The need to race again was palpable and left me a bit twitch. The usual running psychosis set in and I began to feel as though I had imagined I could run a marathon that fast, even though in training we had hit every pace number, I began to wonder if it had even been a viable goal from the start. There was only one way to find out. Prior to Boston I had planned on volunteering or cheering at the school's local 5k. My son and husband were registered to run, but usually I skipped this race as I was just a few days post marathon and generally was in no state to run.
The Spring Zing had a lot of history. It had started ten years earlier, and I had run with my neighbor Karen pushing our four year olds in a double buggy alternately up the hilly course, at that point not really a runner. A month or two later, new to the country someone asked if I wanted to 'run it' the following year. I foolishly said yes, assuming she meant, take part as a runner. She had meant Chair it, and I was too embarrassed to explain my mistake. So a year later I was chairing it and had the good fortune to put together an incredible committee of parents, who helped us pull in a massive $43,000 to provide playgrounds for the school. The race had become very established, news of the custom pasta chef and the awesome prizes had spread, and registration grew. In the ensuing years it raised enough to go on to build a school in Ethiopia also called Shady Grove, that is still flourishing. The race had history and every year my son had run it, getting faster and bigger. Like the rings on a tree you could age all of the kids through this race. Starting off as the run/walk crew, many had turned into efficient distance runners and had grown up on Spring Zing, motivated to run with and against the teachers and parents who took part in it.
L'il Bitch didn't want me to race, convinced I would hurt myself. He did have a point, this could be major humiliation socially as everyone I knew was there. I hadn't run all week, apart from a gentle 3 mile stroll with the ladies. I wasn't even sure I could run fast, but I knew I wanted to feel something different to the slow motion heat battle that had been Boston. To add to my conspicousness, none of the other Housewives were racing. Q-Less still had the sheen of the Boston Unicorn medal dangling from her neck. So what if it had been over four hours and slow as all get out - she had finished one of the toughest courses on the worst of days, her thoughts had moved to tennis, and instead she was motivated to harrass her youngest son through the course, sharing in the delight of his PR. A much more selfless goal. Merciless and Nonetheless manned the water stations cheering loudly, their kids were running and they were being good Mommies.
I felt vaguely ridiculous lining up at what had very much become a kids' and community race. I should have been jogging it with a youngster, instead here I was desperate to race again. I momentarily took my mind of my anxiety by winding up a couple of serious looking men next to me by pointing out Merciless' kids and L'il Bitch and telling them their times, 18 minutes, 20 minutes.....they blanched slightly at the thought of being beaten by 13 and 11 year old kids, but fingers poised over garmins, got ready to race.
Darn if it wasn't hot again, but only 73, no 89f and for 3 miles it matters much less. I couldn't whine, that sounded so boring after all the Boston complaining. For the first five minutes I felt a a sea of runners wash over me, I was moving like wet sand, but despite being engulfed bya tide of tiny legs, I didn't panic or flail. I noticed little Annika with her shoelace untied already, and felt huge guilt as I shouted out 'watch your laces kiddo', instead of pulling to the side and stopping to tie them. Ruthless was unleashed in race mode and could not stop, even for an adorable 8 year old. Moving in to the shade of Lewis Lane felt nice, out of the sun and on rolling hills, the first mile passed quickly. I drew up close to a girl in her twenties just before the turn around, and passed her, noticing reassuringly that her breathing sounded worse than mine. Within seconds she returned the favor - I couldn't resist turning to her at the second passing and saying 'Uh huh, that's how its gonna be is it?', and then slottted in just ahead of her ready for the turn around, enjoying the thrill of the race.
The first mile split was good, but not I had run faster first miles. My legs seemd to be turning like pin wheels and I felt like nothing could stop them. Except that is, the most important ingredient; lack of desire or commitment. By mile 1.5 you enter the toughest part of that course, up Miles Drive. Its not a huge hill, but it feels like a desert as there is no shade and everyone is fading. In an instant all my plans for Heartbreak Hill were projected on to Miles Drive. It didn't matter that I hadn't worked hard to qualify for this race, that the elite field's average age was 13, not 28, it was every bit as important to me at that moment in time.
By mile two I had my customary stomach cramp, a product of running faster than my usual training speed. At the back of my mind I knew that 5k training work didn't usually involve long slow 20 mile runs, or a week of rest following an abandonned Boston marathon. At mile two I played with the idea of wondering how it would feel to DNF the Spring Zing, I could easily just drop out, join the ladies at the water stand and enjoy cheering all the kids. I could back off the pace too, why get a belly ache - for what purpose?
Of course if you analysed it; there was no purpose to any of it. My sister just looks at me quizzically when I tell her about races, and says 'how horrid, why would you want to do that?'. Like life as a whole, running was just about doing something hard and feeling good about it. As I sped up into the finish line I noticed the clock had a magic number flashing. A number I had valliantly tried and failed to make two years ago when I spent an entire summer specifically 5k training. I finished the race with a 20.42, dropping 24 seconds off my previous PR that had also been set on that course at the Phil's Tavern 5k. My elation was such you would have thought I had won the Boston Marathon. I had beat my funk, Ruthless was back, and she had broken 21 minutes finally in a 5k at the ripe old age of 45.
I relished the feeling of exhaustion afterwards. This was what I had wanted to feel at Boston, the sense of losing breath, of lungs exploding and legs flying. Instead it had felt hot and painful, a different kind of challenge, and one I was ultimately unwilling and unprepared to endure.
Knowing this would be the last time I would probably run this race made it all the more poignant. In two months we were moving to California. As Merciless intuited, loose ends were being tied up. So what if this was a tiny local 5k, it mattered every much as the most famous marathon in the world. I realized it wasn't the race that mattered, it is what you chose to do in that event that was important. I had fought back, instead of falling back.
Standing cheering the other runners coming in I saw teachers giving it everything - kids so excited to see their Principal Mrs Bauer, Mr Linton and Ms Carbo out there working hard. Tiny kids stopped walking when they saw the finish line and conjured up from no where a sprint for the crowds. A proud Dad called out while running behind 'this is my kid's first 5k, cheer the little girl in the pink'. This was better than Boston. This was what running could be about. Perhaps I had caught a glimpse of that unicorn after all, as I crested Miles Drive, he had been sprinting ahead, I hadn't got full sight, but a glimpse was all I needed at that point in time.
No comments:
Post a Comment