Caesar 2006

It has been my simple motto for 2006. I knew that having a newborn in the house and trying to train with any sort of consistency was surely a recipe for failure; every day, heck, every hour is pretty much as unpredictable as can be. In the interest of sanity, I admit it - I reached up and lowered the bar. Why not?

I tried to remove the phrase, "Got to" from my thinking. "I've just GOT TO get this run in." "I've GOT TO get to the pool!" There are no absolutes in my world. I can't have "got to's", because I don't have the luxury of laying down a schedule to a 5 month old girl who could care less what Dad thinks is important. I learned right away that St. Lynda and I were now passengers to life; pretty rough lesson for two people who prided themselves on planning and control.

That crackling sound you hear as you read this is our sense of having things planned out burning to the ground off in the distance.

So instead looking at training in week-to-week cycles, I took it one day at a time. If I could do something, great! If not, there's always tomorrow. It was a big change, but I really didn't mind so much. In a way, despite the up-and-down-hit-or-miss nature of things, I felt a greater sense of accomplishment when I did get a workout in than I had in previous years.

However, there were plenty of "Argh!" moments in there. I'd been sick most of February, as was Katie, and as was St. Lynda. We took turns, it seemed. Sleep was hit or miss (mostly miss, really), and the weather was all over the map; cold, warm, wet, snowy, you name it. Through it all I managed two runs over 12 miles between New Year's Day and now.

The Caesar Rodney Half Marathon is an annual March affair in Wilmington, Delaware. It normally attracts about 1,000 runners, and some wickedly spring-ish weather, which is to say, anything goes. I've run it when it's been 70 degrees, and 20 degrees. I've run in wind, sleet, sun, clouds, and one snow flurry. You just never know what you'll get, but that's Spring in the Mid-Atlantic: A combination of Sybil on a bad day, and Lady Macbeth on a bender.

This year, however, looked absolutely brilliant. Saturday was 70 degrees, sunny, and gorgeous. The warmest weather we've had around here since last October. I got out and rode 2.5 hours on Saturday morning in SHORTS. It was grand! To have this on Saturday, and another warm day forecast for Sunday - ahhh! I thought of how I looked towards the finish line in 2005, when the wind-chill was in the teens, and my short-wearing thighs were numb, and rather shockingly, pink:

It was going to be so nice to run this race and be toasty - I couldn't wait. Even if my form wasn't there, I had enough to get through 13.1 miles. Maybe 1:52 or 1:53 or so, anything under 9:00 pace would work for me.

As is normally the case, Sunday morning came too quickly. As I staggered into the bathroom, I listened to the peaceful pitter patter of raindrops on the roof, and the trickle of water down the gutter.

There was a slight chance of showers for later in the day. This was SO not later. It was still dark. Hoo, Nelly. Not good. I made some coffee and flipped on the Weather Channel, and there was green everywhere. It was 48F. Oh, well, this could pass. After all, it's 6:30AM, and the start isn't until 9:00!

Fast forward to 8:50AM. I'm standing in the lobby of the Wilmington YMCA with about half of the starting field. The lobby isn't big (about 30' x 40'), but there are probably 487 of us standing there, looking out the double front doors into the falling rain. It's light, but steady enough to make one not wish to stand outside in it for longer than absolutely necessary. With the start 1/3rd of a mile away, we're huddled like penguins...waiting for someone to make the first move.

At 8:51, a brave penguin in shorts and a singlet says, "I'm going out." Just as he takes his first steps, the skies OPEN. I mean, like tropical-downpour-in-July, open. The cold air blast from the open doors roars in, and ironically enough, so does penguin number one, now rather soaked. "No, I'm not." He replies. The lobby groans.

We've got to go for it. In small groups, maybe 10-12 at a time, we just open the doors and run for it. It's still pouring, and it's a cold, cold rain. On both sides of the street, groups are running from awning to awning, sprinting through the rain and taking shelter between bursts. After 3 blocks it doesn't really matter - we're all soaked through and through.

Moving as a single unit, my penguin brigade arrives in Rodney Square at precisely 8:59. I'm almost warm from the mad dash, but the fact that I can see my breath is spooky. I'm wearing shorts and long sleeves, but I can tell that so many around me clearly packed their bags for a nice day...and went to bed. There are short sleeves, singlets, and sleeveless tops everywhere. All cold, all wet, and incredibly ticked off.

When the starting gun fires, at least there's comfort in that we'll be moving and getting warmer soon enough. The heavy rain stops just as the Howitzer (aimed towards Maryland as is tradition) booms, and we squish-squish-squish our way downhill towards mile 1.

I'm not wearing a watch today. This was planned; I figured that if I had a bad day, I wouldn't have to be reminded of it along the way. Of course, there's a clock at mile 1: 8:03. Whoops. If I was 15-20 seconds back on chip time, that's probably too fast, but these opening miles are downhill. Happens every year.

As I follow the field through the descent towards the Waterfront of the Christina River, I don't feel that great. I'm still not warm, entirely not dry, and my sneakers feel like they weigh 2 pounds each. Other than that, things are pretty good. I figure the 'elephant on my back' feeling is pretty normal, since every run I've had this year has felt this way.

There are no clocks for the lower miles around Blue Rocks Stadium and the Waterfront, and that's just as well. I figure if I can just keep running, eventually I'll either feel better...or the race will end. Not a bad strategy, huh? As I'm concentrating on keeping my footfalls light (impossible), a guy ahead of me is warmed up enough to take his shirt off. As he does, his back, which is covered from side to side, top to bottom with Chinese tattoos, is shared with everyone behind him.

I thought it was funny, but clearly, it wasn't. I get dropped by the women trying to escape the view, and Tattoo man heads off into the distance as well. I shuffle on. Wet, cold, and wondering if dropping out at the halfway mark might be a good plan.

As I start climbing back towards Brandywine Park, I hear a voice behind me ask, "You know, only a triathlete would bother running a race with his legs shaved." Bill Donnelly, one of my Dragon Boat teammates and a fellow triathlete I'd conned into running this race, catches me. "I was hoping I'd find you...I've dropped back and passed most of the field looking for you!" Bill has got some form today! I quickly start piling on the excuses. "Sorry about the rain. I had 4 hours of sleep last night. My stomach feels weird. There were sunspots on Friday. I rode 2.5 hours yesterday. Oh, and I suck."

Bill, as usual, is hearing none of it. "I'm just treating this as a training run - if I can run 13 miles, great." What he fails to mention is that he can casually do so about 1 minute per mile faster than I can. As we motor along the Brandywine River, we pass an aid station with the car stereo blaring. Unfortunately, as we pass it's blaring "I'm on Fire" by Bruce Springsteen. "Argh. Springsteen. And not just Springsteen - it's SLOW Springsteen..." I grouse.

I look at the guy. I look at the river. I look back at the guy. "You realize that while this river is narrow, it's deep, and fast. They won't find your body until July." Bill laughs. Cat Scratch guy drops back. Bill offers, "You know Bob, you should always look on the bright side..."

"You. Both of you. Insufferable bastards, the lot of you." I'm cold, wet, slow, tired, and have a show tune looping. It gets no worse. Oh, wait, yes it does - we're now entering the steepest, longest climb of the day. My forward progress slows to something like my 86 year-old Nana on one of her good days. Bill tries to coax me along.

"I was thinking 1:50 at first, but I just don't feel right. Maybe 1:52, 1:53 or more." Or more, I should say, was looking pretty likely...and then I started dry heaving. For no reason. We weren't running hard. I had a bagel for breakfast 3+ hours ago. Again - Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot?

Between heaves I manage to tell Bill, "Run your race, Billy - don't wait for me." He offers one more time, "Do you want me to tow you?" I don't want to ruin his day, and more - if I do lose it, I don't want him to see it. "Nah - I'll just roll on and do what I can. Thanks." With ease, Bill rolls up the hill and around the next bend.

The leader comes roaring down the same hill we're climbing, and I'm just short of Rockford Tower - the highest point on the course, and the highest point in Wilmington. I usually have passed the tower before the leader is in sight - rassafrassa. At 7 miles I take in my only GU - maybe the calories and caffeine can help me in the last 6 miles?

Then Spider-Man passes me. Seriously. A guy in a full spidey-suit trundles by, and drops me. As he does, I shake my head. At Brian's Run in December, I dueled with a Chicken for 3 miles. Now this? I check over my shoulder, and I'm relieved to know that the Easter Bunny and the Marquis De Sade are not closing in...yet.

When the Rockford Climb finally ends, my legs do feel a little better. I'm still not warm, but putting the big climb behind me does help my mood. I know it's basically 3 miles of flat running, 2 miles of descending, and then the last mile to the finish - straight up. I start focusing on runners ahead of me,"Try and move up. One at a time." Are my legs coming around? After 8 miles? It could happen - I remembered struggling through the first half at the Philly Distance Run in 2005, only to finish faster and faster for the last 5 miles.

I watch the faces of the runners coming back - all cold, all wet, all fast. As I reach the turnaround point, the road turns and goes behind a municipal building for about 200 yards. I don't see Bill before I make the turn, which means I've got to be within two minutes or so. At the same time, Bill is leaving the other side of the parking lot going, "I don't see Bob. He's got to be within two minutes or so."

I'm still cold, wet, but with nearly skippy legs. Just then - surprise! My lower GI does the surprising. Thought it was gas. Surprise! It's not! Ah, well, perfect. Only a few miles to go. *sigh*

As I re-enter Route 26, I hear spectators cheering, "Yeah, Senator Carper!" Senator Carper? Ahh. My nemesis. Tom Carper runs this race every year. When he was Governor of Delaware, he was always fast. In five tries, I've only beaten him once - in 2001 when I ran my current PR of 1:43 here at this race. Yumpin' yiminy, he can MOVE for a 59 year-old - routinely running under 1:45.

Sure enough, there he is. A tall figure, hard to miss; I close the gap and at mile 10, make the pass. "Good Job, sir." I offer as I do. Holding his gloves, leaning forward, not sounding very good at the moment he responds, "Thanks..." as he doesn't turn his head. Great. I've just run down someone old enough to be my Dad. And I was happy about it.

However, the clock at mile 10 (remember clocks? I hadn't, until then) read 1:25:something. Before I can even finish the thought, my brain goes, "No, you can't. You're not going full-tilt to break 1:50. Just try and get home in one piece, okay?"

Then, the faint image of blue and red appears about 100 yards up the road. I don't want to, I don't feel like it, but I must. Spider Man is going DOWN.

As we enter the descent by Rockford Tower, I open up my stride and let it fly. At nearly 200 pounds, gravity is now tilted (heavily) in my favor. Spidey draws closer, and closer, and closer. It takes nearly a mile to close the gap, but at 11 miles we're even. He's breathing really hard, and probably cooking now in his suit. Too bad!

But then Spidey makes his move; on a small false flat in the middle of the downhill, he surges away from me. Before I have a chance to think about what to do, he then conveniently, and completely, explodes. I mean, he just comes back at me like he's been nailed to a post and disappears behind me so fast, I have to step to the right to miss him.

It doesn't make sense. He didn't attack that hard, did he? Could he be...Hmm. I don't turn around, but I listen. Sure enough, footsteps. He's there. NICE. "That's pretty cool." I think. He's trying to be tactical and make me lead! Excellent! I had no idea what I was going to do to motivate myself for the last mile, but now I know it.

When you can say that to yourself in the last mile of a race with a straight face, without the use of drugs, what more can you ask for in sport? As the descent resumes, I pick it up...then pick it up more...and hang on. I don't look back - I don't want to look back, but soon I don't hear anything.

Then again, I'm pounding the ground so hard I'm setting off car alarms and breaking limbs in trees all over Rockford Park, so a 747 could sneak up on me and I wouldn't hear it.

Down, down, down to the river and the marker for mile 12. Just one mile to go now, and the last 400 yards are straight up. I'm as flat-out as I can be, running harder than I have all day long. I'm picking off people left and right, passing shirts that I remember rolling past me in the early miles. I'm a completely different runner now - running scared, trying to hold off a Sophomore Senator and a superhero.

As I turn the final bend to Market Street and the drag up to the line, I have no idea what my time will be. If it's near 1:51, I'll be thrilled - the way I felt in the first miles, I can't ask for anything more. All I can think is that soon - just minutes! - I'll be in a warm shower, and out of the wet clothes I've been in for nearly 2 hours. That makes me smile...just as I see the banner with the word, "FINISH" appear above the hillcrest. Then the clock comes into view, and my smile gets even bigger.

I cross the line in 1:49:38, with a chip time of 1:49:17. I'm completely and utterly spent. I want to laugh, and I want to cry. I also want to get the hell to a hot shower, but I also need to find a little blue box NOW. Bill finds me as I work past the finish chute, and goes, "Wow! You're here a lot sooner than I thought!" Bill ended up with a 1:44, and a pretty substantial negative split to boot. What a great run for him!

We didn't talk long; we were both pretty much freezing solid. Bill headed for his car, and I headed for the YMCA and the greatest shower of all time. Once I got changed I could barely walk up the stairs out of the locker room. I was as sore and trashed as I'd been post-race at any distance, including all of my marathons. To have done that much damage in 13 miles made me feel good; at least I hadn't left anything behind...other than the occasional superhero.

Of course, today I'm sick with my third cold in seven weeks. I'm pretty sure under the sounds of breaking tree branches, desperate pants, and wailing alarms, my immune system went *BOOM* around mile 12. So it goes. Today I feel pretty bad, but in a few days I know that will pass.

No matter how bad I feel, I can always find an easy way to smile - I've still got my third 1:49 in a row at this distance!