The King, a Queen and a Little PR

Another winner of a Saturday morning in the Capital District greeted me as I drove into Ballston Spa for today’s Jailhouse Rock 5k to benefit the Brookside Museum. I’ve been to Brookside Museum a few times with my sister, who has been selling her hand-tatted items at the museum’s craft fair (as well as at the Shaker Heritage Society’s Holiday Craft Fair) for years. (I promise that will be the only shameless plug in this blog entry.) For some reason, the museum always seemed like it was located in the back of the beyond, but when I followed the museum’s directions, I came up Route 50, turned left onto Front Street and there it was, at the end of Front Street. Easy peasy!


I checked in and received bib #14. Not a prime number, but it looked like a good sign nonetheless: the race was being run on August 14^th, which is also my dad’s birthday. So for Dad’s 82^nd birthday (holy cr@p!), I ran a 5k. If you read my blog entry about last week’s Fasig-Tipton 5k, you were briefly introduced to Regina, who at 83 is still running local races; she also ran today’s 5k. (I saw her standing near the starting line, so I went over to say hello, introduce myself and tell her how inspiring it was to watch her finish the Fasig-Tipton 5k. She was very gracious and asked me a couple of questions about the 5k’s I’ve run. She was very encouraging when I told her this was my first year as a runner. After the race, she actually sought me out to ask me how I did. Gotta love her!)


I climbed the long, steep hill from Brookside Museum up to the level ground next to the County Fairgrounds that would be our starting point. I was exceedingly thankful not to have to run up that hill. I think I owe my finish time in large part to the fact that we ran down that hill at the end.


I had changed a few things from my traditional routine: instead of wearing my bright green racing shirt, I opted for running togs I wore for the Freihofer’s Run for Women. I also didn’t have my pre-race nanner (since the one I brought looked like it was never going to ripen) and I decided to leave my lucky hat in the car. I have reached the point where I didn’t need to rely on things like that. In a distance race, you make your own luck with the preparations you do (or don’t do, as the case may be); everything else is up to the weather and the topography. And lucky hat or no lucky hat, there ain’t nothing any of us can do about weather or topography except prepare for it.
The course for today’s 5k was listed as “flat and fast.” Since I hadn’t reconnoitered the course, I took them at their word. Well, apparently, they must have meant “flat” as in “small-breasted,” while I considered “flat” to mean “Gumby” (and no, “small-breasted” and “Gumby” are not identical). The terrain turned out to fit their definition more than mine. To the kids, young adults and anyone who is used to running distance races, I’m sure the course felt flat. I, on the other hand, have eyes and a pair of hips that are all too eager to inform me immediately whenever there is a change in grade, no matter how slight. (I swear, there’s a very distinct voice in my head that starts screaming, “Ohmygod!!! That’s a HILL! How is there a goddamned HILL on a flat-and-fast course?!?!?!?)


After last week’s Fasig-Tipton 5k (which featured two nasty little hill surprises for me), I stopped in Ballston Spa on the way home to see if I could scope out the course, but was unable to locate a course map online. The only information I saw stated that the course went out to the correctional facility and back. (A course map was posted at some point between the last time I checked and this morning. That map indicates the turnaround point is at the county jail.) I asked my sister where the correctional facility was (which in no way should be interpreted to mean that my sister is more acquainted than I am with convicted felons; she’s just been in that section of Ballston Spa more than I have). She replied, “WHAT correctional facility???” At the starting line (in reality, just two small traffic cones) across from the Saratoga County Fairgrounds, we were advised that this would be a straight out-and-back course, with the turnaround point (and water station) located at the animal shelter. Ahhhhhhh…so “correctional facility”/“county jail” (the “jailhouse” of the Jailhouse Rock 5k) was a pokey for pets, not peeps. 10 points for cuteness. I smiled not only at the joke itself, but at the fact that this past Thursday, I adopted a four-month-old Chihuahua mix (with the “mix” part being, in all likelihood, Miniature Pincher and/or Dachsund) from my local humane society.


I ran this 5k in honor of my little canine anti-depressants, Diva and Tessie. In a rather strange twist of fate, I had gone to the animal shelter to see about a much larger dog, Crystal, that I’d seen at the Mohawk Hudson Humane Society table at this past week’s “Bark in the Park” at the Joe Bruno Stadium (home of the Tri-City Valley Cats, the Houston Astros’ Single-A affiliate in the New York-Penn League) in Troy. I thought Crystal would make a great running partner, but of course I needed to see how she and Diva would get along. Although Crystal is a great dog and will be a terrific addition to the right family, she just wasn’t right for Diva, so that means she wasn’t right for me and Diva. While I was there, I figured it couldn’t hurt to inquire about much smaller dogs that might be available. I was introduced to a Chi mix who looked like Crystal’s mini-me. (I momentarily considered naming her Crystal Light, but my sensible [read: Boston Red Sox fan] side held sway.) That little doggie came home with me and is now known to the world as Tessie. We’ve got some issues to work through (housetraining and some minor aggression issues that need to be nipped in the bud), but all things considered, she’s a terrific addition to the family.


We had a great day for a jailbreak…er, I mean a 5k race. Several sections of the road were nicely shaded by obliging trees. Even though the morning’s temperatures were moderate (low- to mid-60s) and the humidity was low, running under bright sunshine is always exhausting. I suspect it has something to do with the “running” part.


I started out very relaxed and had no problems with getting my breathing cadence right. Granted, I was slow, but I’m always slow in a road race. I take it as a good sign that by the time we got to the turnaround point at the animal shelter, I was thinking, “Wow, halfway already?” A few very kind folks were sitting in Adirondack chairs on their front lawn, cheering us as we passed and ringing cowbells. God, how I love a good cowbell. The course itself was fairly uneventful, with a couple of small rolling hills that presented rather more challenge than I anticipated. I saw a police car pull onto the road and turn on its flashing lights, so I knew the lead runner was about to pass me on the return. Several of the runners coming back cheered on those of us on our way toward the halfway mark. This is the kind of behavior you see “paid forward” in a race. People who’ve never met and who only have today’s race in common periodically high-fived and shouted encouragement to runners heading in the opposite direction.


As I emerged from the turnaround point, I saw flashing lights well into the distance down the road. I assumed it was the escort vehicle (in this case, an ambulance) behind the last runner. As I kept running, it seemed as though the rescue wasn’t moving. I wondered for a moment if someone was hurt and immediately wondered if Regina was OK. Well…HAH! In a minute, I saw that the ambulance was, in fact, moving…with a now-familiar figure chugging along slowly in front: Regina! (Her name means “Queen,” after all…it’s only fitting that she be accompanied by an august retinue.) I cheered her on as I passed her, blew a kiss to the two guys in the rescue vehicle, thanked them and told them to take good care of our girl. See? There’s a benefit to my running so slowly: I had time to say all of that. Granted, not in one breath…


When I passed the 2-mile marker, I tried to psych myself up and stay at a good pace, knowing that my last 1/4mi would be a downward incline. The runner in front of me, a guy with a red beard and long ponytail, checked his watch as he passed the marker. I’ll admit I was tempted to check my watch, but since I was already running as hard as I could sustain, I figured there wasn’t any point. I was going to finish when I was going to finish. There was no doubt in my mind that I was leaving everything I had on the course.


Approaching the final turn, there weren’t any visible a$$es in front of me and I realized that I wasn’t sure where to go, so I pointed to where I thought the course went, essentially miming to the course marshals, “Do I go that-a-way?” They confirmed my suddenly surprising directional capability and I was relieved to know that I was almost finished.


Once the downhill part started, I picked up velocity pretty quickly. I wanted to just go with the momentum all the way, but the decline was steep enough that I actually had to slow down a bit just to maintain control and not shred my knees from the inside. As I approached the finish line, I could see the time was just over 35 minutes, but I didn’t know if I would be fast enough to PR. For some reason, I had it in my head that my best finish was 35:25 in the Silks & Satins 5k in Saratoga (two races ago), so when I crossed the finish line at 35:31, I was a bit disappointed at missing a PR by a measly seven seconds. I immediately began thinking about sections where I had eased off a bit on the flat(ish) part of the course, wondering where I had cost myself those seven precious seconds (probably on one of those rolling hills that comprised the “ish” part of “flat(ish)”). It wasn’t until after I got home and was updating my race results tab on my Facebook profile that I realized my previous PR was 36:32, so I had, in fact, PR’ed at this race! Granted, I PR’ed by one little second, but that’s all it takes! (Technically, they time to one hundredth of a second.) As is often the case, the timing chips all turn “on” at the same time, so it is only to one’s advantage to start right at the start line. H-E-double-hockey-sticks, Regina started right smack on the start line and I don’t see anyone having issues with that.


We were greeted at the finish line by The King (young, cool, lean, handsome Elvis…not old, out-of-shape, bloated Vegas Elvis).I enjoyed the momentary realization that the kid in the Elvis costume wasn’t even old enough to remember when Elvis died, much less remembering Elvis as a living, breathing, TV-shooting, peanut-butter-and-banana-sandwich-nomming human being.


I eagerly accepted a bottle of water from a volunteer at the finish line while another volunteer cut my racing chip off my shoe, and then I headed back along the sidelines toward the finish line to wait for Regina. It would take another 14 minutes, but there she was, her EMT escorts still flashing the ambulance lights behind her. We erupted into applause and raucous cheers as she crossed the finish line. She was preceded by perhaps three dozen runners, including a very young girl (maybe six or seven years old) who kicked in the afterburners so hard about 25 yards from the finish line that I momentarily worried she might fall down from the momentum (thankfully, she did not) and who crossed the finish line to a loud chorus of cheers from the assembled spectators, most of whom had already run the race. I also saw a woman whom I had passed on the way back from the “correctional facility”; I found out after the race that her name was Michelle and this was her fourth 5k. She was later joined by a friend who was running her first 5k.


After the race was over, various items were raffled off, including fried ice cream, candy, Avon products and sports detergent. One of the prizes was a package of New York Yankees Silly Bandz…and I desperately hoped that I did not win that prize. Even the announcer said, “This is tough for me, since I’m a Red Sox fan.” You bet your sweet bippy I piped in with, “Yeah! Go Red Sox!” So when one of the prizes (a canvas soft-sided cooler with a little fleece blanket in one compartment) went to #14, the announcer said, “All right! RED SOX!!!” when he saw me come up to claim my prize. We paused briefly for a photo and then I headed back to the crowd to see the awards for the top finishers, many of whom would be awarded baked goods (clearly in an attempt to fatten them up for the next race, thus slowing them down…I like this idea). As I was getting ready to head back to my car, Regina caught up with me, asked me how I finished and we chatted for a moment.


So the spoils of war for today totaled thus: a reusable black shopping bag, courtesy of State Farm Insurance, a cool T-shirt that I absolutely will wear to dinner tonight, the nifty cooler with fleece throw (picnic with Chi’s and cheese, I’m thinking)…and a personal record of 35:31!!! And for all of that (especially the PR), I have no problem finishing last in my division; after all, somebody’s got to!


I was grateful for the fair weather, since the week leading up to the race was filled with steep ups and downs, not enough hydration and appallingly far too few training miles (a whopping three; I don’t think I’ve ever run a 5k with only three miles of training for the week). I have no plans whatsoever to leave my next race to chance like that. Fortunately, I have three weeks until my next 5k. I will no longer include “running it all” in my 5k goals, since I have now proven to myself enough times that I am perfectly capable of running all 3.1 miles. I’m batting .667 in that department, so I can safely put those concerns behind me. That leaves a time goal, and I’m going to be ambitious (especially since I don’t know what topographical “surprises” await me in the next 5k) and make my goal sub-:35. There’s no question in my mind that it’s achievable; it’s simply a matter of doing the work and putting the miles on my running shoes.

Sometimes You Run the Race, Sometimes the Race Runs You...

Just as baseball is synonymous with Cooperstown, Thoroughbred horse racing is synonymous with Saratoga Springs, and the denizens of the Spa City know all too well that what transpires in August (although racing season now extends from the last week or so of July through Labor Day) can make or break many a business’ entire year. Saratoga is and has always been a summer town, between the track and the city’s famous mineral waters.

So this weekend's 5k, my fifth for those who are keeping track, brought me once again to 'Toga on a sunny Saturday morning. This was my third 5k in Saratoga, with a different course each time. There’s something about running here that fits me to a T. There are beautiful homes, both modern-day castles and fully restored Victorian-era grand dames. Despite the fact that, short of winning the lottery, I will never be able to afford homes like these, I still enjoy looking at them. The pace of life in Saratoga is decidedly more relaxed, as if to savor every day of “The Season.” I could get used to that kind of pace. I just can’t afford it. (Insert hysterical laughter here.)

This race, the Fasig-Tipton 5k, was sponsored by Fasig-Tipton, the oldest Thoroughbred auction house in North America, and benefited the Backstretch Education Fund, the Race Track Chaplaincy, the Belmont Childcare Association and the Backstretch Employee Service Team (BEST). The Thoroughbreds themselves, the money and wealthy owners behind them, the jockeys in their colorful silks, and the various aspects of pari-mutuel wagering are the most prominent facets of the horse racing industry, but the people who do the day-to-day work with these amazing animal athletes often fade into the background. Grooms, hot walkers, exercise jockeys, and other backstretch workers work long hours for pay most of us would consider an insult, often live itinerant lifestyles as they and their families go from venue to venue with their equine charges (or in sync with seasonal work, like in Saratoga). They do the work for a variety of reasons—because it’s one of the few jobs they can get with limited formal education or with limited English proficiency—but their genuine love for these amazing animals is evident. Seriously, if you didn’t give a flying rat’s derriere about horses, would you clean out their stalls for what may be minimum wage and no health insurance benefits? And these aren’t just any horses the workers care for; these are Thoroughbreds with bloodlines going back generation after generation after generation, with legendary forebears, and many of these animals are worth more in their racing careers and afterward (at stud or as broodmares) than most of us may earn in a lifetime. The care and professionalism that backstretch workers show to these amazing and often very temperamental animal athletes is nothing less than sublime. And yet to most spectators, the backstretch workers are all but invisible. It was a privilege to run a race that benefited non-profit organizations offering important services to these hardworking folks and their families.

The general location for this race was the same as the Silks & Satins 5k a fortnight ago, but we trod a different course, the giveaway T-shirt was much nicer, the potties were comparatively palatial and the weather was vastly improved.

As I arrived in Saratoga Springs, driving down Union Avenue, I could see Thoroughbreds going through their morning workout on the main track at Saratoga Race Course. I wished them a safe trip during their races. For some reason, it choked me up a little. But I’ve been known to cry at McDonald’s commercials, so there. I can only chalk it up to a kindred feeling from one running athlete to another. Yeah, I know. Just work with me here, okay? Delusions of grandeur are my stock in trade.

I checked in and discovered the first great news of the day: no pee pee teepees! The Fasig-Tipton folks opened the Finney auditorium for us, so we were able to use the rest rooms inside the facility. Given the choice between blue plastic pee pee teepees and beautifully clean, well-appointed restrooms typically used by people spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on horses, I would definitely prefer to pee like rich folk do. H-E-double-hockey-sticks, who wouldn’t?

After attaching my racing chip and bib (#2129…prime number…another good omen, I hoped), I continued following my usual pre-race routine, but I was rather stymied in my efforts to find doggies to pet for some canine karma. I found a pair of greyhounds (one named Popeye) and a boxer. Even though I pet them all, I don’t think any racing mojo rubbed off on me. At the start of the race, I had plenty of energy and felt ready to run a good, strong pace, despite getting to bed later than planned (watching the Red Sox beat the Yankees...YAY!!!), being wakened by my neighbors at half-past midnight (loudly encouraging their dog to poop in the yard) and again intermittently from 3-3:30am (very strange, very loud, very likely alcohol-induced, yet surprising very skillful singing…yes, singing…). Those neighbors are moving out, probably at the end of August, and I am fervently praying that the next tenants will be quiet people.

But I digress…

The race began in front of the Fasig-Tipton pavilion at the corner of East Avenue and George Street. Even before we got to Union Avenue I could tell that my breathing wasn’t cooperating. I don’t have any medical condition that affects my breathing in a race; I’m not asthmatic or afflicted with any pulmonary issues. I just, for whatever reason, don’t breathe “right” during a race sometimes. The cadence just isn’t right and, as I’ve mentioned before, it feels like I’m getting plenty of air but not enough oxygen. Since when it hits it’s usually toward the start of the race and within the first half-mile everything falls into place, I figure it’s just nerves or adrenaline or something. In the F-S 5k, I felt like I struggled with my breathing pretty much until the final turn. I just couldn’t seem to relax.

As we made the first turn north onto Union Avenue at the main gate of Saratoga Race Course, I kept my focus on the traffic cones. I wasn’t counting them; I was just using them for some kind of external cadence counter. As we proceeded past the gates of the race track, I could see a Thoroughbred and exercise rider trotting easily along the track (the wrong way, I noticed), probably headed to some point on the backstretch from which to begin breezing or whatever was on that mount’s morning to-do list.

As we neared Yaddo, Union Avenue began gently inclining downward. I took advantage of the downhill to acquire as much reasonably controlled velocity as gravity would allow and still remain on my feet. We turned onto Henning Avenue and as I neared the end of the downhill, I noticed that the road sloped gently (according to my eyes) upward. My legs interpreted the topography as rather more challenging than my eyes had. I hadn’t had an opportunity to walk this course, but when I mapped it out on RunKeeper, it looked like one nice big downhill and one very gradual, gentle, almost imperceptible climb to the finish line. Seriously, maybe a 200-foot climb spread out over two miles. That should be a piece of cake. Apparently, my legs don’t know from gradual. I just powered through the incline the best I could and was relieved to see the turn onto Fifth Avenue up ahead. I figured I would have a chance to ease off my pace once I hit the level ground of Fifth. Just one little problem: that end of Fifth begins with a hill. And not a gentle hill. If I’d been on my bike, I would have been standing on the pedals to climb the hill. I actually said, out loud, “You have got to be effing kidding me with this effing hill!” (Yes, I said “effing,” not the real word. There were young, impressionable minds near me. Although in retrospect, they might have taught me some more modern usage of the F word. But I choose to remain a purist.) The water station was at the top of this “little” hill. I was thankful that the hill was short, but when it’s even moderately steep and your legs are already plotting to boycott the rest of your body, “short” is irrelevant. Maybe I’m weird, but I actually do better if I don’t grab water, since I invariably end up gulping, rather than sipping the water. That’s one of those things on my training to-do list. And I think we all know how that goes…

Anyway, we seemed to run on Fifth until we go to the freakin’ Vermont border, but in fact we never left Saratoga Springs. As we neared East Avenue (which we would cross on Fifth), a runner came up on my left and she said, “I like your shirt.” I get a lot of compliments on my neon-green sleeveless running shirt, which I’ve worn in every 5k except the Freihofer’s. The back of the shirt reads “irunlikeagirl”. (They have a whole line of running gear at www.irunlikeagirl.com; tell them Gingah sent you…not that you’ll get a discount or anything; they don’t know me from Adam…or, in their case, Eve.) The complimentary runner pointed to one of the cars parked on Fifth and said, “Is that what we win?” I replied, “I’d take a golf cart if it would drag my carcass across the finish line.” I guess you’d call that the runner’s version of gallows humor. There were several points during the race when I wanted to ask the course marshals at every intersection, “Am I last???”

As we reached the end of our long sojourn down Fifth, we turned briefly onto Nelson Avenue for the distance of, I think, one house plot, then turned onto a little alley. When I saw the course marshal with his flag, I almost said, “Seriously? Down here???” That little alley happened to be Tipton Lane. After turning from there onto Ludlow for something like 20 paces, we turned again down another little alley-like road in the opposite direction: Fasig Lane. Oh, OK…now I get it. Fasig-Tipton. Shut up and run, Gingah, I thought to myself. Don’t think; you’re using up valuable energy you need for running. Once more out onto Nelson for a few paces, and then I finally saw the turn onto George Street. I knew I was only about four blocks or so from the finish line. Just past the turn onto George, the Fasig-Tipton folks had put a sign that read, “3 miles. Less than a furlong to go!” I laughed a bit and tried to channel my inner Rachel Alexandra. (I think her big rump might be slightly larger than mine, but since she’s a Thoroughbred, she wears the booty better than I do.) Unlike in the Silks & Satins 5k, though, when I told my booster rockets to kick in this time, I had nada; no oomph for you! I passed a few race marshals who, like most of them, cheered us on. I shouted that George Street was my favorite street in all of Saratoga. They laughed, knowing that it was where the finish line was located.

With about two blocks to go, finish line in sight, I noticed a young girl, maybe ten years old (I suck at guessing ages), struggling to finish. She and I had passed each other countless times during the race. Although I ran the whole way, she would run until she was tired, then walk until she caught her breath, then run again, repeating the process over and over. I would pass her when she walked and she would pass me when she started running again. I made periodic comments about her taking it too easy on me or being so nice about trying to boost my confidence. To her credit, she didn’t pepper-spray me (quite possibly only because she didn’t have any pepper spray handy). At this point in the race, in the homestretch on George Street, her mother met her on the sidelines and was consoling this obviously frustrated, tired and defeated girl, who was in tears. Clearly she felt as though she had nothing left in the tank. Her mother walked with her toward the finish line and, about a block from the end, I came up alongside them and said, “You’ve come so far! I need someone to pace me to get me to the end. Do you wanna help me with that?” Perhaps if for no other reason than to humor the crazy middle-aged fat lady in the dark green hat and neon-lime shirt, she started running alongside me. After several steps, she found what energy she had left and crossed the finish line well ahead of me. I could see the clock and knew I wasn’t going to PR and so didn’t really give a crapola about my time. I just wanted her to finish.

I saw the girl and her mom after the race. Her mother had what sounded to me like an Australian accent and she thanked me for what I did to encourage her daughter. I figure I just paid forward all the encouragement I’ve received from all of you who have endured my whining, beeyotching, kvetching and exceedingly dull details of running...as well as the periodic banal (and not-so-banal) victories. It really doesn’t take much effort to put yourself in another person’s shoes and show a little empathy for another being. I don’t just get myself to the end of the race; the people who encourage me, who cheer me on in person or electronically, the ones who tell me I rock or that they are proud of me and of my perseverance; those are the people who do for me every day what I tried to do for that girl one sunny Saturday morning.

Of the 266 runners who crossed the finish line, I was 256^th. I finished next-to-last in my age group, but I ran it all and turned in my second-fastest time. I was at first, and for perhaps an hour or so afterward, discouraged with my time. Had it not been for the uphill inclines, I was certain I would have beaten my previous time. But in running, as in life, sometimes you have to climb uphill and keep going. What matters is that you keep going 'til your race is run. If nothing else, I spent a beautiful Saturday morning doing something other than sitting on my heinie. That in itself is a victory.

This was the second annual Fasig-Tipton 5k and I hope they’ll keep this event going. I’ve enjoyed running in Saratoga Springs so much, as soon as I got home I looked for another Saratoga 5k to add to my schedule. I found the Run for the Horses, which benefits the Thoroughbred Retirement Fund, in early September.

‘Til next time…