The mass of runners from the start strung first into a line, then into a scattered collection of ones and twos. Ahead, a man wearing a yarmulke and short-shorts urges a curly-haired friend up the first hill of the day. To our right a stream flows lazily by, with fishermen here and there up to their waist in the chilly waters. Up the hill we go, then down a long stretch to a sign reading "Mile 3," and a table fronted by volunteers in lime-green shirts holding cups of water and gatorade. The sun shines into my eyes as the volunteers fade into the distance behind. "10 more to go" I whisper to no one in particular. "Time to see what these legs will do."
On this beautiful day in mid-April I completed my first half-marathon. In truth that is something of a misnomer, since in the two marathons I've attempted I managed to run the entire first half of both. Yet today was the first in which I could cross the line at Mile 13.1 and call it a day. The prospect excited me, since it meant even with limited training I could actually race a bit. And so that is precisely what I did.
The day began before daylight. The past few days had proved distressing, and sleep had not come easily. Today I shook awake in the dark before the dawn, hearing robins singing outside and seeing "4:37 AM" on the clock. With only a 15 minute drive separating me from the start-line, I could have gone back to sleep another hour and still been ahead of schedule. Yet sleep would not return, so I rose to watch the sun-rise and have a light breakfast.
By 6:45 I stood near the start, glancing across fields which last summer grew thick with soybeans. Lines formed outside the porta-pods, and serious folk in singlets and sunglasses did warm-ups with a purposeful look; not as many as in bigger races, but a few. Sunlight flecked the distant clouds to the east with red and gold, like heated wires smoking in the chilly air. On the grass hung thousands of droplets of dew, moistening the shoes of everyone as they proceeded to the start. While chilly at first, the air grew warmer as the day grew older.
A little after 7:45 we began the race. I elected to go in the second wave, with folks supposedly looking to run "8-9 minute pace." Well that plan went to hell for many it seems, as half of them galloped through the first mile between 7:00 and 7:35. Admittedly the first two miles are all downhill, but the first sign of even a moderate change in incline left the rabbits wishing they'd taken the downhills easier. Live and learn I guess, as I too was to discover.
The race proceeded well through the first 10 miles. While the opening miles go mostly downhill, miles 5, 6, and 7 go almost exclusively uphill. This kicked my butt more than I realized at the time, though it became plain by the start of mile 10. See, the course comprises three loops, with the first and third repeating. Therefore those challenging hills through miles 5, 6, and 7 become a devilish 10, 11, and 12. Well despite my best efforts, the second go-around with those hills took the wheels right off me, as some runners would say. My stride lost its spring, my breathing felt labored, and my stomach did a barrel-roll and a half. Where before I'd averaged 7:25 on the downhill miles and 7:55 for the uphills, I slowed in the final three miles to something akin to a snail's race pace. Folks I'd passed ages ago suddenly started catching me from behind, huffing and puffing and pouring with sweat. I gave a "good job ol' boy" to the guys and "well done" to the girls, but no one seemed spirited enough to respond. I understood them completely.
In any case, while I'd hoped to finish in about 1:40 or better, with the late-stage blowup I settled for 1:44:37 (7:58/mile) instead. In truth it was not a terrible showing considering the course and my single-digit mpw training. More importantly was the experience itself, which while tough at spots was enjoyable on the whole. I like the half-marathon distance, and look forward to giving it another crack in September.
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