Flashes of Panic

I probably would’ve been happier about today’s race if I hadn’t picked a time goal for myself. There are any number of reasons, ranging from an unfortunate lack of sleep in the prior three nights to poor race-morning planning, why I would’ve been “off” today, but probably the biggest problem was that I warned myself not to run my fastest mile in the first mile.

Instead, I was 24 seconds off my hoped-for average pace, a challenging but not impossible time debt. I had already started passing more optimistic starters (I continued passing runners throughout the race, and was only passed—twice—by one, who finished ahead of me by virtue of one of those scorching kicks that makes me wonder about the kicker’s pacing abilities.) But despite a conscious effort to push in the second mile, that one was my slowest (in my defense, it did include a serpentine climb about halfway up Beacon Hill.) Now almost a full minute behind, I had to accept that my goal time was out the window and just try to salvage a good race. The remaining three miles were both under my eventual average pace, and the third was pretty much what I’d hoped to do all five in. If I hadn’t been thinking about time, maybe I would’ve been enjoying myself.

The race was, after all, there to be enjoyed. It was a great sunny day, with a breeze and lots of morning shadows to keep it from being too hot. (I worried about sunburn in my singlet.) I raced in a shiny-new pair of road flats, the orthopedic equivalent of a ridiculously dangerous motorcycle, and they felt pretty good, light enough to feel fast but despite my fears not so epehmeral that I felt damaged after five miles in them. (I’ve had road flats which felt like a thin slipper of Tyvek stapled to a thin kitchen sponge. These are much nicer but nearly as light.)

I turned down a finisher’s medal (for a five-miler? What am I going to do with that?) but did take about two liters of “VitaminWater”, which manages the difficult feat of making original-formula Gatorade taste good, and jogged down to watch the half-marathon finish. My speedwork training partner finished a fairly close second, but well off his own time goal. (His per-mile pace was significantly faster than mine.) With five-milers still streaming in, nobody seemed to register the half-marathoners except me, and I got some weird looks yelling at him like a madman.

Anyway, still not there. I’d say, “I need to work harder,” and I probably do, but when am I going to find time for that? I need to sleep first.

Now Playing: Easy Baby from Monday Morning Cold by Erin McKeown

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