A year without sleep. The lack of run milage in my legs. No speedwork since early in 2005. How could I possibly think about anything other than surviving the distance? But still, as I walked my cooldown loop under grey skies, that feeling wouldn't go away.

"Sunday will be a good day."

I didn't tell anyone about it. Not Katie. Not St. Lynda. Not Oscar. Nobody. It was just an overly hopeful thought, probably brought on by not enough food on the run.

Taper? On Saturday morning I paddled for 1:40 with two different Dragon Boat teams; the Schuylkill Dragons, and then the US Men's National team. They were leaving the dock just as the SD's unloaded, and there was a seat open. This was like being out on a ride and having the Discovery Team pedal past, asking, "Want to jump in?" I couldn't pass that up.

Of course, I was totally shredded as I made my way to the expo and packet pickup, but I didn't care - It had been a blast. Of course, I was already sore from the 1:30 I'd spent working on the Ergometer on Friday. If that wasn't enough, St. Lynda and I dug holes to plant 5 trees in the front garden Saturday afternoon. Then we ate pizza for dinner, and I followed that up with a huge slab of Ice Cream Cake (as Lynda's B-day was Friday).

As I laid in bed Saturday night, the collective sum of my non-taper hit me. "Good Lord, I've done everything I could...wrong. I've totally screwed my race for tomorrow." I was trying hard not to let it bother me, because after all, how could I possibly think this was a 'race' I would have? I wasn't ready. I hadn't put in the speedwork to have a 'race.' That thought was just a passing, fatigue-based suggestion from a tired, tired mind.

Nothing more.

Sunday morning came, and I found myself on the Ben Franklin Parkway before sunrise once again. I met Dave Decker and family pre-race (his brother Jon was racing as well), and Dave asked me, "So what are you doing today?" I explained the litany of stupidity that passed for my taper, and followed it up with my plan: "I'll race today using an Al Dente race plan. I'm taking it out as hard as I can, and then I'll see what sticks. If I die, so be it. What do I have to lose?"

I meant it, too. It was a simple plan. The weather was cool, and the course was flat. At least I'd have a good tempo run to start.

I made my way to corral #5, and stood around with all the other nervous bodies trying not to look nervous. There were 15 corrals; last year with a predicted time of 1:50 I had been in #4. This year, that same 1:50 (Hah! What was *I* thinking?) had me in #5. After the usual ceremonies and hoopla, the gun was fired, and off we waddled. 2:36 later, I started the watch - away we go.

I settled in right away, moving down the left side of the Parkway. I knew to take it semi-easy in the first mile, and not get carried away. The pack was tight, the road wasn't perfect, and there were plenty of people just plummeting backwards through the field already (Why are you walking at the ½ mile mark?!). Mile 1 passed in 8:10, and felt comfortable. The air was cool, the sun was bright - I thought, "Okay, drop it. Let's go."

I started moving up like a cyclist; trying to spot gaps before they'd open, weaving with as little side-to-side motion as possible. When jammed in I'd just tap the hip of the runner ahead, and most moved right over. One woman stayed put - I tapped again. Nothing. Then she held her iPod up while trying to find a good song...

...so I just put my left arm on her shoulder and moved her to one side as gently (but hurriedly) as I could.

Mile 2 - 7:38. Nice.

By now I was settling in really well. My legs were sore, but they were still moving. My core was sore, but I couldn't do much about it. My breathing was even - calm. I could breathe in through my nose, and didn't feel like I was working too hard.

It couldn't possibly last, so I figured I'd better just go with it as long as I possibly could.

Somewhere heading towards mile 3 I ended up getting moved towards a construction barrier, but I spotted a pedestrian walkway to the left. Instead of trying to squeeze in with everyone else, I took the opening and ended up in my own little lane. Someone looked over and said, "What's that?" I said, "Carpool Lane. If you're over 190 pounds, only." As the lane ended I called out, "New York merge coming up!" I signaled with my right hand, and merged back into the pack.

The woman behind me asked, "What's a New York merge?" I clarified, "You signal but don't look back, as opposed to the New Jersey merge, where you never signal...lest you actually tell someone where you're headed."

Mile 3 - 7:55. Slower than 2, but still feeling pretty good. Sub-8 pace. "That's a 1:44 if you stay with it." My brain calculated and shared. With 10 miles yet to run, 'staying with it' was certainly doubtful. If I could run this pace to 5 miles, it'd be a good day.

By now the pack had thinned to the point where it wasn't so tight. I could see the road better, there weren't any walkers coming backwards, and we were heading towards the Parkway once more, leaving behind the tight confines of Old City. While passing the Liberty Bell, Independence Mall, The Constitution Center, and all the landmarks of Washington Square is neat, I've always been too busy trying not to trip over people to really notice. With 12,000 runners, it had been an extra-tense first few miles.

Mile 4 - 7:54. I used my one GU, since they had PowerGel at mile 8 last year; might as well make sure the calories don't let me down. As we rolled up the parkway past start/finish, the sounds of Barry Manilow boomed through the sound system. Barry freaking Manilow. This race is put on by the people who put on the Rock-and-Roll Marathon, and they allow Barry Manilow DURING THE RACE? I picked it up, and looked forward to the next band on the road to get rid of "Mandy" before I suffered a Manilow-based-pace-breakdown.

As West River Drive approached, I thought, "Nice shrubs. Time to stop." One 27-second pitstop later, I felt even better. Mile 5 - 8:21, or 7:54 without the stoppage time.

The rest of the race would be a lap of "The Drives." Down West River, across at Falls Bridge, then back up Kelly Drive to the Art Museum and the finish line. It would be totally flat with the exception of one rise to Falls Bridge, and the final ½ mile climb to the line. "If you keep this pace, you're still on track for a 1:44..." my brain reminded me. "...and for the record, your PR at this distance is..."

"1:43:13." I thought, then immediately and completely stopped thinking. "I've got 8.1 miles to go. Thinking about a PR this early is just a bad idea. Thinking about a PR at ALL is a bad idea. Just run the mile you're in."

Mile 6 - 7:53, and the 10K checkpoint in 49:31. Probably passed halfway in 52 minutes or so.

Around this time, my usually rambling mind grew very quiet. In the shade of the trees on West River Drive, I focused on running a good line through the curves, using the tangents to keep on the shortest path possible. I kept my breathing relaxed, and my arms loose. "Run as steady as you can to Falls Bridge, and then take a look at where you are."

Mile 7 - 7:53. As I cruised towards the water stop at mile 8, I asked the volunteer, "Where are the gels?" He replied, "Water on the left, Gatorade on the right." I cruised through the stop - no gels. Must have cut them this year. Oh, well. I can probably make it. I had pizza and ice cream last night. 100 calories of vanilla gel? That won't even get me a mile. I'll be fine.

Mile 8 - 7:51. Falls Bridge looming in the distance. My mind is still very quiet. I don't want to, but I can't help but think that perhaps, just perhaps, something very strange is happening today. I'm comfortable. I'm calm. I'm running as fast as I've ever run in the past 10 years. But then as my legs feel the road steepen to Falls Bridge, my breathing starts to pick up - turning onto and across the bridge, I actually get a side stitch.

"Damn, damn, damn...relax, relax. Just breathe out. Long, slow breaths. Work it out." I try and coax the pain away; I've got to be right on my limit. If a 100-yard rise in the road put me into the red, I'm right there. No need to be any faster.

Now that I've made it to my Falls Bridge marker, it's time to seriously think about that little blue line just 4 miles away; time for a new deal. "Run steady to mile 10, then build to the end. Save a little for that climb to mile 13, then bring it home." I know that 7:55 pace means a finishing time for the half-marathon of 1:44. I know I'm right there.

I also know that this is impossible.

But, I also know that if I don't fall apart or lose it between here and the Art Museum, I could be on my way to something. I don't want to think about it...but I can't help but think there's something going on; that premonition on Wednesday. It can't be. It just can't be happening.

Mile 9 - 7:49. My legs are getting tired, but I can still do math, breathe through my nose, and focus on the tangents. I'm really thankful for the shade on Kelly Drive, because I'm warmed up enough now to need to wring my shirt out every mile. It's still cool, but I'm soaked. I think to myself as the sweat pours down the back of my legs, "Funny, this same thing happened in this same race last year."

Mile 10 - 7:47. Three to go, and the clock is moving the right way. Somewhere in this mile, I catch my teammate from Guy's Multisport, Sue Rhinegold. Sue is an exceptional runner, with at least 5 Boston Marathon finishes. I have absolutely no business being near Sue in a standalone running race. "Nice hat!" I call out, and she turns around, somewhat surprised to see me. "Wow! How are you doing?"

"I have no idea. I'm on PR pace. I'm officially running scared." I stammer. That I just allowed those letters to escape from my mouth and be spoken out loud scares me more. I keep waiting for the skies to darken above, the thunder to rattle, and the running gods to descend upon me dressed in black ninja suits to take me out...but they don't. The skies stay blue and clear. My breathing stays even. I pass Sue and move up the road as she calls out, "Keep it up! If I catch you, I'm going to kick your @ss!"

Now I really AM running scared. I know I have less than 3 miles to go and if I run 2 strong closing miles, I might just do this. I have to believe that it's possible now. Like an opportunist who gets in a breakaway in the first kilometer of a bike race, and nearly 200KM's later knows that he won't be caught, I have to believe. The race demands it. I know to not take this chance would be a crime against myself - I can't slow down now.

I accept that I'm either going to break my PR today, or I am going to just miss it.

"Just get to 11 - get to 2 miles to go." Another deal with myself - just one mile at a time makes it easier to focus on what's happening without getting emotional. I keep focused on the tangents - the best line down the Drive, and keeping the turnover high.

Mile 11 - 7:44. I have 2.1 miles left, and the watch says 1:26:52. If I run these last miles in 16:22 or better, I'm going to break my PR. That I can do math this late in the race...well, I usually can't form words over 2 syllables after 5 miles. I know if I run 8's that gives me 16:48, so I've got to run somewhere in the 7:40's to do it.

I know that's right where I am now, and I'm not sure I can go any faster. Phil Liggett chirps in my head, "He's got to keep on this pace, because this is going to be DESPERATELY CLOSE."

The 'desperately close' part somehow comes out with reverb, a nice effect. Good to know the special effects department works on Sunday mornings.

I need help. I need someone to tow me. I think about all the road races I've watched where a team just forms a train in the last miles, and gets their guy to the line. "That's what I need - I need a leadout train. My own squadra to get me there..." I think of the Italians in 2002 - the perfect blue train for Mario Cipollini to win his only World Title. How great it would be to have my own...

And just like that, four people appear ahead of me: George, Viola, Larry, and Peter. George was my grandfather - Viola was his wife, my grandmother. Larry was my uncle, and Peter, well, you all know Peter. My grandfather - I ran for him at Philly in 1998. What I didn't expect is that they'd appear dressed in the blue kit of the Squadra Azzura, and all on matching, tricked-out Colnago C-50's. I guess my imagination took my suggestion too literally, but who am I to question - at least on bikes they didn't need to run - I've got a train!

Uncle Larry looked back at me and asked, "Robert, just what the heck do you expect me to do dressed like THIS? What am I wearing this for?" It was a good question. The served in two branches of the military in World War II; now he was dressed like an Italian Mardi Gras parade. I didn't really have time to explain, but I didn't need to - Grandpa Peter seemed to know the drill. "Just go - just ride! Each of you take a half mile, then drop off."

Just like that, off we went. Sure this was all in the exhausted mind of a runner on the edge, but I couldn't help but notice that there was a space ahead of me on the road, about 40 feet worth, that just opened. Wherever I went, I never had to avoid anyone. I just stayed on the last wheel, and let them tow me. After 4 minutes, George dropped off - Viola took over. She didn't say much - I think her shorts might have been too tight, or maybe she just wanted to get back to the golf course. As we closed on mile 12, she dropped off and waved goodbye.

Mile 12 - 7:44. Race time - 1:34:36. I've got 8:48 to go 1.1 miles, which means an 8:00 flat to the end with the biggest, longest hill on the course. Dammit, this is going to be really, really close.

Larry and Peter are still with me. Grandpa yells up, "Take it to Boathouse Row - I've got it from there!" Larry yells back, "OKAY! But just where the hell is Boathouse Row?" I smile to myself, thinking, "They are just like the Italian Road Team - complete with the dramatics." Pete yells, "JUST GO UP THIS ROAD ALREADY!" Larry puts his head down, and just motors on.

At the corner when the first boathouse appears, Larry drops off. Now it's just Grandpa and I, hugging the left side of the road. Around the bend and onto the rise, my legs are getting heavy. I'm on it as much as I can be, but I know I can't go any faster. Grandpa's head rocks side to side as he turns over the gear - I focus on his wheel as much as I can. It's all I can do.

People are walking down the hill with finishers gear - medals, bottles. They're clapping - they're yelling. "Kick it in! Just up the hill!" I know it's close, but I know I can't go any faster. It doesn't feel fast - I feel like I'm slipping. I feel like my legs are locking. I'm not panicking - I know I can't go any faster. I just hope it's fast enough.

As I burn my way to the summit at the Art Museum, I can see the blue sign on the right above the heads of the spectators - it simply says, "MILE 13." I know if I can get to that sign with 42 seconds to spare for the last 0.1 miles, I've got a shot. Pete looks under his arm and yells, "C'mon Bobby! Stay with it! Stay with it!"

I'm glued to this wheel. I'm not going anywhere.

The road slowly flattens as we roar out from beneath the canopy of trees, and onto Eakins Oval. As gravity slides its grasp from my legs, I open my stride and let it all go. I don't look down at the watch - I don't want to until I draw even with that sign...

Peter pulls off - I pass the sign.

I hit the split button:

1:42:13. The long climb to Mile 13 was a 7:29 - fastest of the day.

I have one minute to go.

I am going to make it.

As he drops off, I hear Grandpa yell that same yell he used to use when watching his beloved Giants on so many Sunday afternoons: "Run you son of a b#$(*! RUN! RUN!" I spread my arms wide-open, and laugh out loud.

This is impossible. This is absolutely impossible.

The Bob that doesn't sleep - the Bob with the mortgage, the house, and all the new baby has just caught and passed the Bob that was in the best shape of his life - Ironman shape - in 2001. The run I put down at Caesar Rodney in 2001 - that 1:43:14 - was the one I was sure I'd never break. It was just so out there, I never thought I'd see it again.

But there it was. I looked down at my watch, and laughed again. I could savor it all the way to the line - I was going to break a personal record that had stood for five years, with no sleep, no speedwork, no taper, and no hope. Fueled by ice cream, pizza, and an overly active imagination.

One of my favorite images in cycling is when someone is winning a sprint, and his teammates are already celebrating with their arms raised in the background. As I crossed the line, I imagined what it might look like behind me, as my own little squadra put their arms up...knowing they'd just delivered their guy to the fastest race he's ever had.

The clock stopped at 1:42:52 - a new PR by 22 seconds.

Then I stopped.

Then the tears started. Huge, heaving sobs. Real, "ending of Steel Magnolias" kind of sobs.

I stood there in the shadow of the line, totally unable to comprehend what I had just done. It's been 4 years since I've run a PR of any kind; lots of things have happened. There have been plenty of races - some fun, some really strong, but none that were great.

In the deepest parts of my heart, I think I'd started to believe that maybe my best days were behind me. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop thinking about what I used to do. I was 35, after all. With the baby, how could I ever train like I had before? It just wasn't fair to compare those times to now. This is just life. That was then...no sense in thinking about it anymore.

But there was the watch, defiantly staring back: 1:42:52.

It's not what I used to do. That's what I just f'ing DID.

I got the medal, picked up my bag, then made the long walk to the car, still occasionally laughing to myself. It would just happen - just a chuckle with a shake of the head.

1:42:52.

When I swam in college, some schools had all their team records up on big boards overlooking the lanes. It was a way for the ghosts of the past to leave their mark - only the best got to climb the board, and put their names up when they set records. It was a mental image I loved - the record board.

The 2001 Caesar Rodney Half Marathon was the one record on my personal record board that I just knew would stay up there and gather dust for the rest of my life. When I was an old man I'd look up at those dusty numbers and think, "That was a helluva day, that run."

As I started the drive home, I knew that I would have to look around and find the ladder. Though I couldn't believe it, it was true. Age, mortgage, and no sleep be damned: Tonight I was climbing the record board, brush in hand, ready to put up a new set of numbers.

1 - 8:10
2 - 7:38
3 - 7:55
4 - 7:54
5 - 8:21 (:27 pit stop)
6 - 7:50 (10K - 49:31)
7 - 7:53
8 - 7:51
9 - 7:49
10 - 7:47
11 - 7:44
12 - 7:44
13 - 7:29
13.1 - 0:43

1:42:52, 1602nd out of 11,119 finishers.

A new PR. A helluva day, that was.

Hurricane Bob
* Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. *

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