Relentless

Today I'm feeling: Like I just ran 3.1 miles up and down a big hill.

Because I did.

This morning, I ran in the Run for Refugees 5K race at East Rock Park in New Haven: the first half uphill, the second half downhill. I finished in (roughly) 27 minutes and 15 seconds -- a personal record for me in 5k races, by about a full minute.

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For what should be obvious reasons, running in this race was really important to me. Isabel thought I was nuts when I said I wanted to do it about five weeks ago, even before for the lymphoma diagnosis, since it was (1) in February, and (2) up a big hill. Once I was diagnosed, she understood why I needed to. If nothing else, it was just too symbolic to pass up.

The race benefited IRIS, Integrated Refugee and Immigrant Services, a coalition of groups in New Haven that supports political and other refugees who relocate to the area when they flee their home countries. They usually come to America to escape violence, and they often arrive with nothing. A good cause.

The race went up East Rock, a New Haven park (nice picture of the park here). The total elevation is 366 feet, and the road up is decently steep, winding its way up the hill, maybe a 6-8 percent grade, when I compare how it feels to running on the treadmill. The race started at the base of the hill, and was flat for about 200 yards, and then went slowly and steadily steeper. The whole race was 5k (3.1 miles), so the first mile and half was uphill. I did well for the first half. Hill running is all about leg strength, which has always been a high point for me. I started closer to the back of the pack, and slowly passed a bunch of people on the way up.

The second half was all downhill, with a couple of small uphills here and there. You'd think running downhill is a snap, but it really isn't. Your knees take a beating because you're slamming down harder than usual, and the front of your thighs hurt because you're always kind of tensing them up to slow yourself down a little so you don't go so fast that you lose control. I was hoping I'd catch my breath on the way down, but I never did.

They gave split times -- telling how you were doing at 1 mile and 2 miles -- so I knew I was on pace to set a PR (personal record). At about 20 minutes, I started to get really tired. My plan had been to go hard for the first half and ease it up for the downhill, but I should have known better. By 22 minutes, I knew I was getting close to the finish, and I really wanted to just ease up. A minute later, a woman running with a small dog passed me. I'd heard that stupid dog's tags jingling behind me for a couple of minutes, so I knew they were coming, but I just didn't have the juice to stay ahead of them. When they passed me, I started repeating to myself "Relentless...Relentless....Relentless," the slogan on the Lymphoma Society's red bracelets. It got me to the finish line. Isabel and the kids were waiting, along with our friend Nicole, and another friend from Southern, Andrew, who also ran the race (and beat me by about three or four minutes).

I was pretty darn pleased with the time. Uphill races aren't usually known for allowing people to set personal records, so that made it even nicer.

And you can't beat the symbolism. I'm reading Lance Armstrong's memoir, It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life, about his battle with cancer and return to win the Tour de France, recommended to me by my brother. Lance was, of course, known for his expertise in riding hills -- mountains, really, since it's in the Alps where he separated himself from the pack. The book jacket has a nice excerpt, of him thinking about his life as he's attacking a mountain. I like the whole "uphill battle" symbolism, but I like the downhill difficulties that I felt, too. Follicular Lymphoma is such a strange disease that it's a good reminder to not get too confident when things are going well, because the "easy" downhill parts have their own problems, too.

I sometimes run races with some friends from work. We call ourselves the West Central Pennsylvania State University Track and Field Team -- the Fighting Geese. That's all from a novel called Straight Man by Richard Russo, about an English Department, and especially its chairperson. Russo used to teach at Southern, and it's pretty clear that certain characters and situations are based on people we know. A very, very funny book.

Anyway, Geese, I thought about mentioning the race to you all and trying to get the team together. But I really needed to run this one alone. It was nice to have Andrew there. We started together, and he kept me distracted before the start, which was great, and then he took off ahead of me pretty quickly, which was also fine. But I needed to focus on myself today. We'll have other races to run together soon enough this spring.

When (if) the official results and any official photos go online, I'll put up a link. For now, I'm going to take a nap, and then get ready for our Super Bowl Party. Go Pats.

Stay Positive. Stay Relentless.