Labor Day weekend featured two races for me: Saturday’s Run for the Horses 5k in Saratoga Springs (to benefit the Thoroughbred Retirement Fund) and Sunday’s Wobbly Feet 5k (subsequently renamed the Hope With Every Step Halfmoon 5k). Both races were fundraisers. Contrary to what you might be thinking, I do not have a maddening desire to drop dead from running 5k’s. I originally registered for the Wobbly Feet and then, when I registered for the Run for the Horses, I neglected to check the full weekend on my calendar. The result? Back-to-back 5k’s. Worse, it left me with no opportunity to run the race I should have entered, the SEFCU Labor Day 5k. On the plus side, I would end up at the SEFCU race, but as a volunteer, not a runner. I’m enjoyed lending support to other runners the way so many race volunteers have supported me.
Once I realized (back in August) my scheduling mistake, I took it as an opportunity to test myself and see if I could run two 5k’s back-to-back. Well, now I have my answer: a resounding NO. Or at least a heartfelt NOT YET. (Good to know, since I’m already registered for seven 5k’s in September.)
Saratoga Spa State Park presented a beautiful location for a 5k on a perfect late summer day. The morning started reasonably cool, the humidity that characterized most of the preceding week had skedaddled and it was looking like a great day for running. I hoped that nearly a full week off from running would end up helping me with a more relaxed race. Um…yeah…NOT. My bib number was not a prime, but that was OK. The fastest race I’d ever run, the Jailhouse Rock 5k in Ballston Spa, had me wearing #14, but that race was also being held ON the 14th, which just happened to be my dad’s birthday. The R4H 5k also advertised that the voice of Saratoga and New York racing, Tom Durkin, would call the start of the race. I had been looking forward to hearing the customary, “Aaaaaaand they’re OFF!” at the start of the race, but apparently Mr. Durkin was a late scratch.
My goal for this race was to run it all in 35:15. To have any shot at finishing in that time, I would need to run the entire distance. I was confident in my endurance; my speed would be up to my legs. As I looked around pre-race for a dog to pet for good luck, I met another runner and her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Darby. One might not typically think of that breed for distance running, but Darby ran the entire race with her owner. (They passed me on the Avenue of the Pines on the way to the turn-around point, and again on Gideon Putnam Road on the way back. Both times they passed, I cheered, “Go, Darby, go!!!”)
The R4H certainly took the prize for Most Varied Terrain for a “road” race. We ran on gravel, asphalt, hard-packed dirt and, finally, a grassy field. For my entire (admittedly brief) running “career,“ I have run exclusively on asphalt. Another runner informed me that the softer surfaces would be a welcome change to my legs. I started out a bit less sure-footed that usual on the gravel roadway. Fortunately, most of the actual gravel was on the sides, with hard-packed crushed gravel dominating the access road. One particularly large piece of rock presented itself perfectly for my left foot to land on it in the most inappropriate manner: right in my arch. Yeouch. NOT a particularly auspicious start to my race. We soon left the gravel drive and turned onto the paved biking/running path that paralleled the Avenue of the Pines. Everything seemed fine: breathing, legs, stamina. So far, so good. The aroma of the pines that line the avenue was a nice accompaniment to the sunny skies and moderate temperatures. We ran down along the avenue until we turned onto Gideon Putnam Road. I still felt strong and comfortable, with what seemed to be a good solid pace. I passed the water station and got to the turn-around point still feeling good in the run. As I passed the water station on the way back, I gratefully accepted a cup, thanked the volunteer, swished a little agua in my mouth and tossed the cup aside.
Throughout the race, once I had established a comfortable pace, I started looking for human landmarks: people to try to pass. Some folks walked/ran this race, as is a common occurrence. Just before the turn back along the Avenue of the Pines, I selected a particularly challenging human landmark. I would learn his name after I crossed the finish line, but for the time being he was, in my mind, “Le Target” (pronounced “Tarzhay”). He was proceeding through the entire race doing running and walking intervals. He was also about six feet tall, so his legs are longer than mine. (B@stard, I thought.) For the last full mile of the race, I had him squarely in my sights. And yet, he proved frustratingly elusive. I would get within a few paces of him while he was walking, and he would start running. Fortunately, his running intervals were brief; perhaps a minute or two at most. But just as I would close in on him as he walked (also in intervals of a minute or two), he’d pick up again. I didn’t know what the French word for “elusive” was, so I just modified his sobriquet with a little Franglish: “Le Target Elusive” (pronounced with a distinctly Pepe Le Pew accent). He would continue to elude me for the rest of the race.
By the final half mile, I was starting to lose a lot of steam. I was getting that “running through Jell-O” feeling and just kept pushing to get to the end. I completed the final turn from the paved path to a dirt road in sight of the finish line, and then, with tremendous gratitude, put everything I had left (which, admittedly, wasn’t much at all) into the final 50 yards or so of open field. I glanced at the clock next to the finish line: creeping up toward 37 minutes. CRAP, I thought. (OK, I didn’t actually think crap, but my blog censors my naughtier language, so my other option is to say, “Sugar Honey Iced Tea!”) I don’t have all of my race times committed to memory, just my PR (35:31 in the Jailhouse Rock 5k) and my first (38:14 in the Freihofer’s Run for Women). But I did know that I’ve only run one race over :37. I willed my legs to get me across the finish line before the clock ticked to :37. (After the race, I would find my official time: 36:58. So my legs got the job done…just barely.)
As I crossed the finish line, I wanted to collapse but kept walking. A volunteer bent down to remove the racing chip from my shoe as I heard the AREEP announcer call out my name. (THAT was a first. And he even pronounced it properly!) I saw Le Target Elusive just ahead of me. He turned around and thanked me. I was at a loss to figure out why. He said, “Every time I heard you gaining on me, it spurred me to run a little more. Thanks for pushing me!” Well, damn, I’m not that magnanimous! (As for him hearing me approaching, I’m sure he was referring to my breathing, which doesn’t even have a stealth mode; I have no doubt my breathing could be heard all the way to Vermont!) I responded by telling him how frustrated I was getting during the race, coming so close to catching up to him, only to be thwarted within a few steps. We shared a laugh and parted ways. (Incidentally, his name is Joe and our paths would cross again sooner than either of us would have expected. But I digress.)
In all, 117 people completed the Run for the Horses. I finished 109th. And my goal of 35:15? The closest I came to that was watching the eight-year-old kid in a Derek Jeter T-shirt who constantly seemed to be a couple hundred yards ahead of me, as if to taunt me with all his Yankee-fandomnessitude. But, come on, he’s a kid, and from what I could see, a pretty decent kid. He finished in 35:13, won his division (by virtue of being the only one in it--which I think was 13 and under), and I cheered heartily for him when he claimed his prize. (But I still hate the Yankees. Especially this year, with my beloved BoSox limping down the homestretch of an injury-wracked season. But, again, I digress.)
I comforted myself with the knowledge that I gave that race everything I had in me that day, and reminded myself that there is no substitute for adequate preparation. That race was behind me, with its second-worst-ever-for-me time of just a couple hairs under 37 minutes.
The next challenge lay ahead…the following morning.
Sunday morning dawned very cool and breezy; my favorite kind of weather. For the first time since I started running 5k races, I needed a warm-up jacket. I drove up to Halfmoon Town Park for the inaugural Hope with Every Step Halfmoon 5k (originally the Wobbly Feet 5k), a benefit for the Wobbly Feet Foundation.
After checking in and taking care of business in the ladies’ room, I attached my bib for this hand-timed race. I chatted with a young couple who were participating in the 1-mile family walk with their dogs, Yoda and Logan. Yoda was a mixed breed with some Chihuahua in him, which was evident when he barked excitedly. Every Chi seems to have that I’ve-just-been-hit-by-a-car bark that scares the bejeezus out their owners the first few times they hear it.
I also spoke briefly with Rich, who is 76 years old and runs a lot of road races. He and I chatted about running, various courses, and his friend Regina, whom I wrote about in my last blog entry after the Jailhouse Rock 5k.
I went off by myself to warm up, stretch and give myself a little last-minute pep talk to prepare myself mentally for the race and what my expectations were.
Today’s race would be run entirely on a crushed gravel/cinder track, which should have provided some cushioning for my legs and, I hoped, would improve the likelihood of my being able to run the entire race. Yesterday’s race had a time goal that I failed to make, but I ran the entire distance. Today’s race had only one goal: to run the entire distance. I had on one or two occasions run the 5k distance on consecutive days, but never at race pace. Even though all of my running seems to happen at more or less the same pace, give or take a minute (at most), there is something different about racing with a group of people in a timed event. I harbor no illusions that I will finish among the top three of my age group; the only way that could happen at present would be for all but two other female runners in their 40s to be waylaid by amoebic dysentery or food poisoning or a tear in the time-space continuum. When I race, I race against myself and my previous PR, and I always try to leave everything I have on the course. Today, I would be racing with yesterday’s second-worst-ever finish still fresh in my mind. My game plan was to run comfortably enough to enable me to run it all, knowing that I would be lucky to improve on yesterday’s disappointing time by even a small margin.
As we gathered at the starting line, I went though my race checklist mentally. Big mistake. I keep my checklist on my CrackBerry precisely because I don’t trust my memory, which is notoriously akin to Swiss cheese. Everything seemed to be in place; I’d even had to add my running gloves this morning because the breeze across the open park made me a bit chilly. I knew I would warm up as I ran, so I abandoned my warm-up jacket back at the car; but if my hands were cold, I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate, and the gloves were easy enough to remove and stash in my waistband if I got too warm during the race. There was a nagging suspicion that I had forgotten something. I checked for the usual suspects: cough drops (to keep my throat from getting too dry)…check. Lucky hat (which I hadn’t worn in either of the two previous races)…check. Sunglasses…check. I figured it was just nerves, so I put the worry aside and focused on the course instructions.
I already knew the course surface, but this would be my first chance to hear about the course itself. It turned out that the course featured one of my pet peeves: a repeated loop. I can barely begin to tell you how much I hate that…but you know damn well that I will. My personal opinion is that repeated loops should be against the rules. For someone as slow as I am, by the time I get around toward the end of the first loop, several runners (if not most of the field) have already passed me once and are on their final approach to the finish line. As a runner, I have not yet developed the mental toughness to be able to see the finish line and know that I have to go around again.
When my Facebook friend, Tiffany, competed in the 70.3 Ironman Rhode Island, my first thought was that there wasn’t enough Rhode Island to make that work; after all, we’re talking about a state that only measures 37 miles wide by 48 miles long at its largest points. Rhody’s official name (State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations) is almost bigger than the state itself. And yet, in that relatively tiny piece of real estate, Tiffany would swim 1.2 miles, bike 56 miles and run a half marathon. The run was the part that concerned me; not just the distance itself but, since the running component was conducted entirely within the city of Providence, the fact that runners would have to complete two laps of the running course. I remember at the time wondering what kind of physical and mental stamina it took to do that.
Today I would be facing that challenge on a far smaller scale, but this race, I hoped, would help me develop the foundation of that stamina.
With the course instructions presented and the sponsors thanked, we prepared for the two sounds we’d assembled to hear: “Runners ready” and the starting claxon. In the last 30 seconds before that, I looked around and tried to relax and laugh with the other runners. That’s when it hit me: I had forgotten something. I saw runner after runner wearing headphones. Sugar Honey Iced Tea…I had left my iPod in the car. It was too late to go back now, so I would run this entire race without music. Since I began running at the start of this year, I have only run without music twice: most recently on a striding training run and a few months ago during a standard training run. I got through both sessions, but it was, frankly, excruciating. I don’t run and chat (in fact, talking while running wears me out completely) and I don’t trust my mind to run without music…it’s far too easy for my mind to wander to realms where it has no business. I’m not one of those runners who gets “in the zone” and achieves moments of blissful clarity while running. I’m still in the I’m-happy-when-it’s-over-and-I-can-stop phase of being a runner.
The claxon sounded and off we ran. As is my habit, I stayed to the right so the hares could easily pass all the tortoises like me. This race included families with young children (the walkers were behind all of the runners), and I was impressed with all the kids who were so eager to run and have fun. I’ll admit I was rather envious of that; 5k runs were not quite so plentiful (and girls weren’t encouraged to engage in sports other than “girl” sports much) when I was their age. One little blond boy to my left at the start line told his mom and dad that he was going to “sprint the whole way”; his father reminded him that he should pace himself, since 3.1 miles was a long way to sprint. I was impressed that a kid who was perhaps six or seven years old even knew what the word “sprint” meant. (Many of his peers probably only know of Sprint as a wireless phone company, if they know the word at all.) I was passed by many youngsters as young as preschoolers. I enjoyed their attitude and even their rather entertaining running technique. I also remembered from my second race (the Read Run 5k) that kids are like bottle rockets in these events: run as fast as you can until you’re tired (typically about 100 yards), then walk, look around, talk, tell Mom or Dad that you’re bored, then repeat the entire process again and again until you cross the finish line. Of course, the Read Run 5k was run on roads; this race was being run on a much narrower jogging trail, perhaps three feet wide. When a four-year-old gets tired from running all-out, he doesn’t tend to slow to a jog or to a brisk walk; he tends to stop. Since he’s not an experienced runner and, from a developmental standpoint, is still learning about how his actions affect others, he doesn’t realize that when he stops dead in his tracks, another runner might be right behind him and not anticipate his sudden stop. Between my observations in the Read Run 5k (the first involving young children) and my work in the early childhood development field, I was probably better prepared for this situation than most of the other runners (with the exception of the parents, who probably react out of instinct). The faster runners were already well ahead of us (but remember, there would be two laps) and the parents did their best to tell their children to clear the path. This race also had a fairly small field and lacked the more vigilant competitiveness of other races, so to my knowledge there weren’t any negative interactions. There was only one time when I almost slammed into a kid, and it was the aforementioned blond sprinter. As soon as he passed me and ran in front of me, he slammed on the brakes. Nothing intentional; his body was just done running for the time being. I was surprised that I was able to shift quickly to my left while glancing over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t about to become an obstacle for a runner behind me.
We finished the first smaller loop and I was already feeling far more tired than usual at that point in the race. I had the two larger loops to go, which would include the smaller loop we just finished. This meant that I would actually pass within sight of the finish line clock thrice by the time I crossed it. At this point, the clock read nine minutes plus, and I was nowhere near the first mile marker.
I wanted to keep running as long as I could and spied a runner up ahead to help me keep pace. Just keep up with that guy, I thought. Keep him in sight. I noticed he would periodically stop running and slow to a walk, which in my experience is quite common among the folks who are running 12-minute miles like me. (Yes, I run as slowly as some people walk. Fortunately, I find that fact more amusing than annoying. Vive la tortue!!!) I actually started gaining on him a little during his walking portions and finally reached the point where I was about to pass him. Suddenly, I realized he was "Le Target Elusive," the guy who thanked me for “pushing” him toward the end of the previous morning’s Run for the Horses! From reading the previous day’s race results, I knew his name was Joe. As I passed him, I said, “Didn’t you run yesterday in Saratoga?” He said yes and then said to me, “Green shirt?” in reference to my racing attire the previous day. He started jogging slowly and we kept pace for a little while, then I realized I had to slow to a walk. He did the same and we chatted a bit while we walked. He is built rather like a football player (think nose tackle, not running back) and informed me that, despite how he looked, he’d already competed in two half-marathons and 33 5k’s, running/walking all of them. I have to admit I was impressed. And certainly someone looking at my physique would never instinctively think runner. But when you think about it, a runner is someone who runs. That’s it. You don’t have to be an Olympic sprinter to be a runner. You don’t have to finish a 5k in 15 minutes to be a runner. You don’t even have to run a single road race to be a runner. All it takes to be a runner is to run; to get up a few days a week at least, put on some running shoes, and just freakin’ run. It is as simple and as sublime as that.
One of the reasons why I hate slowing to a walk is that each time, it makes it harder for me to start running again. It also increases the likelihood of more walking intervals. It’s like trying to eat just one or two tortilla chips. But unlike the tortilla chips, where abstinence is possible with sufficient willpower and/or distraction, my legs and lungs and heart pretty much tell me whether Team Gingah is going to run the distance or not. In this race, I slowed to a walk more times than I could count; at least five times before I even got to the first mile marker. The second and third miles were filled with unmitigated frustration for me. For the first time in a race, I came close (several times) to throwing my hands up and walking off the course. I’ve never even considered that before. Periodically, as I wound down the first big loop, a runner would pass me (on his final loop) and give a word or two of encouragement. It meant a lot to me. As I finished the first loop, one of the course marshals said, “You’re almost there.“ As if. He obviously didn’t know I was still on the first lap. I could see the finish line clock (25 minutes and counting) and knew I still had another lap to go. I already knew I would be turning in a PW (personal worst); I just needed to go the distance, despite the frustration. I had to fight back the self-loathing and the frustration and the desire to quit and sit on the curb and cry and then go drown my troubles in a quart of Java Chip Frappucino ice cream. (You heard me. Not a pint; a quart. BJ’s Wholesale Club sells them. I wish I didn’t know this. Where are the Men In Black with that memory erasing gizmo when I need them?)
To help distract me from my pathetic self-absorption, I made myself think about the purpose of this race. It was a fundraiser for Ataxia-Telangiectasia (ay-TACK-see-uh tel-LAN-jick-TAY-sha), or “A-T,” a progressive, degenerative disease that affects a startling variety of body systems. Children with A-T appear normal at birth, and the first signs of the disease usually appear during the second year of life. These first signs are usually a "wobbly" lack of balance and slurred speech caused by "ataxia," which means a lack of muscle control. (Hence, the Wobbly Feet Foundation.) Before the race, I met Josh, who‘s about six or seven years old and who has A-T. He was using a walker (and I saw him later motoring along in a scooter chair) and was wearing a New England Patriots hat. He had a beaming smile and a wonderful family, including his little sister, who kept giving him hugs. He claimed not to like that. I suggested she was just trying to keep warm on such a chilly morning. He met Connor, in whose honor we were running that morning, and both of their families posed together for a photo, with Josh’s big beaming smile cutting though the morning chill.
So when I started to feel sorry for myself and beat myself up for not running the whole distance, I reminded myself of the race that Josh and Connor and their families are running. It’s not about finishing first. It’s not about turning in a personal best time. It’s about going the distance, even when you’re tired, even when you’re frustrated, even when the odds seem too overwhelming. I tried to imagine Josh blowing past me in his scooter chair, smiling that smile and telling me to get my heinie in gear. But I think Josh is probably too nice a kid to say that. I did what I do in training when my body won’t cooperate and run the full distance: I count my steps. 60 right footsteps running, 30 to 60 right footsteps walking (depending on how long it takes me to get my breathing back to normal), over and over and over again. It’s boring as hell. But I kept going.
By the time I finished the run, I was sure I was dead last. I didn’t really even give a crap anymore. I just wanted to cross the finish line and be done with it. When I finally came toward the end of the final loop, I started running again, because there was no way in H-E-double-hockey-sticks that I was going to walk across the finish line. Gingah don’t play that.
I finished in 42 minutes and something. I still don’t know my official time, because I haven’t seen any results posted online. When I crossed the finish line, I got a medal, just like everyone else. My first race hardware. While I have no problem with the “everybody plays, everybody wins” mentality and the intent behind it for kids, it felt a little empty to me as an adult. My aching hips, which had been b*tching at me since the start of the second mile, didn’t give a flying rat’s patootie about finishing or getting a medal or eating a freakin’ doughnut. (No chocolate glazed left by the time I finished; actually, no doughnuts left, period, by the time I finished. I settled for a quarter of a bagel and a schmear of plain cream cheese.) My hips were demanding a ransom: 800mg of ibuprofen in small, unmarked pills, and my car’s seat heater on high (a/k/a “freakin’ nuclear arse flambé”).
I drove home, already planning my training approach to next Sunday’s Dunkin Run. My goals for that race: run it all, finish in 35:15 (basically, my goals for the Run for the Horses), and eat a freakin’ doughnut after I cross the finish line. (I’m not even a big doughnut fan, except for apple cider doughnuts in the fall, but after running 3.1 miles, I’m not going to apologize for eating a freakin’ doughnut.)
As typically happens after a race, I take a nap. A nice 60- to 90-minute nap, depending on the extent to which two wee doggies are willing to oblige me. I slept like a rock both Saturday and Sunday nights, and on Labor Day morning, I got up, went through my morning routine and walked over to the Harriman State Office Campus near my home to volunteer at the SEFCU 5k, a/k/a the race I should have run this weekend. (I have already updated my CrackBerry’s calendar to reserve every Labor Day weekend for this race.) Like many volunteers, I was a veritable renaissance woman: prepping post-race noms (putting banana halves in bowls and cutting bagels), then I headed over to help at the finish line. The SEFCU 5k is a hand-timed race, which means that someone hits a button on a hand-held device as each runner crosses the finish line. Runners stay in order in the chute and we collect the pull-tabs from the bottom of their racing bibs and put them in order on a spindle. My task was to be the “spindle runner” (Hey, I actually got to run today!), running the full spindles the short distance from the end of the chute to the truck where the race results were being compiled. I’m not fond of hand-timed races because there is more opportunity for human error. Sometimes we have to use “bandit tags” for folks who either lose their bib tabs or duck under the chute rope. Bandits can eff up race results by throwing all the hand-times off, so one person along the chute watches out for bandits (and hands a bandit tag to the spindler in the appropriate order) while the spindler collects the bib tabs. As the spindle runner, until the spindle is full, my job is pretty much to stand there and cheer the runners as they come down the chute. For my efforts I got a hat and a T-shirt, a bagel and some water. And, most important, I got to see a little bit of the types of things that the volunteers do to make sure we runners have a good race.
Only one thing surprised me today: since I’ve never been at the finish line of a road race with all the fast runners, I just assumed that when they crossed the finish line, they thanked the volunteers or at least looked them in the eye and smiled. The first 20 or so people who crossed the finish line? Nada. Zip. Zilch. Bupkis. Obviously, they were very tired, having just run 3.1 miles in 16 minutes or so. Maybe two of the first few dozen (all late teen or young adult males) said thank you, and they were in the third dozen. The first female who crossed the finish line? She said thank you. As did the overwhelming majority of females and most of the middle-aged and older men. Incidentally, one of the runners who crossed the finish line and said thank you looked very familiar. As he approached the spindler, I said, "Are you Joe?" He then recognized me and said it was his first "three-fer"; once again, I was impressed. He told me his goal is to run 52 road races this year, 12 of them half-marathons. And I thought I was crazy for trying to do 17. For once, my obsession with prime numbers helps me look sane. Since there are few road races around here during the winter, Joe was making up for lost time. This was #34 for him.
The volunteers are there to check runners in; make sure runners get their racing bibs, T-shirts and goodie bags; prep the post-race grub; guide runners along the race route; cheer on all the runners; make sure each runner’s finish is recorded properly; and clean up and break down the tables. Sure, volunteers like me got a hat and a T-shirt and a nosh, but that’s not why we volunteer. Many volunteers are runners or former runners or relatives of runners or people who wish they could run or just people who want to lend a hand. They have varying levels of experience and skill, but without them, races simply wouldn’t happen. I have a renewed respect for race volunteers now that I have served in that capacity. In addition to race goals, I also have a goal to volunteer for at least four races a year.
In the meantime, this weekend showed me that I have a lot of work ahead of me to prepare for Sunday’s Dunkin Run. There’s nowhere to go but up.
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