Distance races are like mullets:
business in the front, party in the back.
business in the front, party in the back.
No, nobody snuck vodka into my CamelBak. Although perhaps I should try that for my next half marathon. (It would also help when Google Image searching for mullets. Seriously, I couldn't find a single mullet photo that didn't make me throw up in my mouth a little. Even the ones of George Clooney...with a freakin' mullet. Oh, the humanity...)
You see, Mile 6 of the Surftown Half Marathon course is on the westbound stretch of Atlantic Avenue at Misquamicut State Beach, near where the course overlaps the finish line after the final eastbound stretch on Atlantic. I don't know whether the course is designed this way to inflict maximum agony on slower runners or as some twisted form of "encouragement." So when I reached Mile 6, I got a nice view of the runners who were finishing the entire race in about an hour and a half or less; I tried not to think about the fact that I still had about seven miles left to run. (The front-runners probably crossed the finish line before I arrived at Mile 5.) Naturally, I heard a lot of cheering from the spectators, but the runners themselves seemed almost nonchalant as they finished; some smiles, but not many loud whoops. Having volunteered at the finish line of a 5k, I remember how odd it seemed that the first third or so of finishers didn't smile or cheer. There was no "Yay! I made it!" shout; not even a "Wow, I PR'd!" The first few runners across the finish line didn't even seem to register that we were volunteers there. It was all business, just like a typical day at the office...but clad in singlets and running shorts instead of business attire.
You see, Mile 6 of the Surftown Half Marathon course is on the westbound stretch of Atlantic Avenue at Misquamicut State Beach, near where the course overlaps the finish line after the final eastbound stretch on Atlantic. I don't know whether the course is designed this way to inflict maximum agony on slower runners or as some twisted form of "encouragement." So when I reached Mile 6, I got a nice view of the runners who were finishing the entire race in about an hour and a half or less; I tried not to think about the fact that I still had about seven miles left to run. (The front-runners probably crossed the finish line before I arrived at Mile 5.) Naturally, I heard a lot of cheering from the spectators, but the runners themselves seemed almost nonchalant as they finished; some smiles, but not many loud whoops. Having volunteered at the finish line of a 5k, I remember how odd it seemed that the first third or so of finishers didn't smile or cheer. There was no "Yay! I made it!" shout; not even a "Wow, I PR'd!" The first few runners across the finish line didn't even seem to register that we were volunteers there. It was all business, just like a typical day at the office...but clad in singlets and running shorts instead of business attire.
 |
| Artist's shell rendition of the elusive La Tortue Enflammé. This only looks like a still photo; I actually DO run this slowly. |
But I'm getting just a bit ahead of myself...
The weather on race day morning could not have been more perfect, especially for a first half marathon. In my running shorts, Bahston Runnah running shirt, and compression socks, I needed the seat heater on in the car on the drive from my hotel in Westerly, Rhode Island, to Misquamicut Beach. Temperatures were in the mid-40s (and would warm up to the low 50s by the 7:30am start time), humidity was low, and there was plenty of sun (once it came up)--perfect for what I knew would be a three-hour race for me. (I've really lucked out with great weather for the overwhelming majority of my races. Props to Mother Nature on that one, since I register for races months in advance.)
I arrived at Misquamicut State Beach before dawn for the day's race, even though I'd picked up my race packet the day before. There wasn't much traffic yet, as cars were trickling into the parking lot, so I was serenaded in the quiet parking lot by the waves crashing against the shore just over a small dune. I walked over to the beach and watched the waves wash in again and again, rhythmically carrying away most of my race day morning jitters.
I met up with one of my fellow Bahston Running Divahs, she of the sobriquet Lola Buttercups. I hadn't really decided yet whether to wear my 4-bottle (and prone to leakage) fuel belt or to go for the CamelBak. Since Lola opted for the CamelBak, I figured I would, too. Faster runners might have laughed, but they were going to be running for a little over an hour; I was going to be running for three.
Start time seemed to arrive rather quickly (and, really, despite multiple PRPs [for the uninitiated, PRP stands for Pre-Race Pee...and/or Pre-Race Poop...and/or Pre-Race Puke; fortunately, I have yet to experience Pre-Race Puke, but if it ever happens, you'll read about it here first...because that's the kind of thoughtful, generous blogger I am], I would have liked just one more). Lola and I headed toward the back and found our pace group leader. I hoped to be able to keep the pace leader within sight for the whole race. (Yeah, that part didn't work out too well. She came back to me twice during the first two miles or so; by the time I got to Mile 4, she was long gone.)
One of the first things I noticed during the race was that there were monarch butterflies everywhere. Typically, I might see one or two a year, assuming I'm attentive enough to notice. Here, they seemed to be everywhere and would sometimes fly very close to me, commanding my attention. A few times I saw them in veritable swarms on Atlantic Avenue, while at other times a solitary butterfly would seem to pace me along the route.
 |
| The view of Block Island Sound from the overlook on Wawaloam Drive near Misquamicut Beach. I grew so enamored of this spot, I visited it three times during race weekend, not including running along it during the race itself. |
Of all the pre-race stressors, none was more acute for me than the race's posted three-hour time limit. I'd asked about that at packet pick-up and was assured that the finish line would still be set up when I crossed, but they couldn't guarantee course protection/guidance beyond the three-hour time limit. That took a huge weight off my shoulders. Of course, the second most acute pre-race stressor for me was the hills on the Watch Hill section of the course. Frankly, I'm still a bit baffled that such a hilly course has a comparatively tight 3:00 time limit. I'd previewed the course in the car the day before and discovered that Watch Hill wouldn't be the only hilly section: there was also the long slow ascent up Wawaloam Drive. I wouldn't have minded it if this were the only hill on the course, especially since it's in the first third of the race, but I knew I needed to to conserve as much energy as I could for Watch Hill, which would be much hillier. I guess they don't exaggerate with location names in Rhody. But the view from the overlook on Wawaloam was spectacular and provided the first view of the ocean on the course.
 |
| For the non-verbose version of the course, click this image. |
Back onto Atlantic Avenue, headed back toward (and past) Misquamicut State Beach (and the finish line), I took advantage of the water station this time. There were long stretches of Atlantic Avenue with nary a spectator in sight. Along these stretches, the butterflies would rejoin me, and a flock of egrets stood in the shallow bog just off the northern side of Atlantic Avenue--the first time I'd ever seen wading birds in a flock; back home, you see a solitary crane here and there. Whatever takes your mind of how many miles lay ahead...
The course turned north off Atlantic Avenue just before Mile 7. The course continued Atlantic Avenue's blessed flatness and I ran past the first of a handful of musicians playing for the runners. I applauded their talent as I ran by, headed for Shore Road (from which I had no view of the shore) and the opening hill of the Watch Hill section of the course. As I entered Watch Hill, I was still running as I reached Mile 8, which some sadistic course director put on a long, fairly steep hill. Up to that point, I caught myself thinking that I might actually be able to run the entire distance. Within another half mile, it became clear that some walking (okay, a lot of walking) was going to be necessary to cover the remaining five miles. As soon as I slowed to a walk the first time, my legs immediately notified me that the last five miles of the race were going to be considerably harder than the first eight.
When contemplating your first half marathon, I have learned first-hand to look for phrases like "beginner-friendly" an "flat"; well, I had chosen Surftown because its description used the word "picturesque". (I would like to point out that it also said "predominantly flat"...little did I realize how not flat the rest of the non-predominant part of the course was.) Miles 8 through 12 were predominantly hills with one or two short flat stretches and only a few noticeable downhills. If what goes up must come down, how can a half marathon have so many uphills, few moderate downhills, and still end at the same level where it began? That was a bit too much of a math quandary for my exhausted brain, so I just chalked it up to a sadistic mystery and cursed every goddamn hill. When a course marshal was nearby, I used humor and sarcasm, but on the inside, yup, cursing. Every. Damn. Time.
Before I had to slow to a walk for the first time around eight and a half miles, I'd been going at about a 13:45 pace, which (if I could keep it up) would enable me to finish right around three hours. The course had another time constraint: All runners had to reach Mile 10 by 10:05 (2:35 after the start of the race). As I neared Mile 10, it was clear that I would clear that with a good 15-20 minutes to spare. Unfortunately, not long after Mile 10, I took the last drink from my CamelBak. I would have to run (well, run/walk) the remaining five kilometers with only one last water stop.
Fortunately, the last-chance water station on Ocean View Highway around Mile 11 was also one of the few remaining flat sections of the course until the final mile of the race. It was at this water station that I made my second rookie mistake (the first being skipping the first water station because I had 50oz of water in my CamelBak): I grabbed one cup of water--not nearly enough, given my drained CamelBak; I should have grabbed two or even three. By the time I realized my mistake, I was probably 10 yards at most away from the table filled with water and Gatorade cups, but there was simply no way on God's green earth that I was going to turn around and go back.
Less than a minute later, I noticed a figure about a few hundred yards in the distance (maybe even a quarter of a mile). The figure appeared to be another runner, facing me and waving. Within a minute or so, my fellow Bahston Running Divah, Jillian, appearing like a mirage, came running back to where I was. Remember, I refused to turn back maybe 10 yards (if that) to get more water, and here was Jillian, running back almost a quarter of a mile to run with me and pace me to the end. Selfless generosity, thy name is Jillian.
We walked along together for a little while as the ocean finally came into view on Ocean View Highway. We would pick up the pace and run for a bit, then take another short walk break. We turned onto Bayberry Road and as we neared Mile 12 we could see the course marshals ahead for the second-to-last turn of the race. I asked Jillian if there were any more water stops, since I was dehydrated. She said, "No, that was the last one back there. We're less than a mile from the finish line." I looked at my Nike+ watch, saw that she was correct, and said, "Oh, I can make it one last mile!" We picked up the pace a bit, running along Maplewood Avenue toward the shore. My mind is a little fuzzy on that last mile, but I'm pretty sure we ran all of it. I distinctly remember my posture changing back into good form as soon as I realized there was only a mile left to go.
We finally reached Atlantic Avenue once again and turned for the final stretch to the finish line. As we approached, I could see Lola and another of our Bahston Running Divahs, "Meredith TallGirl" (seriously, someday I need to find out what her last name is; this is the second race I've run with her, and I keep forgetting to ask), cheering us on.
So here's how it ended...
...complete with play-by-play by Lola, who captured it on video for posterity. (Good thing, since, despite the fact that there was a race photographer at the finish line, no race photos of me exist past Mile 3.) And, yes, that's Jillian running next to me, patting me on the shoulder as I start to lose it just a little.
 |
| Can you say "Bling"? Sure you can... |
Within minutes, I had already slipped into the pained geriatric shuffle of the first-time half marathoner. Walking along Atlantic Avenue with Jillian and Meredith toward the peepee teepees and chowdah line at Misquamicut State Beach, the roads had been reopened to the sparse and slow-moving beach traffic. I figured I should probably be walking on the sidewalk instead of in the road, but one look at the curb told me I didn't have the strength to take that big step up. When I got to one of the curb cutouts, I shuffled up onto the sidewalk, requiring at least eight steps and doing a dead-on impression of Tim Conway's old man character in the process. I suppose it's apropos that I also giggled a little like Harvey Korman at the unadulterated comedy of the situation.
As I caught up with Lola while enjoying some chowdah, I confirmed with her that the Myrtle Beach half marathon course would be flat. Pancake flat.
 |
| The owner of Mel's Downtown Creamery even asked to take my picture for their Facebook page because she loved my shirt! |
The evening would involve relaxing and saying "ooh" and "ow" a lot. Some ibuprofen helped with the muscle soreness, while rest, periodic short walks and near-constant rehydrating helped with the stiffness. It was the most intense exercise-induced soreness I'd ever experienced (not including the acute pain of last year's proximal hamstring strain, which I incurred while walking the dogs), but there was absolutely no doubt that the accomplishment was worth every damned "ow" and creak. I've never smiled so much while walking so gingerly.
 |
| Two of my proudest sports accomplishments: IronGirl and my first half marathon. |
After every race, I promise myself I'll finish the corresponding blog entry before the next race. Well, I failed at that again. As of this writing, I've finished another race and am less than 10 days away from my next half marathon. So stay tuned, because the next entry is about the Tufts 10K for Women in Boston--definitely a "bucket list" race! (And I will try to finish that before I run the Myrtle Beach half marathon!)
Until next time, keep putting one foot in front of the other! Vive La Tortue Enflammé!!!
No comments:
Post a Comment