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The race was the Thirsty Irish Runners Four on the Fourth. It was a benefit race, part of the "Rally for Sally," named for a young girl with osteosarcoma, a bone cancer. The proceeds from the race go to research on that disease at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.
I found the race on a website that lists upcoming running races all over the country. The site listed this one as a 5k. This is my distance -- 3.1 miles. I looked at the results from last year's race, just to get a sense of how well I'd do. It was clear that I would do very well, given the times from last year. These were my people: The Old. The Fat. The Possibly Cancerous. My typical 5k time would put me in the top third of this field.
Of course, last week, when I went to the official web site and looked at the course map, I saw that this was not a 5k. It was a 4 miler. (Hence the name, "Four on the Fourth.") The results from last year instead indicated that I would be very much near the end of this field. It was not a happy discovery. I ran a four miler on my own last week to see what my time would be. It was 42 minutes and 18 seconds. Not bad, considering my recent asthma and foot problems, but it confirmed that I'd definitely be near the back of the pack at the end of the race.
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The race was conducted under the worst possible conditions. It rained. A lot. By the end of the race, I think I had an extra 5 pounds of water in my clothes. Also, it was a course full of hills; I don't think we went more than 100 yards without hitting another hill. And downhills are no better than uphills -- they're murder on the quadricepts and knees, if you don't force yourself to slow down.
The rain had started even before the race began, and it conveniently got worse just as the race director gave us instructions. The starting line was at the bottom of a hill, so we for forced to immediately go uphill. Never a good way to start. The first mile was rolling hills, up and down, up and down. But it gave me a chance to check out my competition. I always like to pick out a few people that I think I can beat. It gives me some incentive for later on. After a half mile, I settled into a pace (as best I could going over hills), and then I found three candidates for my little game of "Who Can I Beat?" A guy in a leg brace. A guy wearing a green Kevin Garnett shirt who ran on his toes. And a guy carrying an umbrella. Not exactly Olympians, but that was OK -- I'm careful to set goals that I think I can reach. The psychological benefit of passing and beating someone is more important than who I beat, even if it's a guy carrying an umbrella.
(He never actually opened the umbrella; he just ran with it, closed, in his hand. But I really like the image of chasing after a guy with an open umbrella, carrying that much more wind resistance and beating me anyway.)
I felt great for the first mile. Legs and lungs were all holding up. I was with a pretty large pack, and it didn't seem like the leaders were all that much ahead of us. The first mile marker had a water stop. I had planned on skipping it, since I was soaked by rain and not much up for water, but I saw little kids handing out the water cups, so I felt like I should take some and make them happy. Big cups, too -- 12 ounces. Very unusual.
The bad part about this water stop was that it was at the top of a long hill. So I was breathing hard when I grabbed my water. I was also going pretty slow, so I didn't use the usual technique of squeezing the paper cup into a spout and pouring it slowly into the side of my mouth. Instead, I just took a big gulp.
Big mistake. Because it was the top of a hill, and I was breathing hard. As I sucked in a lungful of air, I followed it by sucking in a mouthful of water, too. I choked a little bit, coughed a few times, and then sucked in the water that was sitting at the top of my windpipe.
Very scary -- I couldn't breath for a couple of seconds. It's a horrible feeling. I stopped and bent over, finally catching my breath again, and coughing out whatever was still in my lungs. As I stood bent over, I watched my pack run past me. Knee Brace. Umbrella Boy. Only Kevin Garnett, who had stopped for water, was still within reach by the time I recovered. I'd be seeing his back for the next three miles.
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From here, it was just another series of hills. Horrible, rain soaked hills. My lungs were not happy, after their little trauma. I avoided the water stops and pushed on.
At about 2.5 miles, we turned a corner and the race marshall directing us told us to be careful. We found out why pretty quickly -- we were running up a long dirt road, now a small waterfall of mud. I ran for about 20 yards, and then I did something I'd never done before in a race -- I walked. I've always had a policy of never stopping. It's a cancer thing. I've always felt like it was kind of symbolic -- never quit. But on this muddy hill, I looked up at the people ahead of me, and I decided that my goal was not going to be to break my 42:18 training time; it was going to be to just finish this damn race. So I walked. And, rationally, it was the right thing to do. It was safer, for one thing, but also probably conserved enough energy to finish. Plus, it's a proven racing strategy.
So I was a little disappointed, but I got over it. After that hill, we had a short stretch of flat running, and I managed to find a little bit of a rhythm. There was a large group of spectators at the last water stop (at the 3.5 mile mark) cheering us, which is always nice for a lift, especially at the end of a race. Still had one more long hill to go up, but I figured there was likely a downhill after that, so I had something to look forward to.
Indeed, the last quarter mile or so was a downhill. As I said, downhills still aren't very fun, but I'll take them over uphills, especially at the end of the race. I could see the finish line from the top of the hill, and there were maybe 5 or 6 runners ahead of me, including the guy in the Kevin Garnett shirt, who was about 20 feet ahead of me. He and I had been about 20 feet from one another the whole race, and as much as I was struggling, he looked like he was struggling even more. I thought to myself, Wow, this guy deserves to beat me. He's been pushing for the last three and seven-eighths of a mile. Good for him.
But then I thought, Forget him. I've got a little left in the tank, and I'm heading downhill. I put out whatever I had left, and passed him. And then I just kept going. Hard. Because that's the best way to finish a race.
That's me in the photo below. Those black shorts were royal blue when I started, before they were soaked by rain. And that guy in the picture (not the 12 year old right behind me, the guy in the green shirt to the right of the traffic cop) -- that's the Kevin Garnett guy. I had started out my final kick 20 feet behind him. That's how fast I was going. (And how slow he was going.)
I finished in 42 minutes and 40 seconds. Not too bad considering the hills, the heavy rain, and the lung full of water.
My shoes were still not dry 12 hours later.
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There's at least one lesson in every race, and this one had several:
1) Don't gulp the water.
2) Don't run in the rain.
3) Don't run four-milers anymore.
4) It's OK to slow down and walk sometimes. That's a cancer lesson as much as a running lesson. Because slowing down doesn't mean you've lost; it means you're still in the race.
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