Flashes of Panic

I raced again Saturday, this time something of an “invitation only” event. Checking the course, which was a single loop of a cute little lake in Vermont, I saw that there would be a single-track bottleneck early in the race, and resolved not to get caught behind anyone and held up there. So I bolted out when the starter called “go,” weaving around a few slower front-line starters and chasing a blue-shirted kid who looked like he was probably way out of my league. I could hear A exclaiming behind me—this has not been my recent race strategy—and I knew she was right, but I figured this was a good race to be aggressive.

This was a team-scored race: Mark’s guests versus Mary’s guests. Blue shirts scored for Mark, yellow for Mary; everyone scored one point, but division places (five-year age groups, plus the “dogs” category and the “on the way” age group for passengers of two expectant mothers,) scored 5-3-2 for first through third. I figured I was going to have to scrap for division points, since both Brad and Mark were in my division, as well as others I didn’t know. So maybe it was team pride that made me chase out; as we came out of the single-track, I was the third yellow shirt. Six guys, including Mark, Brad, Ricardo, and three others I didn’t know, were clearly out of my league today, and they were gone, though I could see them for most of the first two miles.

There were footsteps behind me, and another yellow shirt beside me by the time I reached the mile marker (6:16, my watch says.) I was audibly working harder than he was, though; we ran together for most of the second mile, but he started to move away and I wasn’t in a position to match him. Mile 2, 6:19. Both of these miles were nearly a minute faster than I’d averaged in two five-milers so far in July.

A nice left turn at about two and a quarter gave me a chance to peek over my shoulder and set the scene: two runners behind me, maybe 100m back, one in yellow (one of Mary’s brothers, as it happened,) and one in blue. So, no rest for the foolish; I had to hang on to my pace as long as possible and keep the blue shirt behind me. And the third mile had all the hills.

I remember thinking, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” and consciously holding my head straight and thinking my stride smooth, even as it shortened up the hills. I beeped the watch at 6:35 for the third mile marker (ouch!) and saw 20:00 at the 5k (not normally good news, but in this shape I’ll take it.) I felt a stitch starting but didn’t dare lift my arms to stretch it out. I knew which hill was the last one and threw myself into a controlled fall down to the finish line; if he didn’t get me going up, he wasn’t going to catch me on my way down.

The official results—printed in the wedding program that afternoon, with my last name misspelled—showed me in 23:52, ten seconds ahead of Mark’s best man. I was third in the division (Brad and Mark were first and second,) and he was fourth, so I saved us a point; I’m proud of that, even though we lost in the end. I was nearly 30s ahead of Alison, and we figured that most of that came in the first mile; I was also nearly four minutes behind Brad, who won. I wouldn’t have placed much better had I been in better shape; even in my 2002 condition I would’ve had a hard time with Mark’s clocking.

But mostly I’m glad I committed myself, early on, to a hard effort, and didn’t back down once I was committed. I have a lot of work to do before I can support that kind of commitment over longer races, but it’s nice to see that at least my legs remember how it’s supposed to work.

Impressive footnote: at 97 finishers, this was a pretty big race for a small town—and represented about two thirds of the wedding guests.

Now Playing: Everyday Should Be A Holiday from Come Down by The Dandy Warhols