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The Caesar Rodney Half Marathon

March 18, 2001 -- Wilmington, Delaware.

13.1 Mile Run

http://www.alade.org/main.htm

A year ago, I didn't know where my body was going.  This time, Coach Mike and I had different plans.

It's 10:30pm, Saturday night. I am on a train headed home from the Rohm and Haas Data Center, having been on my feet for 15 hours working on a yet another server move that started before the sun came up and ended well after it had gone down. I knew it might work out that way, and I warned Coach Mike Plumb that all our efforts in getting ready for a good race might be tanked in advance, thanks to the unrelenting demands of being a geek...but that concern and $3.50 will get you an overpriced (yet wonderful) depth-charged size cup of Starbucks to drown your sorrows in about having a job that doesn't subscribe to a clock that you find convenient.

Regardless of my fatigue, I was having fun watching a trainload of young drunks since I had somehow forgotten it was Saint Patrick's Day. Each stop was the same: Everyone 'drunk whispering' "Iss dish our stop? No - dude - for real...(oh man...I can't stand) is that your car? No? You sure? Dude *thud* Ow. This floor is gross..." Each stop better entertainment than the last as the would-be penguins teetered over and got tossed forwards when the train stopped. They were all just at the beginning of a long, long night of partying I was glad to be skipping. They'd all wake up with hangovers, tongues that felt like they needed a shave, and a decided fear of bright light and loud noises, whereas I would be waking up to go attempt my traditional Spring test at the Caesar Rodney 1/2 Marathon in Wilmington, Delaware...and I was sure that between the pain we would each know, I would take mine anyday.

At least I'd be able to eat when mine was over.

Since some recovery time in December following the Philadelphia Marathon, Coach Mike had been essentially beating the ever-living daylights out of me on a daily basis. I was lifting weights and swimming where I used to just swim. I was riding my rollers (and doing intervals) up to 2.5 hours at a time...when 1 hour of steady tempo used to be a reason to feel like I'd accomplished something. Most of all...I had been introduced to the Tuesday Tempo Run, a run that my co-workers began to call "The Death Run" based on how useful I was when I got back to my desk when I had finished 8 miles at race pace, dodging buses, taxis, and other miscreants from across the bridge to New Jersey while trying to stay at my anaerobic threshold. This (along with some insane stair climbing and a Sunday LSD run) had me in the best Spring form I had seen since 1997.

My weight was down to 188 (compared to a thyroid-spiked 195 last year), and with the increase in my running, I was feeling a degree of confidence in my ability I hadn't had before. I wasn't afraid of running long the way I used to be. I knew I could handle the pain and hang on better than I used to, and I was looking forward to testing this kind of thinking at race pace. I could keep my tempo run pace in the low 8:0x range...so I decided that aiming for my old PR of 1:44:10 (February 1997) was a good goal.

When my alarm went off after what seemed like blinking twice on Sunday morning, I seriously had to lay in bed and think "Why did that go off? What am I supposed to do today...RIGHT. Caesar Rodney." I had laid out all my gear in the next room so I could get dressed without thinking, and thankfully Oscar hadn't scrambled my socks and shorts while I'd slept...else I'd have most likely left the house in some state of confused, Red Hot Chili Pepper like undress.

After 2 cups of Espresso to get me moving, I grabbed 2 bottles of water and hit the road. I knew it was to be a cold day - temps when I left home were still in the low 30's, and my little car did the crosswind-Lambada headed down and empty I-95 towards Wilmington. At least the sun was out, so I knew that no matter how cold it seemed, I could stay in shorts and force myself to run harder to stay warm. A bit of a cruel motivational trick, perhaps, but effective!

Once registered, numbered, stretched, call-of-nature-heeded, jogged, call-of-nature-redux'ed (Espresso + Water = Nature's Pager), warmed up, cooled down, I made my way to the start line, alone. My arch-nemesis and personal-edition Dr. Evil, Eric Weiss had skipped this race for the first time in 4 years. Something about a wedding coming up in 2 weeks or some other fluffy, shallow excuse. Why, when I was his age I finished an Ironman 2 weeks before my wedding. Then I built the airplane to get home with 2 rolls of duct tape, some balsa wood, and a CO2 cartridge...and I liked it! But either way, I was alone...and able to concentrate on my race, rather than chasing his always-undertrained-but-faster-than-me stride heading off into the distance.

I did bump into some local tri-guys from the Philly area (Greg Sullivan and Steve Durant), and they asked me "So how are you going to do today?" I just smiled and said "I'm going to PR today. I'll probably run about a 1:43 if everything goes well..." and I smiled. I wasn't trying to convince myself of anything - I believed it. There wasn't a chasm between my confidence and my ability - this wasn't some kind of Freudian smack-talk to scare my wobbly psyche into running well - it was simply what I believed I could do, and here I was saying it to someone as if I needed to share it for the record...and knowing that I could run fast enough to back it up for the first time.

"Wow. Dude - don't set yourself up like that..." Greg warned me, but I was sure of it. "No, I mean it...and if I miss? Hey, it'll still be a good training race for me...but I think I can do it." Atta' boy. No wiggle room. No backing off. No second guessing here. You said it, now follow it up. No panic, no wondering "Why the #(@*! did I just say that?" Just quiet confidence...and maybe a little amusement at hearing such virtual swagger coming out of ME of all people.

Where was Eric when I finally had my act together? *sigh*

In Rodney square for the start, I lined up in the 3rd row by complete luck. The flags on the buildings overhead were all straight out behind us...and the sun hadn't really warmed up much of anything. "Just going to have to take it out hard to get warm, eh?" Again...that quiet smile. Whatever happened according to the clock today, I was already glad I'd hired Mike to think for me. I knew I could run. I was ready to hit it for all I could, and just to feel that way was intoxicating...

*BOOM*

Downhill through the square with the field of 1200...I crossed the line in 9 seconds and was surrounded by folks with the jets to go at 7:00 per mile or better. The start at CR carries on downhill to the waterfront, so I knew I could use it to make some time early. My plan was to run 8:00 miles until mile 11, and then use the long downhill to the finish to wring 2 negative splits out and put me in the 1:43 range. With one eye on the HRM and one on the feet all around me, soon I was in the 140's...warming up slowly...very slowly. Too slowly. I hit the first mile in 7:17, but my HR was only at 149. For that pace I knew it should have been in the 160's, but my legs were still responding so I just let it go. I figured that I was flat from the stress of the long workday before, and just from being on my feet so long. It wasn't going to come back...so it was best just to keep moving and see what happened. Now that I had nearly 50 seconds in the plus column, I could slow down and get in a better rhythm.

Mile 2 cruised by in 7:28, I felt like I had eased up a bit...and here I was still making time! My HR had crept up to 150 (wow), so now I knew it was pretty much out to lunch. We turned along the Delaware Waterfront, and into the wind. Suddenly I could see why I had clocked off 2 sub-8 miles, and all 25 reasons hit me in the face and lifted my hat right off my head. I caught it, flipped it around backwards, and never broke stride as I tucked into the wind headed for the 5K split.

We turned back towards the downtown section of Wilmington, and now I knew that despite the low HR, I was running at a pace I could hang on to. The hills in the middle of CR are what would judge me, so the plan was to just keep putting time in the bank for Rockford Park...and each split was like a bonus check: Mile 3 in 7:45, Mile 4 in 7:50, and Mile 5 past the finish line in 8:02. All the while, my HR never climbed much above 152...but as long as the miles stayed near the 8:00 mark, I was more annoyed than worried about it.

With the wind whipping up the Brandywine Creek, I passed the second aid station (the first one was too crowded and too early) and grabbed a cup of water. I took one sip...and it was like drinking a cup of broken glass. The water was so frigid, my stomach didn't know what hit it. I coughed, gasped, and suddenly found myself having a fit of dry-heaves in a matter of seconds. I kept my cool, and just thought "Toss it. Get that water out, and we'll be fine." The whole episode was less than 20 seconds, but it seemed to take hours until my stomach settled and I could run again. I didn't throw up (thankfully), but I had been spooked. I figured that I'd drank enough before the start that I could 'fake it' through 13 miles...and that it was a good risk to take rather than getting sick again. I'd never had that happen before in a race, so I knew that I had to be running somewhere near the rivet...

...and that rivet was somehow in my bladder, now. Climbing up the first long hill in Rockford Park, all I could think about was how glad I would be to finish...and finally pee. I tried to convince myself that I was just cold, but after dropping that sno-cone of water into my system? I think I shorted something out. I had to go. Right then. I tried to reason with my bladder that we were having a good race, and that this really WASN'T the best time for a coup d'etat, but once more nature was ringing off the hook...and I finally caved in and jumped off the side of the road. 10 seconds...20...30...(Good God, maybe next time I'll skip the espresso...or maybe it was the 2 liters of water...) 48 seconds later, I was on my way with a new attitude and a much spring-ier stride.

Mile 6 was a more pedestrian 8:45...but my happiest by far.

In all of my races I'm usually very aware of my surroundings. I see parts of the crowd. I look for other people on the road. I think about the wind, the weather, and how good it's going to feel when I finally stop running. This time, I was in a little bubble...and not really aware of much of anything. It was that sense of calm and quiet that Mark Allen talked about, and it was the first time I'd been there. I was in pain, but I could handle it. It was cold, but I was only aware of it...and not bothered by it. I knew my HR was low, but so what? My body was still there as I wanted it to be. There were people around me, but they were all nameless and faceless. They were just objects to follow, patterns to watch as a warm sun and biting air battled for my distraction.

Mile 7 - 8:23 (up the hills). Mile 8 - 7:56. Mile 9 - 8:00...HR at 151. With 4.1 miles to go, I was right on the fringe of my PR pace. There was no panic, just an understanding that the time I'd invested early had been tapped...and now it was time to see if I could seal the deal as I'd planned. I had no time left to use as my cushion, and I just thought "You have to run 4 miles at 8:00 or better. 2 of those are downhill. You can run 2 miles, can't you?"

No fear. No worry. There's the split you need. Go and get it.

I lowered my hands, and focused on relaxing my shoulders. I kept my breathing slow, and my footstrikes even. Each step was one more step closer to making my called shot a reality, and I felt that I could really do it if I just kept moving at this pace. The race wasn't one of chasing someone down, sliding down a slippery slope of diminishing energy, or fighting off an imminent collapse: I was simply running, and running faster than I ever had before...just like I told Greg, Steve, and myself I would.

Mile 10 - 8:00, on the money...looking at the downhill. Into the wind, time to make some time...with leaves, sticks, road cones, and dropped gloves dancing past me in the air. It's as if nature is testing me one last time. "You think it's all too easy? Show me you mean it. Walk it like you talk it, mortal fool." No panic. No fear. It's windy - run into it. 188 pounds doesn't move easily.

Mile 11 ticked by in 7:49. Mile 12 surprised me in 7:35...and there I was with 1.1 to go, a watch that said 1:34:15: I have 10 minutes to cover the last mile and one tenth. I open my stride, knowing that as long as I don't fall down, turn an ankle, get hit by MIR, or explode into flames, I will break my PR for the half-marathon today, finally...4 years after setting it in a run I always considered a fluke. After going 1:44 on that day, it was another 3 years before I even cracked 1:50...and I'd only been under 2 hours 4 times since. This time, I knew it was no fluke...and I savored every step of that last mile.

Around the bend onto State Street...I peered ahead for the clock...

1:42:58...

1:42:59...

1:43:00...

No fear. No panic. No sprint. Last rolling mile in 8:10, last uphill 10th in 49 seconds.

Across the line in 1:43:14. PR. Just like I'd said I would. No dance of joy. No tears. No scream of disbelief. A quiet smile. A quick walk through the chute. Bob looked in at Bob and simply said "Told you..." as Bob looked back and said "...I know it."

When I saw Greg and Steve at the YMCA post race, they asked me "So, how'd it go?"

I didn't even need to open my mouth, as I showed them the watch.

They looked at me and said "No way. In that wind? Dude!"

No fear.

No panic.

No problem.

(Thanks Coach Mike! Can I have this week off to celebrate?)

Hurricane Bob

* Don't always think - sometimes, you need to just do *

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