I was disappointed not to have been fit enough to run last year’s Komen, since some medical complications I mentioned in a recent blog entry derailed my training plans. But if “Bill” has taught me anything, it’s that some things run on God’s timetable, not ours.
After I signed up for the 2010 Komen Race for the Cure, former college friends from West Virginia University planned a reunion of the Division of Theatre. It would have been my first opportunity in 25 years for me to meet up with my fellow theatre majors, but I was committed to run the Komen. So as my college friends gathered in Morgantown, I prepared to run my 14th 5k of 2010.
So many people generously supported me in the Komen Race for the Cure, helping me raise more than $400 for the Susan G. Komen Foundation. In honor of friends and loved ones who have survived (or died from) breast cancer, and in thanks to everyone who supported my efforts with a donation, I wore a sign on my back throughout the race:
I had two fundraising goals: one monetary and one participatory. I wanted to raise $250, and I wanted at least 5 of my collegiate friends to contribute. I was humbled, honored and immensely pleased to have exceeded both goals.
The week leading up to the Komen was certainly less than illustrious. Two 5k’s the preceding weekend combined with an acute cold to knock me out of training for the better part of the week before the Komen.
The Komen also represented the first time I would retrace the route of a previous race: my first 5k, the Freihofer’s Run for Women, this past June. I remembered that route well, including its two hills: the opening hill on Madison Avenue, and the second on Lake Avenue between the first and second mile. I already had a game plan in place, having learned a lot since then about running in general and in particular how my body responds to running. I knew where to focus my energy and where I could give my body a bit of a break when I needed it.
As always, my ultimate goal was to get a PR. The Freihofer’s, being my first 5k, came with a built-in PR; all I had to do was cross the finish line. Between that race and this, I had run 12 5k’s; some of them frustrating, a few of them personally thrilling, and all of them challenging. My most recent PR was 34:26 in the Saratoga Palio 5k, representing a pace of just over 11 minutes per mile. I would have expected at least to feel faster at that pace, but, if anything, the Palio 5k felt downright ordinary (read: fairly pokey). With that PR under my belt, I set my twin goals for the Komen: to run the entire race and to score a PR, shooting for 34:15. I knew the time goal was particularly ambitious for me, especially given my illness-induced inability to train as much as I would have liked. I recognized the very real possibility that I would have to cut myself a break and consider just running the whole distance as sufficient challenge in itself.
The weather forecast for “Komen Saturday” had, for several days, looked very much like the outlook for the Palio: autumnal temperatures and no precipitation. I kept my fingers crossed. As Saturday morning dawned, the forecast proved accurate. A cloudless azure sky and 50 degrees Fahrenheit boded well for a good race. I even had Friday morning’s solid, intensive, hour-long elliptical training session and tough, long-overdue triple set on the leg press to help compensate for a lack of running all week. The only potential snag was a direct result of that tough workout: my hips and glutes made it abundantly clear to me that they were not accustomed to such a hard workout. They would continue to express their displeasure emphatically throughout the race.
Every runner will tell you from experience that not every race will be a PR. It stands to reason that a human being, regardless of training intensity, will naturally experience ebbs and flows from one race to another. After the Palio, I thought breaking the 35-minute mark meant I would never struggle to finish a race running the whole way; it would simply be a matter of how fast I would run. But it seems running has a way of humbling you: when you think a day feels like nothing special, you end up surprising yourself with a good solid run; and when you feel like you could your best race ever, something inexplicable will thwart your efforts.
So I focused on running the full distance and working the hills effectively, not worrying about finish time. After arriving, snapping some photos and “trick-or-treating” among the sponsor tables, I stashed my extraneous stuff in the car and headed back toward the Empire State Plaza, detouring briefly to the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception (near the finish line) for a few pre-race devotional moments.
Three friends from work—Carolyn, Everton and Kathryn—were also registered to run the Komen, and I ran into Carolyn and her boyfriend’s sister-in-law, Teri, before the race. We stretched and chatted a bit, then headed toward the start line. I’d learned the hard way during the Freihofer’s Run for Women that if I started back where I was “supposed” to (because I expected to run about an 11- to 12-minute mile), I would get stuck behind a lot of participants who would opt to walk up the opening hill. Since I wanted to run it all and put in at least a respectable pace, I didn’t want to get boxed in. I was among the crush of folks under the overpass between the Empire State Plaza and the New York State Museum. Announcements were being made, but between the cacophonous chatter and the echo-heavy acoustics in the underpass, I couldn’t understand a single word being said. We were crammed together so tightly, I barely had room to move around much, so I just swayed back and forth to warm up my hips and knees and to get ready to run.
I remember reading a training quote a few months ago, referring to running a marathon: “Run the first third with your head, the second third with your legs and the final third with your heart.” I’ve adopted that for my races; despite the shorter distance, the principles hold true. It helps me break down the race into manageable chunks, which, when combined with a familiar course, help fend off the temptation to slow to a walk.
I don’t even recall hearing the starting signal. In a race with thousands of runners, you really just wait for the a$$es in front of you to start moving and follow suit. Due to my starting experience in the Freihofer’s Run for Women, I started farther forward for this race and stayed to the right to avoid getting boxed in or run over. So guess what happened? I got boxed in a bit at the start, since there were still people in front of me who were taking the opening hill even more slowly than I did. I focused on lifting my knees, keeping my head up, pushing off with my feet and taking quick “baby steps” up Madison Avenue hill. At the top of the hill, I switched my focus to getting a good breathing cadence going as the crowd of runners began to thin ever so slightly. The familiar transition points came and went: the few straight, level blocks of Madison Avenue between Swan and Lark Streets, the entrance to Washington Park, the downhill approach to the Lake House. At the one-mile mark, the clock showed me at a relatively modest pace of 12:10. I ran past the water station and prepared my legs for the next big challenge: the hill on Lake Avenue just after we exited the park.
As we headed up Lake, I once again focused my mind on lifting my knees, keeping my head up, pushing with my feet and taking short strides. In the midst of this, I was passed by a slender blonde who turned to her friend and said, “I don’t see how they can even call this a hill.” Keep in mind that I had my earphones in and I still heard this statement as clear as day. (I keep the music just loud enough so I can hear runners coming up behind me, but I’m typically focused on my breathing or my legs or the music, so I rarely notice what most people say during a race.) At blonde runner chick’s statement, I wanted to kick her butt; if only I’d caught up to her pace, I might have smoked right past her. Maybe next year…
As we turned onto Western Avenue at the top of the hill, I recognized the area where I had to slow to a walk during the Freihofer’s Run for Women, just shy of the two-mile mark. As I’ve done in every race since the Dunkin Run, I looked for people to thank—volunteers, APD, AFD—and extended my Attitude of Gratitude toward those around me. On Madison Avenue, not far before the two-mile mark, I saw a vested, flag-toting volunteer and shouted, “Let’s hear it for the course marshals!” A few of the runners around me joined me in some appreciative applause. At the two-mile mark, the clock showed 23:40, showing a slightly improved pace from the first mile. Although I was certainly tiring, I felt like I had enough left in the tank to go the distance.
We turned onto Henry Johnson Boulevard for the final block before re-entering Washington Park. In the Freihofer’s, I had slowed to a walk again just inside the park for a distance of perhaps a hundred yards. But I knew I would run the full distance today. My confidence was building with every step. Perhaps half a mile from the finish line (around the point where I had resumed running for a second time during the Freihofer’s), I felt someone brush up against my shoulder and was completely surprised to see Everton (aka “Scooch”) come up alongside me. I said, “Hey, Scooch! What are you doing way back here?” (This was his first 5k in who knows how many years, but he’s still a lot younger, fitter and more athletic than I am; hence, my surprise. He would tell me after the race that he had to slow to a walk five times. I half-jokingly suggested he should do some training runs with me.) We kept pace for a while, but by the time we exited the park for the last time and turned onto Madison Avenue, he was well ahead of me.
At this point, the race was all about how much energy I had left to exert. I pushed myself down Madison, knowing that the hill I had slowly climbed at the start of the race would pull me toward the finish line. I thanked a spectator who was sitting on the steps of his brownstone, cheering us on, and before I knew it, I was at the top of the hill. It was literally all downhill from here. As I crossed Swan Street, I started to applaud and thank some of the spectators along Madison when one of my greatest racing fears came to fruition: I tripped. Rather than my worst-case-scenario fear of a full faceplant onto asphalt, I immediately regained my footing without losing more than perhaps half a step. I raised my arms like a gymnast and shouted, “Aaaaaaand she sticks the landing!!!” One of the benefits of being fairly slow (and at least a little klutzy) is the opportunity to be entertaining; I am convinced that this is (at least partly) the real reason I became a runner.
I passed the starting line carpets and kept pushing toward the finish line. As I expected, given the illness-induced lack of training the preceding week, I was not going to PR; but I was going to finish sub-:36, which was better than I expected, given how I felt during the race.
While the start of the race is the most anticipatory, the finish is always my favorite part. I’m still not to the point where I’d rather keep running than stop at the finish line, and I’m not entirely convinced it’s even possible for me ever to feel that way. Until then, I’ll just keep enjoying the stopping part.
I was elated to have easily surpassed my performance on this same course just four months prior. At first, I estimated that I beat my Freihofer’s time by over two minutes; a later check of the official results revealed that I had come just one second shy of beating my Freihofer’s time by three minutes.
A volunteer removed the racing chip from my shoe and I fought through the crush of finishers to get to some desperately needed water. I met up briefly with Scooch and it finally dawned on me to head further down Madison to get away from the peak density of the crowd. I felt my CrackBerry vibrating against my back (where it was stashed in its usual spot between my bra and my compression top) and no sooner had I retrieved it when I saw the person who was buzzing me: Carolyn, who was standing with Teri. Carolyn was hoping to finish under :30. When the results were posted online that afternoon, it turned out that she not only ran sub-:30, she managed a PR. Score!
I never found Kathryn, but she commented on my Facebook status later that she cheered me on as she saw me approach the finish line. At that point, George Clooney could have been shouting his undying love for me (it could totally happen!) and I wouldn’t have heard it; I was that focused on getting to the finish line with whatever semblance of speed I had left in me.
I can’t wait to run this same course twice again next year: at next June’s Freihofer’s Run for Women and next October’s Komen Race for the Cure. Perhaps if my running keeps improving at an estimated three minutes every four months, then I could potentially run a 25-minute 2011 Freihofer’s and a 22-minute 2011 Komen. But there’s a tremendous amount of work ahead of me in order to accomplish those feats. There’s no point in enjoying races I haven’t even run yet!
I am sincerely and profoundly thankful to everyone who supported me in the Komen Race for the Cure and for their generosity to an organization fighting to end a scourge that claims a life somewhere in the world every 69 seconds.
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