The 45th Caesar Rodney Half Marathon
March 9, 2008
-- 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 19, 2008
As I made my way through Brandywine Park, I was
strangely thankful for the hills. After 6 miles of fighting crosswinds,
headwinds, and wind chills in the mid-teens, to finally be able to generate some
heat was a welcome relief. Sure, that heat was the result of the looming 1.5
mile long beast that wound its way like a serpents tail up to Rockford Tower,
but warm was warm. I'll take toasty pain over cold pain, every time.
This was my 9th time running Caesar Rodney, and this one had me officially
nervous. Not because of the weather (it was cold, but dry), and not because of
the hills (they were steep, but I'd run them before). No, it was the time, or
more specifically, the time that had passed since I'd last raced. The near
six-month layoff from my injury in September to now was the longest of my
career.
I was running without pain, and I'd had some strong runs recently, but running
well for 4 or 5 miles is not the same as 13.1 miles. This run was going to be my
Contre La Montre - A Race of Truth. I was going to go out hard, settle, and hang
on. If I made it to the end, great! If I didn't, at least I'd know how much work
I had to do.
The first mile had been a 7:33 that felt bad. Then came a 7:50 that felt worse.
"Too fast, too soon..." So I stopped in the middle of mile 3 for a 21-second pee
break (even though I'd stopped drinking 2 hours pre-race, phooey), and reminded
myself, "Take what your legs are giving you - no more." Through the flat miles
of 3-4, I found a decent groove in the 7:50 range, and that felt right.
I'd
said pre-race that a 1:50 or below would be great, but on my triathlon
discussion email list, much chatter ensued. So now the party line was 1:45, and
I was well aware that 8's would net me a 1:44:48. 7:50's would do just fine,
thankyouverymuch, especially with the climbs finally here. I knew I'd be giving
back some time, but I'd been on this course so many times before, I knew not to
panic. "You'll get it back - just don't give it all away now."
The hills started, and I did my best to settle in with the pain. The bare trees
offered little in the way of shelter; the wind was whistling through the barren
branches in Brandywine Park, giving the steady gale a sinister, low whistle.
Spring is still weeks away from these parts, but that's okay. Unlike the skinny,
fast guys, at 192 pounds and 6 feet of Sicilian angst, it takes a lot to move
me.
I tilted into the wind and the grade, and thought about being powerful. Steady.
Strong. As the road steepened, I started to move up. One person every few
strides, but I was definitely moving up.
Mile 6 - false flat in 7:52.
Mile 7 - over the steep lower slopes in 8:18.
I knew the summit would come after mile 9, so I just did my best to stay where I
was. "Don't panic - keep breathing. Loose hands. Relaxed shoulders. Get up on
your toes, and pedal. Power, power, power. Nice and smooth. Nice and smooth." I
knew if I could just take a little more this way, I would have the out-and-back
on the top of the park, and then the long, sweet descent back to mile 12.
Of course, there was that last 400 meter stretch to the finish line at 7%, but
anyone can suffer for 400 meters. At least, that's what I kept telling myself.
By now, the pace was definitely starting to overload certain systems - a sign
that I was running about as fast as my body could go. What systems? Let's just
say that the phrase, "Sh*t happens," was pretty close to happening, but I could
hold it. I'd had some cramps on the start line, but I just ignored them. What
else could I do?
Mile 8 - 8:29. The climb is at its steepest now, but the tower is coming soon.
I've always wanted to get past the tower before the leaders were coming back,
but that didn't happen this time. I came within about 3 minutes, so maybe next
year...
"Two Chapters down - one to go." In 2006 at the Philadelphia Distance Run, I
divided the race into three, 4-mile chapters, with the final 1.1 miles to the
line coming as a coda of power to the line. It made the race easy to work
through, and here the case was the same. Just a 4-mile run now, like any
lunchtime run.
And this, my friends, is how we try to lie to ourselves. Race after race, time
after time. You don't think about the miles to come when you're at the beginning
- you just focus on what you've got to do right now, and let the race happen.
You don't run 13 miles - you run 1 mile, 13 times. It's a game - a charade. A
fan dance to hide the truth from the hope that keeps you moving.
You have desire, and you have fear. You want to be fast, but it hurts. So to get
through the pain you tell yourself it won't hurt for long. You tell yourself the
next mile will get better. You just keep yourself busy, and the race just
happens. Once you get inside the final 30 minutes of anything, you can start
thinking about the end: There are few forces in racing that will help you find
power you didn't know you had, quite like the scent of a finish line.
Over the final summit at Rockford Tower - Mile 9 - 8:08.
"Cruise the out and back, and then TT the descent. You'll get it all back." I
was behind my 1:44 pace by a mere 16 seconds. I knew if I didn't race like a
dipsh*t in the last 4 miles, I would have my 1:44. But I had to admit now that I
had another number in mind - 1:43:14.
In 2001 I ran a PR on this course that would stand for 6 years. That time was
set after 4 Ironman races in 3 years. That time was set when training could take
up all the time it needed. That was when I was at my best.
Until now.
I hit the turnaround, and took no water. It was still below 30F, and the wind
made it feel much worse. I'd run the 2001 race without a drink, so there was no
reason why I'd need any now. Besides, I could see the ice formed on the cups as
they'd been waiting on the tables...
Mile 10 - 7:48. Oh yeah, now we're back in business. "Cruise to the hill, then
let it fly..."
"BOB-BAY!" I didn't really know it, but I was starting to pay attention to less
and less around me. Which is why when Dave Decker managed to spot me and yell
out my name, it took me a full 2 seconds to figure it out. I looked up, to the
right (stupid, since the entire field was to my left), and then back...just in
time to see David pass the other way off my left shoulder.
He'd told me he might run an easy 2:10, but he was barely just over a mile
behind me - on pace for a sub-2:00, easily. "Way to go, Decker!" I thought. Then
I thought, "Hey. Math. It still works." A good sign. Usually for me, late race
calculations result in answers like, "The Mona Lisa? The Oort Cloud? I think so
Brain, but where are we going to find a rubber mallet and fishnet stockings at
this time of night?"
You get the idea.
Past Mile 10 - 7:48. Just 4 seconds over 1:44:48 pace now. Barring an air strike
or a fall, I know I can do this. I just need to find 90 seconds in 3 miles...
The one thing I noticed both at PDR last September and now, was how different
the field looks to me in the 1:38 - 1:43 range. There are no packs of people.
It's like Indian Running on the track - generally single file. On the descent, I
just stayed in line and followed the groove. There was no talking. For the next
half mile, I just listened to the sounds of footfalls, metered breathing, and
wind.
And I thought, "Dude. This is what the fast people do. And you're doing it.
Again." It was here I finally let a little smile appear, because now I knew that
the 1:42 in 2006 wasn't a fluke. The 1:38 in 2007 wasn't a fraud. After six
months of no racing, I was still within shouting distance of the fastest Caesar
Rodney I'd ever run.
But there was still that wind, and she wasn't giving up. Even though we'd fought
a headwind on this stretch on the way out, it was still there on the way back -
crosswind.
Mile 11 - 7:38. At one point I found myself between a guy in black to my right,
and a woman in white to my left. We'd been together for nearly 2 miles. On one
of the sweeping corners they both came together right into me - one from each
side. For three or four strides, we were hip-to-hip-to-hip, rubbing arms. Maybe
they were just cold.
I managed to say, "I love you guys, too, but can we save the hugs until Rodney
Square?"
They both chuckled, and the woman replied, "You're carrying me - I want a 1:44."
I knew we'd be close, so I said, "Just stay with me - stay on my wheel, and when
we make the turn for the square, just know that it will only hurt for 2 more
minutes."
We reached the bottom of the descent. It would be flat for a bit, and then
uphill to the line. Mile 12 had been another fast one - 7:30. My best of the
day. The clock said 1:35:12. I would need an 8:02 for the last 1.1 miles.
This was going to hurt.
But in my bag of mental tricks was a little kick I knew I might need, and I
reached for it. At 6:00AM in total, DST-changed darkness, I grumpily tossed my
running back in the backseat of my car. It was cold. It was dark. It was windy.
I was scared. "What if I suck? What if I don't have it?" Doubts are everywhere
in the winter.
But when I went to get my bag out at the parking lot, I noticed something. In
the backseat was a paper plate with 4 colored streamers stapled to it. When I'd
picked Katie up at daycare on Thursday, she held it up and said, "Daddy! I made
a KITE!" I asked her, "That's cool! What do kites do when it's windy?"
She just said, "They fly, Daddy!" So in less than one second, I knew that when
the going got rough later and the wind was totally trying to have her way with
me, I just needed to remember what kites do when the wind gets after them.
"Fly, Daddy!"
"Fly, Daddy!"
I didn't sprint. I didn't explode. I just tried to make each step a little bit
faster then the last.
"Fly, Daddy!"
I heard a voice, "Are you speeding up, or am I slowing down?" It was some guy to
my right. I replied, "The hill is coming - I'm just getting ready. If you catch
me, be nice!"
There's the corner. Hard right, soft left, onto the hill, and into the wind.
"Fly, Daddy!"
I know the clock is at the top. I know I'll see it a good 30 seconds before I
get there. I also know that I can't run any harder than I'm running right now,
so it won't matter what it says. This is 100%. I can get no faster.
"Fly, Daddy!"
Mile 13 - 7:29. Best of the day, bumping mile 12 aside.
"Fly Daddy!"
I'm moving left, to right, to left, passing people. The line is close - I can
feel it. I also have that feeling that my legs are stuck in quicksand. That my
dream is in slow-motion, and I can't run any faster. It's brutal, but I know
it's not going to be long now.
Over the ridge, I can see the square. I can see the clock. It says
1:43something.
I'm not going to make it. It's going to be close, but I know it's too far. I was
disappointed, but at the same time, I felt peace. I was going to miss it, but
not by much. Probably the pit stop at mile 3...but I had to. I'd run it close,
and this time, just come up short.
I can see the numbers now. 1:43:30...1:43:31...I know I was about 15 seconds off
the gun time, so it's going to be 15-20 seconds, little more.
"Fly Daddy!"
I cross the line in 1:43:31, 1:43:44 on the clock. 17 seconds too late. About
200 feet. I'd covered the last 1/10th of a mile in 45 seconds. Uphill, into the
wind, at 7:30 pace. Not too bad.
This is how those last 15 seconds looked:
I'm completely spent, but I can't stop moving -
it's a 1/4 mile walk back to the YMCA and what will be the greatest hot shower
I've had all day. I mindlessly grab the finishers award from a volunteer as I
keep on moving through the chute, and then start jogging towards the YMCA.
As I slowly let my legs recover with the shuffle, I hear something rattling.
It's the finishers thing. I look at it, and think, "Oh, I broke it?" It looks
like a plastic cup - a pencil holder, maybe? But there are some things in the
bottom of it floating around. I stop and look. It's then that I realize that I
have no idea what this thing is.
It's like a half-cup, half pencil holder, half modern art. It'll hold about 5
ounces of fluid, and in the lower 'rattling' part, there are 3 objects. One
miniature shoe. One miniature plastic trophy. One miniature plastic squeeze
bottle. The kind of squeeze bottle used by StairMaster climbing gym rats who are
more interested in being seen at the gym, than actually working out.
It is without a doubt, the strangest thing I've ever gotten from any race. It
out-weirds the plastic forks from Tupper lake in 1999. Or the bottle opener from
Eagleman 1997. Or the plastic massage thing from Wilkes Barre last year (at
least, I think that's what it is).
So as I shuffled towards the YMCA, I know three things:
One - I'm in better shape than I thought.
Two - I know I have my first silly gift for the TRI-DRS T-Shirt Exchange in 8
more months.
Three - The Delaware Marathon is in 6 more weeks.
Time to sign up, and see what this boy can do.
Hurricane Bob
* Fly! *