based on a 15 minute per mile pace, never trusting the result. I maintained a count of the runners behind me. I kept track of the number of cumulative minutes I was ahead, and later behind, my target pace. Finally I focused on the number of minutes of cushion I estimated I had — how far ahead of the final cutoff I would be if I maintained 4 mph for the rest of the course.
Twenty miles in 4 hours 27 minutes; overall 13:21 pace.
The next ten miles were a slog. It wasn’t even noon of this all-day affair, and I was just approaching the halfway point. I began extending my walking sessions. At the start of each mile, I noted the time and added fifteen minutes for a target time. Then at the end of the mile, I subtracted the overage minutes from my cushion. I had calculated that 50 miles at 4 mph would give me one hour of cushion, and didn’t want to depend on it too much. I got a little boost passing the 25 mile mark, and soon after passed the marathon distance and recognized that every step was a new personal record for distance. But it was still a slog. I passed the imaginary point where I had estimated that I could quit and walk back to the finish if necessary, but wasn’t aware of it. The leaders had passed the second turnaround and started coming from the other direction, still running, still looking determined, though hollowed out somehow. Some of them were running up hills faster than I was running down them. That’s why they’re called leaders, I reasoned.
I entered the White Loop around mile 27, a two-mile detour that is omitted on the return leg, so there was no oncoming traffic and very little company. No witnesses: I walked the whole thing. I continued doing the math every mile, but it seemed obvious I was eating into my cushion at a rate that would lead to disqualification. Gradually my attitude shifted, from worrying about getting back to the finish somehow before dark, to resolving that I would keep moving forward on the damn course until somebody made me stop.
There were more aid stations, some with cute themes. I hated that some of my miles took a minute or two over my target because I stopped for chow, but knew I couldn’t afford to skip them. I worked out a strategy for a disciplined, efficient pit stop.
Run all the way into the aid station — you are about to take a break, you lazy slacker!
Stop running, start the stopwatch.
Hand off bottle for refill.
Dispose of trash. I often forgot this step.
Grab a PB&J sandwich quarter and a Gatorade cup, force them down.
Recover and stow bottle.
Refill or grab another cup, chomp some Pringles or cookies or something.
Grab two sandwich quarters.
Stop timer.
Walk out, eating sandwich.
This technique got me through an aid station in one to two minutes, depending on the crowd and the help. The support was amazing on this race, both in positive attitude and eagerness to render assistance. And the food was plentiful. I subsisted mostly on the PB&J quarter sandwiches, or peanut-butter-and-Nutella when available. Later in the day the bread was sometimes dried out, but I found the Kobayashi tactic of soaking a mouthful in Gatorade made the whole thing go down easier, and was not even disgusting. (I have not tasted peanut butter, jelly or Gatorade since, however.)
One aid station had an amazing spread. In addition to the sandwiches and cookies and chips and fruit, and a bowl of bacon, a side table was loaded with a comprehensive array of equipment. Vaseline, Body Glide, Band-Aids, aerosol sunscreen, bug spray, S-Caps, painkillers, and duct tape. I reapplied sunblock, took another S-Cap, and was glad I didn’t need the duct tape. I was taking the electrolyte capsules something less than once an hour, not sure if I should be more concerned with an overdose or a shortage. In the second half of the course I started refilling my bottle with Gatorade instead of water, and backed off a bit on the pills.
I plodded on. It was time for the Do Loop.
Thirty miles in 7 hours 22 minutes; overall 14:44 pace.
Ray was kind enough to offer me a room the night before at his place nearby, and a coach to provide rides and encouraging hugs. In March, he had taken me on a tour of the Do Loop and the White Loop, about 12 miles total of the course, which he knows up and down. This was invaluable intel, and to my shame was my last training run before the race, over a month in advance. So I felt at least mentally prepared for the loop at the southeastern end of the course, the name of which seems always to follow the word “infamous.”
A popsicle from the last outbound aid station was a good way to get started, and I kept to my pattern of taking a mile at a time and walking all the rises and most of the descents, of which there were plenty. I passed the Nash Rambler, picking up the Bruce Springsteen tune it was blasting in an endless loop and carrying it with me for the next several miles.
Finishing the Do Loop it was quiet and lonely, another one-way section. The hills were considerable, but not so very much more challenging than others throughout the course. I continued, mostly walking, starting to regret that I wouldn’t be getting the finisher’s premiums. I caught up, while walking, to a competitor who was busy texting. It was his first 50 as well, and he complained a bit that the course map did not have an elevation profile. He seemed to want to chat, but he was going even slower than I felt like going, so I marched ahead. I jogged now and then, eventually pulling up to a couple of guys who kept a very disciplined pace. They walked rises, but always picked it up again at the top. I decided to keep them in sight. They pulled me through some tough miles, and I even got ahead of them briefly when they lingered at an aid station. But eventually they faded out of sight ahead when I couldn’t convince myself to give up walking on a long level stretch. I’ll just walk a little longer, then start running. Just a little longer.
Then, someone came up from behind. I hadn’t been passed by anyone for some time. He had a shirt with words on it and a weird blue bib. Something wasn’t right. Then it clicked — he was a sweeper! I sped up, but the sweeper wasn’t subtle at all and left little distance between us. This was going to be the end; I had burned up my cushion and they would stop me at the next road crossing or aid station. Then I looked at my bib; it was also blue. He was just another runner. But he had put the fear in me. I popped a couple ibuprofen tablets, though I wasn’t in agony. It helped considerably; soon I was able to maintain a measured running pace again.
The math still seemed to be against me. I had realized that a 15-minute mile pace would only leave a 30-minute cushion before hitting the 13-hour cutoff for the finish, and I was sure I had already used it up, and my average speed was only getting slower. I arrived at an aid station and saw the coach again — she had given me an encouraging pep talk when I passed by outbound. This time she congratulated me on having become an ultramarathon runner. I said — optimistically I thought — that we would see. No no, she said it was in the bag, I just had to cover a little more ground to get to the marina and I could “walk it in” from there. That sounded appealing, but I was full of doubt and confusion. Reluctantly, I waved goodbye and rejoined the trail.
I plodded on, calculating and recalculating. I had finished 36 miles, and had less than four hours before cutoff. With my recent pace of 16 to 20 (!) minutes per mile, I wasn’t going to make it. Then I saw the sign: 10 miles to Hemlock Overlook, the finish. I pulled out my phone for the first time and counted the mile markers on my outbound track. It seemed right, the end was in sight! I finished the ten-miler a month before in 1 hour 21 minutes. Now half that speed would be sufficient, and that’s about as fast as I could manage. I adopted a face-saving lope when I saw people fishing or hiking on the trail ahead. It’s just too ridiculous to walk level ground with a race bib, no matter how long you’ve been going. One guy told me it was just a mile to the marina ahead, where I would pass the final aid station and then five miles to the finish. I took one more ibuprofen tablet and at some point sucked down a caffeine-loaded gel.
Forty miles in 10 hours 16 minutes; overall 15:24 pace.
I arrived at the last aid station at 5:10 p.m., awkwardly jogging in and thanking a spectator, who was clapping and calling out encouragement despite the fact that I was the only entrant in sight. While stuffing my face with my last PB&J sandwiches, I saw the posted cutoff for this location was 6 p.m. I had 49 minutes to spare, and knew for the first time that I was going to finish.
The record shows that I celebrated with a two-mile walk, posting my slowest consecutive miles since the White Loop promenade. But somewhere around mile 43 something came over me, and I entered a mode I didn’t know I had. Maybe it was the caffeine, maybe the thought of getting the thing done. I stepped up to a respectable run and started feeling great. The trail was flying by, and even the rises were no problem. My breathing was perfectly tuned, one breath for every two strides. I started passing people, eventually catching up to the pair I had tailgated for so long. They stepped to one side and one said “Have at it!” I just said thanks as people yielded the way, worried they would soon see me on the side of the trail, wheezing.
I came up to the tricky, rocky section alongside the river and hopped and jumped along, afraid the spell would end if I slowed. The river cut east after mile 44 and I pulled up behind a tall runner who seemed determined not to be passed. I paced her for several minutes, my shadow directly under her feet. Eventually she started making pained gasping noises, like a tennis player late in a match, and finally stepped to the side. I kept on, posting my fastest mile since noon.
Finally I slowed down for a breather and to suck some Gatorade, and thought I heard shouting. Could it be the finish? I picked up my feet again and rounded a bend, leaving the river behind. Instead of the finish line, I met a brutal, soul-crushing hill, as high as any I had seen all day (in fact I had already climbed the same hill, going to the drop bag, but that was just mile 16). I grudgingly hiked up to the top and started a determined jog. I had realized that I was coming up on twelve hours, and thought I could try to finish this project in half a day with a last good push. I was going to say as much to a lady I passed, but she looked like she was already digging deep. The cheers were now clear up ahead, and I turned a last corner and saw the finish. The clock read 11:59! I whipped off my hat and began sprinting the last fifty yards, keeping it up for good form after realizing that I had misread the clock and had minutes to spare. I was then a confused, spent doofus in the finish area, barely able to shake the RD’s hand, collect my loot, including a delicious cup of ice water, and make use of the most welcome item of the day: a wet washcloth.
GPS time 11:56:53, pace 15:31. Official time 11:55:31, 246 out of 295 official finishers, 322 starters.
This event was great fun. I don’t usually prefer out-and-back routes, but it was fantastic seeing the other runners coming back on the same path, many of whom offered a “good job” or other encouraging words. And with no pressure to PR, just to survive and hopefully get in by dark, it was never miserable, never like miles 18-20 of a road marathon. It was really very little like running two marathons. The first 26 miles, taking over six hours, was more like a walk in the woods with some running mixed in.
Recovery was, surprisingly, no worse than after a marathon. Spending all day at the event meant that I slept through the flushed, logy feeling I get for several hours after finishing a long race. My heart rate was back to a normal 65 the next morning. Sunday night I found a small blister on one foot, at the edge of the mostly-healed big blister from the ten-miler. My nose and lips were raw from blowing and wiping snot about a hundred times and, well, being a mouth-breather for twelve hours. By Monday I was climbing stairs again, but only out of spite.
“Virginia Happy Trails!” I heard a woman call from behind me. In a blatant display of hubris I was wearing the BRR 50 t-shirt (over top of another shirt – it was cold at the higher elevations, and both snow and sleet made appearances), and she recognized the club name on the back. She said she had run BRR a couple times, but skipped it this year to run Hyner. Her friend caught up both of us and the first woman told her “This guy just ran Bull Run!”
Friend: “Dude, you’re my hero.”
Me: “I’m not my hero…”
We were some 11 miles in, and had just climbed to the top of SOB, the steepest section of the course. I was feeling pretty drained. Maybe it was the lack of training, maybe it was having run a 50 mile race the week before. The two ladies dropped me pretty quickly.
After summitting SOB the rest of the course is pretty easy, if your legs are still cooperating. I really wasn’t feeling it, though. I’d come in thinking I might go sub-four hours, but at this point I was resigned to just trying to beat my previous best time here (4:31:xx).
Before too long we reached the final downhill section. I was still proceeding at a slothlike shuffle. It was a little rocky here, but not really too technical – just enough so you needed some mental alertness to keep your feet on the trail. In the first quarter mile or so I was passed by several people. They’d call out “on your left!” and I’d have to move aside – there was not really enough room to pass safely on this section of trail.
Before too long I got sick of yielding the trail. “Screw it, let’s see what the legs have left,” and I just leaned forward and let the hill take me. I wasn’t passed again until we reached the bridge at the bottom; in fact I even managed to move up a couple places.
After the bridge there was only about half a mile or less of trail before coming out on the road. I slowed somewhat here but stayed above a walk, reeling in a couple more runners on the way. When I came out to the road my watch showed about 3:52:00 – I had eight minutes to run the last mile. At first I didn’t really think I could pull it off, but along the way I kept meeting up with other runners and encouraging them: “You still have time to break four if you push!”, and soon enough it occurred to me that that applied to me as well. With about half a mile to go I started to kick, but I knew I had delayed too long. My watch showed a pace of about 7:30/mile, which would have been enough had I started to kick as soon as I hit the road.
The course veers back onto trail just before the end and there’s a final hill leading up to the finish line. I was already over four hours, but I realized I might have a chance to beat my friend Shawn’s time from 2010 – he and I had both run it that year, and he finished in 4:00:36. I had started to walk that last hill, but having a new goal put life in my legs, and I surged up it, passing three or four runners who’d passed me on the road just minutes ago. I dusted some dude at the finish line, and crossed in 4:00:33.15, 265th out of 960 finishers of the 25k.
Of course this means I’ll have to go back – failing by 34 seconds will not stand, man!
The Boss did fantastic this year, cutting almost an hour and a half off of her previous time and finishing in 5:49:41.
