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…
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