The 44th Caesar Rodney Half Marathon
March 11, 2007
-- Wilmington, Delaware
13.1 Mile Run.
http://www.alade.org/specialevents/caesarrodneyhalfmarathon.htm
Sometimes I can screw up even the easiest of race plans.
Originally Published to TRI-DRS on March 21, 2006
When the calendar turns to March, I know that one of my annual tests of form will be coming up soon: The Caesar Rodney Half Marathon in Wilmington, Delaware. It's a 13.1 mile journey from the top to the bottom of Wilmington, then back up to the top for good measure. It's not easy at all, but why should it be? If one is looking for an early season test, why not make it a real test? Despite being somewhat unrelenting, this course even held my half marathon PR for 5 years (until this past September).
When I told people I'd run my PR at CR, they all looked at me and said, "Are you kidding? On that course?" It was true. I think it was where I once uttered my now semi-classic battle cry, "Nonsense! This isn't a hill! This is just a flat road that goes up!"
This year I had no real expectations at all. I knew that I had 5 weeks to go to
Boston, and this run was just going to be a part of a much larger week (which in
and of itself was part of a much larger month); a half-distance rehearsal of
pace and nutrition.
However, my ego was putting up a huge fight. CR had always been fast for me. I'd run under 1:50 there 5 times in a row. Of course, while my ego said one thing, my common sense must have purchased a Marshall stack of amps over the winter - I actually heard it provide a counter point. "Bob, sure you can abandon all sense of where you're going, go for it, and run this race as hard as you can. Then you can spend the next 3 days walking down stairs backwards, bail on your track workout because you're too sore, and maybe get that long run done next week. Why not? It worked before, right? Isn't that what you did in 2005?"
2005.
2005.
I was pretty sure I heard a reverb effect when my common sense mentioned 2005, so I guess it had money for some pedal effects, too. Groovy.
2005 was the year I did everything right. I put down consistent long runs, consistent speedwork, and was ready for Boston. As ready as I could be. When Caesar Rodney came around that year, I was in the middle of my final cycle.so I nuked it. I ran 3 miles to warm up, then ran a 1:48. Then I spent the next 4 days recovering from my own hubris, but damn if it didn't feel fantastic to run such a great race!
You know, history doesn't really allow you to read too much about the Titanic's sea trials these days. They went pretty well, from what I understand. The ship was perfect - ready. Flawless from all angles and in all functions. Riiiiight. That was Caesar Rodney for me in 2005 (2005.2005.)
This time I knew I'd have to just take it easy, and if everything went to plan I'd finish 13.1 feeling like I could run another 13.1. Like most plans, this one looked great on paper, and why shouldn't it? It was just two big words:
SLOW DOWN.
The night before the race was the usual shambles. The baby (who still
hasn't quite mastered sleeping through the night in 519 days, but I can't really
talk about it or else my right eye starts twitching like this and then I kan't
tipe vergy weeelll.dangit..bee rite back).
Where was I? Oh, yes - the baby. Let's just say the night before the race consisted of lots of screaming followed by a way-too-soon wakeup. It's worth noting that the way-too-soon wakeup wasn't actually hyperbole, as Daylight Savings Time now was scheduled to arrive in the US on March 11, and arrive it did. And with it went one hour of precious possible sleep, but then again, it might have just been another sleepless hour, so let's not dwell on that too much.
I woke up, pounded several cups of French Roast, and hit the road. Upon arrival, after finding that my favorite parking lot had been turned into a new building, then nearly driving through the finish line from the wrong direction (twice), I managed to park, get my number picked up, and get settled. Sort of. As much as I usually settle. Kind of like an avalanche at the bottom of the mountain, really.
I lined up and made the usual pre-race small talk with the people around me to pass the time. Behind me were a brother and sister, and it was going to be his first half-marathon (the poor bastard). He was having trouble working his watch(!), so I helped him out. I set it to the CHRONO feature and advised, "When the gun goes BOOM, hit this button. Then keep up with her, and when she tells you to, hit this one." When I asked what she (and therefore he) was planning on running, she smiled and said, "1:44 or less." He just shrugged. "Whatever she runs, I run." The poor bastard.
Did I mention that CR always starts with a Howitzer? This year was no exception - KER-BOOM went the cannon, and everyone jumped, and away we went.
The first mile is a steep downhill, it's always congested, and the roads, well, suck. As I ran along looking for my own little happy place and good pavement, I was pointing out obstacles (cracks, holes, discarded NCAA brackets). I do this because in my first marathon in 1996, less than one mile in, I rolled my right ankle and face-planted because I stepped in a crevasse in the road that the 4,912 (or so) runners ahead of me managed to miss. Because I've got mad skills, I nailed that sucker. So now I point.
"Man, you must be a cyclist." I heard from behind me. I looked back to smile at whomever it was who got me, and there was Bill Donnelly - one of my Dragon Boat Teammates who'd asked me back in December, 'Hey, you running Caesar Rodney?' We had exchanged one email about it since, so I figured the odds were against running into him - and there he was at my side, less than ¼ mile in. What luck!
I told Bill that I was going to be smart today. He seemed stunned, probably because in the 3 years he's paddled and trained with me, I'm not entirely sure he's ever seen me do anything that could be mistaken for intelligent behavior. "That's good!" he praised. "I've got no problem with that. This pace is good."
We settled in, and clicked off a bunch of 8:15's, then a few 8:20's. As we started to climb back towards center city and the 5 mile mark, I could see Bill's body English was starting to 'pogo' a bit. I've seen this plenty of times; it's worth noting that Bill is about my height (6 feet), but a good 20 pounds lighter. Bill is truly built like a runner. I am built like the USS Nimitz. So when a true runner is hanging out with an aircraft carrier and the pace begins to slow? Said fast runner will start to 'pogo' up and down with diverted momentum.
I told Bill, "Whenever you feel like going, just go. Don't worry about me - I've got a much bigger week ahead of me." He said he'd see how he felt at mile 5, and decide then. By mile 6, Bill's figure was cutting a rapid ascent through the field ahead of me, and I'd slowed to 8:40's on the long, long climb (over 3 miles worth). It was fine - I was sticking to my plan. Test the pace, test the nutrition.
Actually, I'm lying about the nutrition part. I didn't mean to not test my nutrition, but as I stood there on the start line in my DST-jet-lagged-stupor I thought, "I didn't buy those gels yesterday, so I didn't pack them, so what exactly have I got today?" So as I shuffled up towards the highest point on the course, I was able to think, "Now would be a great time for a gel. Memo to myself - remember the gel."
It was somewhere on this interminable climb I first heard him. Male, older - maybe in his 60's. His breaths were strong, loud, rhythmic. As I closed in on him, they started to sound much weirder. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, the lack of calories, the DST change, or a perfect storm of the above, but as I caught and passed this heavy-breathing man, I noticed that on each breath he was moaning. Really, really moaning. And in one of those moments where my mind was unable to defend itself from itself, I inexplicably thought, "He sounds like a geriatric porno film."
In the 1/1000th of a second that followed that thought, I knew I had to think about ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD IMMEDIATELY, before my right brain could do some imaginary, yet irreparable, damage. So I took off as fast as I could manage up the remaining grade, making sure to note that if I was going to put this in my race report, I made sure that I have NO EXPERIENCE with geriatric porn, it was just a confluence of sound that came to mind. Okay? Okay? Seriously. I'm not even going to Google and find out if such a thing exists. I don't want to know. I don't NEED to know.
I truged along, one foot in front of the other. Near the top of the climb, I had to step off course and hide behind a tree to heed the call of nature (must have been the extra French Roast). As I waited for my bladder to finish.unbelievably, I heard Pornoman moan and gasp his way past me, again.
Not only was I really grossed out, but I realized that I was running so slowly, I couldn't drop the guy. I made a point of running one good mile, and motoring away from Pornoman as fast as I could. By mile 9 I was on the out-and-back portion of the course, and I could see that most of the free world appeared to be ahead of me. My stomach was starting to act up (specifically, that dang lower GI of mine), so now I was trying to make time on an empty stomach, while running with tightly held cheeks, a feat of complex gleut work that has taken me years to perfect.
It was at this point on my mental checklist I noticed that there were decidedly more check boxes in the "Bad Day" column than the "Good Day" column. I knew that unless things improved, the mere thought of having to run another 13.1 miles at the end of these 13.1 could be near the "long walk home" category unless something came along to cheer me up.
."You're just a minute back! Just one minute back!" She called out.
Could it be? Could he be right there? "Carper is just up the road!" she cried. This woman at the side of the road was there last year, too, calling out the same thing. Carper is the last name of Delaware Senator Thomas Carper, my perennial target at this race. When he was Governor of Delaware, it had taken me three tries to finally beat him. He's run the race an astounding 25 times in a row (it's been held 44), and even in his mid-60's, clocks a 1:45-1:50 consistently.
Right in my ballpark. Last year I'd chased him for 2 miles, making the pass for good at mile 11. If he was close - if he was only a minute up the road, I could make that up in 3 miles. With the descent to come, 20 seconds per mile? I could do it.
"Is he that close? Just a minute?" I asked?
"Wait, umm, no. Now it's more like 3 minutes back." She mused, hands held wide in the international gesture for, "Sorry!"
What little spark of motivation I had disappeared with a barely audible "poof" sound, and I settled into the last 3 miles before me. As I tried to make time, I realized that I was running downhill a full 10 seconds per mile slower than I'd run up the same grade earlier in the day. On that note, I grabbed a beer from the Hash House Harriers at mile 11.but had to drop it when I remembered that while a beer could be classified as a carbohydrate (and therefore be consumed as part of my mid-race-damage-control-nutrition plan), my empty stomach might mean I'd go from zero-to-wasted in 5 ounces. Since I'd have to drive myself home, that was out. Dang!
At mile 12, the wheels officially went square. I felt like I was running with a piano tied to my waist. I kept looking back, expecting to see this Grand Steinway rumbling along the road. People were passing me left and right, and the race couldn't end soon enough.
The last ¼ mile of Caesar Rodney takes you up a 7% grade to the finish line, and as I turned onto the last slope of the day, I nearly ground to a halt. The piano around my waist was now being played by an elephant, in a tux, I was sure of it. At least he looked good.
So
at 4 miles per hour, dragging my own carnival of the animal(s) behind me, I
plodded up to the line. I could see the clock was reading 1:5something, and I
just shook my head - the streak was over. I finished in 1:54:52, knowing that
even the mere thought of running another 13.1 would not be easy or in reach
today.
I ran through the chute, shook hands with Senator Carper (he's a very sporting guy that way - he waits for the last finisher every year), and motored on towards the YMCA for a shower, and the trip home.
Nursing my sorrows in a large Vanilla shake, listening to my "After The Storm" CD I burned a few years ago (all mellow, reflective songs for when races don't go as planned), it didn't seem so bad. I'd run a race on no sleep, with no food, in the middle of a long, long cycle. The Senator got his revenge. The clock read 1:54 for the first time since 1999.
Though it took more than half of the shake to contemplate a list (or maybe that's just how long it took my blood sugar to come back), there was a lot that went right: It didn't rain. I didn't crash. I ran with Bill for a bit. I didn't run too fast. I didn't trash my legs. It wouldn't be 2005 (2005.2005.) over again. Most of all, Pornoman didn't catch me, even as I towed my Elephant Concerto for one all the way up to the line.
Another 13.1 might not be so impossible if I remember the gels next time, or at least a Pop Tart.
See you in Hopkinton.
Hurricane Bob
* There's nothing so wrong that a Vanilla Shake can't fix it. *