Brian's Run is a 10K that takes place in my hometown of West Chester, PA.  I've known about this race since I first moved here and started running in 1995.  I was going to run in 1996, but I couldn't afford the entry fee (Christmas Shopping on that 'first job' salary).  In 1997, I was moving on the same weekend. 

 

1998?  Too cold.

1999?  I can't remember.

 

And so on.  From 2000-2004, the excuses piled up and up and up.  For an entire decade I managed to find ways to not run this race, so this year I promised myself that I was finally going to do it.   It was going to be three weeks after the Philadelphia Marathon, so if I could fake it for 26.2 miles, I could certainly smile and shuffle for 6.2.  I hadn't done any real speedwork since, errm, September, and I hadn't slept through the night since October 10th. 

 

In short, I was a complete mess.  I had no expectations, and a ton of excuses.  No pressure, no worries!  Run for a nice dinner and dessert - that was the plan.

 

Sunday, December 4 dawned cold, grey, wet, and icy.  An overnight snowstorm had turned into a morning sleet-storm, but luckily the 10K wasn't scheduled to start until 1:00PM.  What a great time to start a race!  The only other race I've run in 10 years with a start time that great is the Colonial Half-Marathon in Williamsburg, VA - I wish more RD's could find a way to make that work...but that's just my non-morning-person, no-sleep-since-Brooklyn opinion.

 

I fear of a cold day, I piled on the layers:  Tights, my red, long-sleeve top, black winter touque, then found the most obnoxious, brightly colored gloves I could find (YELLOW!), and headed out the door - clashing merrily all the way.

 

I ran a short warm-up (enough to know that it would be cold and wet most of the way), and then found my way back towards the starting line.  I managed to bump into Steve Noone (physically - he wasn't hurt), and he looked pretty good for someone who was running 100+ miles per week getting ready to race the "Goofy Challenge" in January down in Disney (a maniacal weekend where you can run the ½ Marathon on Saturday, and the Full Marathon on Sunday).

 

After talking with Steve, I noticed that I'd lined up within sight of the start line...surrounded by whippets, anorexics, and strangely enough, Jeff Devlin.  I managed to say, "Hi, Jeff!"  and he pretended to remember who I was from the Tuesday night rides politely enough before I noticed two guys debating on one side of the road over a minature cannon.

 

"You can't use that much!  We're starting a race, not invading Delaware!"  Said one.

"This will be fine - I've done this before.  Relax!"  Said his friend.

"Fine!  I'll just stand behind the car then and duck!"  That seemed to end the discussion.

 

I quietly hoped they'd remember to point the thing the other way.  There were some words of warning (or encouragement - I couldn't really tell) from the RD, and then, with the cannon smartly pointed away from the field, we were sent off and running with a mighty "BOOOOOOOM!"

 

I started running as hard as I could right away.  I had to.  By starting with Steve and company, I was lined up with the 5-6 minute milers.  Say what?  I must have looked like I was chasing a herd of antelope - I easily outweighed everyone around me by 30 pounds...but strangely, I was keeping up.

 

I quickly settled in, and found a good rhythm.  "Just run as hard as you can, blow yourself to pieces, then limp home."  It was a no-brainer race plan; a true plan for someone with no brain.  Even if it went horribly wrong, I figured I'd be shuffling for no more than 6 miles. 

 

We passed the first mile marker in 6:03.  Say what?  I remembered that Steve had mentioned in his 2004 race report that the mile markers were somewhat all over the place, and put it out of my mind.  I hadn't run a sub-7 mile in 2 years, and knew with the uphill start...no.  Not possible.  Besides, I was too busy trying to chase down the chicken.

 

Before me, a mere 10 yards up the road, was chickenman. Full suit, head to toe, mascot head, yellow feathers, and racing flats.  The real deal.  He looked like the old San Diego Chicken, only faster.  I made it my new mission - I would NOT get beat by a chicken.  I settled in behind chickenman, and marked him. 

 

We passed mile 2 in 14:58 - that seemed more like it.  7:30's for the first two miles?  That was well under my unspoken, wildly optimistic goal of sub-50.  It couldn't last.  I focused on maintaining my turnover, staying on my toes, and not losing any distance to the chicken.  I would catch him heading uphill, but he'd regain his distance when we descended.  Must have been the feathers.

 

The course had been rolling - up, down, up, down, and now I knew from a quick glimpse at the profile the night before, it would get even harder.  A series of false-flat ascents, a plunging downhill at mile 4-5, and a long, interminable climb to the finish from 5 on.  My mantra became, "Steady power.  Steady power."

 

Approaching mile 3, I was shoulder-to-wing with chickenman.  For 200 meters we stayed in stride, neither of us giving an inch.  On the next rise, chickenman started to drop back.  I looked over at him and said, "Nice job."  His beak slowly turned my way, and without the slightest treason of character, chickenman said, "Braaaaawk."

 

I still have no idea what it means.

 

I left the feathers behind, and passed mile 3 in 7:22.  Another strong mile - only 3.2 to go now.  Passing the 5K mark in 23:something, I had to come to grips with the fact that I was going to break 50 at this rate - I was now obliged to keep suffering.  Dammit.  Ow.  Dammit.  Say what?  No sleep.  No speedwork.  Howindahell does THIS happen?

 

By now we were running under the cover of ice-coated trees, but the temperature had started to nudge up towards 35F.  This meant that the ice was melting...rapidly.  Even though the storm was over, there we were, running in the rain, in the cold.  The nice thing was that I was so utterly cooked at this point, I didn't even feel it.  "Don't give up any positions.  Steady power.  Steady power."  I was moving UP, as people around me were starting to feel the hills.  Steve had warned me that the second half was much harder - I, amazingly, had listened, and more amazingly, was remembering that fact mid-race.

 

Say what?  Clear-headed thinking on no sleep?  What you say?

 

Rolling mile 4 was a 7:38 - only 2 to go now!  As we headed for the downhill, I got passed by a whippet who cheered out, "Nice job, man - big downhill now!"  I hated being passed, so I ran like a cyclist and got right on his 'wheel' as we started to drop.  He was running way, way, way faster than I could manage.  At least, that's what I think my brain was trying to say...but with my breathing (sucking wind) noise, the lactic acid coming out of my ears, and the constant "BOOMBOOMBOOM" of my Clydesdale Frame thundering downhill with the grace and souplesse of a piano rolling down a spiral staircase, I couldn't hear a thing. 

 

At the bottom and mile 5, I'd run a 7:06 - my fastest mile of the day.  I knew that sub-50 was golden, and that while I might not break my PR today (44:31 run in 1999 on a pancake-flat airfield), day-um if this wasn't going to be my best 10K in 6 years.  Run with no speedwork.  And no sleep.  Blasphemy!  Lunacy!  In-san-i-ty!

 

Of course, there was that pesky 1.2 miles to go - uphill all the way, with a 350 finishing loop on the West Chester University stadium track.  "Pow, pow, pow!"  It was all I could think.  I was trying to think, "Power!  Power!", but there were too many syllables for my brain to form the word correctly.

 

As I chugged up the hill, I passed someone who said, "Nice job!"  I said in reply, "You (pant) t(pant)oo! (pant)." I managed to compose one more line, "At this weight, I can't sneak up on anyone, can I?"  "No...I've heard you coming since mile 4."  He said.  Hah!  If only I knew I was running this hard to keep the chicken behind me.

 

I managed to power away, and the stadium drew into view.  As I made the hard right turn below the grandstands and towards the tunnel, I crossed over the 6 mile mark with a 7:49 - slow, but strong considering the evil climb I'd survived.  With just under 400 meters to go I entered the track and thought, "Just get it home.  Man, I can't imagine anything worse than having to sprint about now..."

 

Of course, because God has a sense of humor, I heard not one...but TWO sets of heavy footfalls closing in behind me as I motored around the far corner of the track.  Yougottabekiddinme.  Say what?  I turned my eyeballs as far to the right as I could without popping them out of my head (don't want 'em to know I'm freaked out now), and I could see two pretty big guys coming for me.  Clydesdales.  I'm racing Clydesdale today.  I don't want to, but I know I have to...I lift my knees and dig a little deeper. 

 

The three of us stampeded down the backstretch.  We nearly ran over some guy ahead of us, and he dove for the inside rail...giving us the entire track.  I cut inside as soon as I could; "Make them go around.  That's right.  Short line - short line!"  With 200 to go I thought, "Don't panic.  Don't go first.  Make the last move.  Make the last move."  This was easy to do, really, because I was already full-tilt boogie.  I kept waiting, waiting...we entered the final bend side-by-side-by-side, and still, no move.

 

"Wait, wait, wait...NOW!"  With less than 30 meters to go, I kicked.  It wasn't much of a kick, but it was enough - I ran away from them.  "Say what?  Hey!  It worked!"  I rumbled over the finish line in 46:12, having run a 1:18 final 360 or so...in total shock.  Without any real training, planning, or preparation, I'd just run my second-fastest 10K ever, on a wicked course.

 

I say it again, because it's so true.  Say what?

 

I walked up to the gym to get out of my wet clothes, and make the drive for home.  I was justifiably shattered, but I didn't care.  I had finally run Brian's Run, and I had given it everything I had - everything.  What more could I ask for?

 

When Steve Noone wrote to me the next day, things got even more absurd.  I'd managed to place 3rd out of 30 Clydesdales!  He had hardware for me.  Getouttahere!  The winner had run 39:45, with second place at 43:47, and then - me.  The two guys I'd entered the track with were not big boys, but it was just as well - better to not be third in a three-up sprint.

 

So with that, my 2005 season ended.  In the races I planned for, trained for, and tapered for, I blew up, slowed down, imploded, overheated, and achieved nothing I'd wanted to.  In the races I didn't taper for, didn't have plans for, and just raced for racing's sake...I'd won, placed third, placed fourth overall and second in Age Group, and broken 1:50 for the Half Marathon, twice.

 

Say what.  Say what you will.

 

I say I need to stop thinking and race more for racing's sake.  It works.

 

Hurricane Bob

* No brain, no pain! *