Flashes of Panic

My hometown (or at least the population center closest to my actual hometown) has a 5-mile road race every Fourth of July. It used to be run by my high school cross-country coach, and in those days it was the big race for the Midcoast region that day; the course was arranged to hit the biggest hills in town, and characters like Eric Nedeau and Sam Wilbur turned up to win it.

At some point, L.L. Bean sponsored a 10k twenty minutes away in Freeport with actual prize money, and our race tapered off a bit. The course changed to a sort-of-out-and-back along the river which was prettier and required less police and volunteer support. The turnout has been flat for the past decade: between forty and eighty, depending on the year. Organization is almost by rote: some years, the miles aren’t even marked, so splits are only available through “local knowledge,” and there’s no marked starting line; we just line up by consensus. Since I won it in 1995, my own attendance has been mixed: some years I missed it due to logistics, other times injury; sometimes I ran decently well (3rd in 2002, I think,) sometimes not. The class of the next year’s high school team still shows up for some bragging rights (they can’t win cash in Freeport anyway,) but the state’s road racing names seldom do.

Last year, I was proud of myself for getting around just under 40 minutes with one of my high school teammates who was similarly undertrained. Within a week, my foot was delivering stabbing pains once again (it was like having a rock in your shoe 24/7,) and I was back in the pool; that was my last run until after the move to Medford.

Tuesday, the same teammate picked my brother and me up within a quarter mile. I asked what kind of shape he was in. “Worse than last year,” he said, but when my brother started to lag after the first mile (7:10, potentially immoderate, but who knows,) he stuck to me.

We ran together through four miles (about 29:00,) picking off a lot of those who were over-bold in the first miles, including several high school kids. (“I love being older and wiser,” I said. “Of course, I placed better when I was young and foolish, didn’t I.”) Finally, with a half mile to go and one more runner in front of us, he said, “Go get ‘im,” and I made the pass on a steep downhill (then got re-passed on the uphill finish—sometimes you have to take these risks when you have no kick.) I figure we finished somewhere in the 36:xx range, but I’ve yet to see any results other than places, so I don’t know my official time.

Why is this better than last year? Aside from the obvious time improvement (I’m now within 10 minutes of my 8k/5M best, 26:59 at UMass Dartmouth in 1993,) I went out for a run this morning and felt good. So not only can I run 7:15 pace for five miles, but I can apparently do it without hurting myself.

Next step: actually training, instead of just running what I feel like each day.

Now Playing: The Ways Of Men from The Essential Waterboys by The Waterboys