A few days ago, I ran my third half-marathon in the last year. For those who don’t know me, I’m not terribly fit, and I never ran at all until a few years ago. I love food and wine — so much, that in my advancing years, some form of exercise to counterbalance the effects of the delicious things I eat and drink is a necessity. I started running, because it was the only form of exercise that I could do pretty much anytime, and anywhere.
How does one go from running for exercise to signing up for group runs of a painful length? That’s where my madness kicks in. My reasoning went like this: “I think signing up for a race would be a good goal to work towards. If I have to pay to be in the race, and show up early if needed, and really commit… I may as well get the biggest bang for the buck and sign up for longer races.”
Yes — I’m an idiot.
The Race
On race day, I got up early, ate some food, and got to the starting line about 90 minutes before the race started. I have no idea why I get there so early, but I’m always amazed how many people are already there ahead of me. While I sit in the car with the heat on listening to a soccer podcast, there are people milling about, chatting and having a good time — in the 40-degree rain! I wonder if the repeated jarring of the brain causes all runners to be stupid.
At 9:00, the race starts. I let most of the people go ahead of me. The timing starts when your chip passes over the start line, and the start line is only about 10 feet wide. It’s a 13-mile race, and I’m really not in that much of a hurry to start. I look back at my car and think of bailing on the whole stupid thing, but I paid $40 to be here, and I’m not about to waste that money.
I join the tail end of the 400-person blob as the three spectators lining the beginning of the course cheer. At least they look like they’re cheering. I have music blaring in my ears as one of many attempts to distract myself from the pain I’m about to endure. I’m pretty sure the cheerers received more than a little bribe money from their rain runner friends to be here pretending to be happy. In the first few hundred yards, I pass quite a few people who actually run slower than I do, and as I approach the end of the first mile, I feel like I’m at a sustainable pace — and more importantly, following a runner who looks like they match my pace. The Dollyrots are rocking in my ears when the running app on my phone tells me that I ran the first mile in 9:13. A few thoughts pop in my head. My goal is to average 9:08 a mile — because that pace should get me to the 2:00 mark I’ve been trying to beat. I also know that I should run a little slower in the beginning of the race so I don’t burn out. I also (also) know that I started timing on the app a good 15–20 seconds before I crossed the start line, so I know I’m running too fast. I slow down just a bit (I think), and keep running.
I’m feeling pretty good in the second mile. I don’t really “train” for races, but I did run 10 miles on an icy day 2 weeks ago, and did a handful of 3–7 milers before taking 3 days off before the race, so I feel like I’m at least prepared enough to finish. I hit the two-mile mark and the voice in my ears interrupts We Are The In Crowd long enough to tell me that I finished mile 2 in 8:43.
Another voice inside my head — or maybe sitting on my right shoulder tells me, “Dude — s l o w d o w n. You have 11 miles to go, and you’re supposed to run slower at the beginning.” I back off a bit when the voice on my left shoulder interrupts. “Dude — you’re killing it. Keep running hard!”
I run mile 3 in under nine minutes as well when my body conspires with the sensible voice on my right shoulder and reminds me that my left knee started hurting on my last run. There’s a twinge on the outside of my left knee that slows me up a bit as I run mile 4 in 9:01. I’m still following the same person I’ve been following for three miles. We haven’t passed anyone, and as I look at the long string of runners behind me, I just assume that nobody feels like passing anyone today.
I need a distraction, and All Time Low aren’t doing it for me. My go-to distraction while self-inflicting pain on my body is useless math. I begin to calculate where the actual athletes in the race may be. This is an out and back race, and based on the mileage markers I’ve seen in both directions, I’m guessing the turnaround is just about mile 7. I know I’m running about 9 minute miles, and that the show-offs at the front will run about 6 minute miles. To be completely honest, I can’t run a single mile in 6 minutes, let alone 13. These people are made for running, while I am made for drinking wine and eating vanilla infused tuna and exotic cheese plates. So, I think, the leaders should be running about three minutes a mile faster than me, which means that (a bunch of boring math removed), I should see those show-off mo*r f*rs pass me sometime before I hit the six-mile mark. Sure enough, somewhere in the latter half of mile five, I see a six-foot-tall, 10% body fat super human sprint by me. All I can think is that he’s going to be home drinking a celebratory beer long before I finish the race. As yet another distraction, I count the rest of the show-offs passing me on the way to the end of the mile. My counter gets to ten as I complete mile six in 9:21.
In miles six and seven, a few runners pass me. Apparently they actually listened to the advice of running at a bit slower pace at the beginning of the race. One guy is wearing a “Portland marathon ‘finisher’” shirt. I think about tripping him, but I resist the urge.
My knee is getting worse. I decide to keep on counting runners headed the other way. I roughly estimate that at least 10x as many will run by as I get to the turnaround spot. I count about 150 as I finish mile 7 in 9:29. The turnaround point is a bit past mile seven, but they have water and Gu. I’ve just run seven miles non-stop, so instead of doing the cool runner thing where you grab water and whatever else the race-helpers will hand you and throw it in your face while you continue to run, I stop completely. I stand, drink a cup of water without pouring it all over my face or choking, and then squeeze the Gu packet into my mouth.
If you haven’t had Gu before, It’s about two cups of sugar packed into about two tablespoons of gummy mucous-y paste. It comes in flavors, but mostly what you taste is sugar. It’s supposed to give you energy, but I’m pretty sure all it does is negate every calorie I’ve burned off in the first seven miles. While I’m standing there, another dozen or so people pass me.
I do more math. I estimate that about 170 people are ahead of me (the original 10 I saw in mile 6, the 150 or so in mile 7, plus those who chose not to stop and hang out with me at the turnaround point). I know there are about 400 in the race, so even though I’m probably not going to beat the two-hour mark, if I can get my butt across the finish line without the need for an ambulance, I’ll be happy.
Miles eight, nine, and ten cruise by. While I run eight and nine in 9:30, somehow I pick up the pace in mile ten and finish that leg in 9:10. I decide that when I hit the eleven-mile mark, that I’ll walk “just a bit” to let some blood flow back into my legs. At this point, there’s a stabbing spike of pain that shoots out from my left knee every time I land on it. I hit mile eleven in 9:54. While I decide to keep running instead of walking, this is sadly, my last sub-ten-minute mile of the day.
As I ponder my knee, I find more useless math to think about. I know from my step-tracker that I run roughly 2000 steps in a mile. That means I’ll land on my left knee about 13,000 times in this race. I wonder if I was 10 pounds lighter if the cumulative 130,000 pounds of reduced force on my knee would have me in a better mood right now.
Mile twelve is the toughest. I eventually decide to walk for a few seconds, and my legs feel better. But they only feel better until I start running again. The first few steps are painful and stiff, but once I get running again, I’m back in business. I finish the penultimate mile in 10:19. Surprisingly, I remember less than ten runners actually passing me, despite my slower pace. What was once a blob of runners, is now a several mile-long snake of people who hate themselves enough to run thirteen miles in the rain.
Finally, it’s the homestretch, so I sprint to the end and squeak in at just under two hours!.
Not really. I finish the last 1.1 miles in 10:15, managing to pass a few runners who are apparently in more pain than I am. I finish the race five minutes past my goal of two hours, but I do finish. I get my medal and other swag and stand still for the first time since the mile seven Gu-break and take a moment to turn off my phone. When I move again, my knee throbs and refuses to bend. Standing still was definitely not a very good idea. I grab a few more of the freebies — including a cup cake to ensure that I consume replacement calories for everything I burned off in the race and hobble to my car to drive home.
I’m happy I finished, and briefly think about my next race and whether I’ll beat my personal best (or whether I’ll show up), and I open a bottle of coconut water from my swag pile. Halfway through chugging the bottle, I remember that coconut water sucks. I figure it must be good for me and finish it off anyway.
Epilogue
I finished in 187th place, so my math and counting were surprisingly accurate. More people finished after me than before me, so I’ll take pride in the misfortune of those even slower than I am.
Two days later, and my knee feels completely fine again. I’ll work on wearing a brace next time I run and see if it helps with the pain (because wearing a brace is WAY easier than losing 10 pounds). As a bonus surprise bordering on TMI, I’d like to share that in my last half-marathon, I managed to get my big toe nail to turn completely black. I’m happy to say that it’s not black anymore, because it’s cracked and is falling completely off. Somehow (and possibly due to my wine habit), I’m still thinking about actually showing up to my next race.
