The 46th Caesar Rodney Half Marathon
March 15, 2009
-- Wilmington, Delaware
13.1 Mile Run.
http://www.lunginfo.org/walk-and-runs
First race of the year, with the "traditional" Spring weather we always have at this race.
Originally Published to TRI-DRS on April 3, 2009
Motivation in the winter
can be such a fickle mistress, just like the weather. I had come into this year
with the usual set of high hopes; following my PR at the marathon distance in
November, this was the year that I thought things would really take a serious
step towards my ultimate goal of making it to Hopkinton, Massachusetts for
Patriot’s Day on my own. I had a plan: Run Caesar Rodney faster than ever in
March, build the mileage through April, then run another PR at Delaware in May,
all in the greater view of running close to 3:30 in November at Philadelphia.
It was a great plan, and everything was coming together nicely. Which is why I
never saw the changes coming. As Baz Luhrmann says – it was the kind of thing
that blindsides you on 4:00PM on some idle Tuesday. On January 26th,
I found out that my company was being acquired by another. There were press
releases, simulcasts, and plenty of talking heads chatting up the benefits and
pitfalls of such an uber-merger.
Lost in the middle of all that chatter was the fact that 15,000 to 20,000 of us
were going to lose our jobs. In the span of 24 hours I went from wondering just
how fast I could run, to having to start dealing with real life: If I lose my
job, are we okay? How will this play out? How long will I have?
Suddenly, running from point A to point B suddenly lost all allure. As a matter
of fact, everything did. For the next few weeks I went into a deep fog – way
deeper than the usual self-induced, recovery-based fog I spend most of my time
in. There were some days I brought a workout bag in, and it would just sit
there. The time would come to get some miles in, and I just didn’t care.
I knew if I could just get up and run – even for 3-4 miles, I’d feel better…but
I just couldn’t summon the energy. There was always something to do – another
task to finish, another project to move along. My training diary read like a
seismometer on Kiluea – 9, 15, 30, 17, 3, 22, 8 miles of running per week. Less
on the bike. Freeweights and core work, here and there at best. I did swim
once, but I’m pretty sure it was by accident.
I was slowly turning into someone I never wanted to be – the has-been
desk-jockey. The guy who used to run, but now had so much work to do, he was
too busy getting fat and complaining about the weather. The scale wasn’t
changing – yet – but I knew I needed to get my stuff together and get outside
before it was too late.
About the merger, I knew I couldn’t do anything about it. I heard lots of great
advice from friends, and especially St. Lynda – friends who had survived similar
mass-mergers. They all told me that I had to find some peace; to trust in the
work that I’d done over the past 9 years, and that hopefully that body of work
would speak for me when judgment day comes. I had to ignore the rumors – the
endless speculation that usually comes with such a thing; it’s like a cloud that
hangs over everything.
Unfortunately, even when I did get out and run, I could tell my body wasn’t the
same. Or maybe my body was the same, but my head was completely out in left
field. I’ve always felt that we have a limited amount of personal energy, and
you can look at it like a well. Your job takes a bucket or two. Your family
responsibilities take another two. Your training, it takes whatever you give
it. The well might get drained from overuse, but if you rest for a day or two,
it’ll always slowly fill back up.
The problem is that something like this…it just quietly drains the well,
insidiously, every day. The water is lower than ever before you’ve reached for
it. That reserve of energy I had in September and October that let me
accelerate at mile 16 of 20 was now gone. Every long run was a struggle just to
finish, and I knew why.
Despite my desire to want to run faster, I’ve had to accept that I’m human –
I’ve got limits to what I can do right now. I have to be happy with what I
have, and not worry about what’s coming. I will prepare for it, and roll with
it. It’s no different than having a race plan, and then having to improvise
when it goes completely haywire.
You don’t stop racing just because you’ve been detoured.
I’m still working. I don’t know for how long, but I’m still here now. I still
have a fantastic CV of running routes from 3 to 22 miles, mostly on insanely
hilly, low-traffic roads. Just three miles from here I can start a climb that
takes me up nearly 800 feet, and run along the ridgeline to Valley Forge Park.
When I thought about the things that I’d miss if I lost my job, THIS was what
tweaked me the most. “It’s taken me nine years to find great running routes! I
don’t want to do that all over again!”
So even though I could only get out there every other week, I did what I could.
Those runs in January and February were something; they were my escape: My
sanity check, and just enough so that when March rolled around, I thought, yeah
– I’ll give Caesar Rodney a whirl.
If you’ve been reading my columns for a few years, you’ve read about this race
before. It’s the oldest Half-Marathon around the Mid-Atlantic, in its 46th
year – this would be my 10th time to test myself on the hills of
Brandywine and Rockford Park. The PR I ran on this course in 2001 would stand
for 5 years, and last year I’d come close to toppling it, but not quite – missed
it by 17 seconds.
To add fuel to the minimal smolder of fitness and form that I was bringing to
the table, I’d actually seen my triathlon discussion list somehow parlay a range
of bets on my expected finish time. Their intentions were good: All proceeds
would benefit my friend Tony Lyons on a marathon swim he’d be doing for charity
two weeks after my race (http://www.marathonswim.com).
It was simple: Run fast, make Tony some money.
Most of the bets would only payoff if I ran under 1:42:59.
And what, pray tell, was the fastest Caesar Rodney I’d ever run?
That would be 1:43:14. In
2001, while in the middle of training for my 5th Ironman in 4 years.
Race day dawned traditionally March-like. Grey, overcast, damp, dank, drizzly,
but otherwise, bright and cheery. Like a Soviet submarine, only without the
fumes. I lined up near the front row, figuring I’d need to put as much time in
the bank as I possibly could on the steep descent of mile 1. When the cannon
went off (setting off the usual din of car alarms – another CR tradition), I was
close enough to the line to run right into the cloud of smoke.
As I plunged down towards the waterfront, I thought about my race plan: Hard
first mile, patient second mile through the neighborhood, then whatever pace I
ran for mile 3 – that’d be the pace to hold until the park. Once I got to the
park, don’t panic – climb with control, sustain. Then try to return to the mile
3 pace for the out-and-back to mile 10, leaving me with just the last 5K to
basically run myself inside-out on the descent to the finish.
Of course, there was the last 400M drag up a 7% grade to the finish line, but I
figured by the time I got there, it’d be simple – On the limit, all the way up.
Mile 1 – 7:30.
Mile 2 – 7:58.
Mile 3 – 7:38.
There it was – call it 7:40. I knew I was going to suffer today, but I could
handle that. What I lacked in mileage, I would make up with experience. It was
the only thing I could do, really. It’s easy to choose your weapon when you’ve
only got one to choose from.
I cruised the next 3 miles to the park, and then hit the long climb to Rockford
Tower. Mile 5 passed in 7:39, right on the money, but now I knew I’d have to be
patient. I didn’t look at the watch – I listened to my breathing. As soon as
it suddenly jumped up from controlled breaths to quicker pants, that was the
limit – I was at threshold. Using my own breathing as a rev-limiter, I stayed
patient and ignored whoever was passing me. Amazingly, there weren’t many – I
was holding fast. Well, not fast, more like moderato, but you get the idea.
8:10, 8:17, 8:12. For once, I didn’t have to stop and heed the call of nature
at the same tree I’d used in years past, and I knew that meant 40 seconds I
would definitely want to keep in my pocket for later. As the climb ended and we
passed the tower, the drizzle turned into a light shower, the skies turned
darker, but it actually felt good – after the climb, I was pretty warm.
When I hit the 10-mile mark, I was pleasantly surprised – I thought it was going
to be mile 9. I was absolutely gobsmacked when I saw the sign – I thought it
was a mistake. I’d spent the previous few minutes getting psyched up for “4
more miles…” Now only having to run 3 was a welcome relief! This also let me
know I was running pretty ‘effing hard. To pass a big sign with a “9” on it,
and then forget about it less than 8 minutes later? Yep – that means you’re
running hard.
The clock read 1:18:54 as I passed through 10 miles. I tried to do the math,
but I kept getting answers like “Apogee, Max Q, Waltzing Matilda, 45, 1.34
Newtons, Hike!” I kept it simple – I had to finish under 1:43. I was basically
at 1:19. Call it 24 minutes for the last 3 miles. I could do that! Oh, wait,
isn’t there an extra 0.10 in there? Uphill? Sure there is. Ack. This is
going to be close.
When I entered the park, I saw my nemesis – Senator Tom Carper
(D-DE-Fast-As-Heck). We had battled in this race plenty of times. Nine times,
actually - Every time I’ve run it, he’s run it. That’s because this was his 26th
year at Caesar Rodney in a row. Out of our 9 duels, he’d won 4, but last year
I’d taken my 5th. When I saw him heading out to the turnaround, I
knew I’d have number 6 in the bag. I yelled out, “Good job, Senator!”
He looked up, grunted acknowledgement, and moved on down the road. Maybe he
didn’t think I was being sincere. Or maybe, like anyone else in his position (I
mean on the course – not as the esteemed gentleman from the First State), he
didn’t want to hear a bloody word from someone who was miles ahead.
When I hit the descent, I knew that after nearly 90 minutes of running, the pain
would be over soon. I knew I’d have to really nail the next few miles to have a
shot at 1:42, and give Tony all the money people had promised him. I took those
two things, and just held one in each hand – one good thing in each hand. I
leaned into the descent, and just let me legs fly the best that they could.
Mile 11 – 7:39.
Mile 12 – 7:20. This would be my fastest mile of the day.
Now I was on the last stretch along the river. After the storm of miles 5
through 12, after all the climbing and descending, this stretch runs flat for
half a mile. It’s the last chance you have to get ready for the turn to the
line – the 180° pivot that kills your momentum, and leaves you at the bottom of
the eternal grind, staring up at the line.
I heard the guy behind me say, “This is gonna’ hurt something fierce…”
I chirped back, “Yes, but get ready for it. Get psyched to suffer. Take your
pain!”
I’m pretty sure I heard a, “Whatever, dude…” Must have been a Lost fan – he
even sounded like Hurley. Regardless, I got ready. I knew I was close. I knew
that I just needed to fight my way up the grade, and I might just do this. I
knew I had Tony counting on me, and I didn’t want to come this close and blow it
because I caved.
The corner came up, I dropped my head, and even though there was no saddle to be
found…I got out of the saddle and just buried myself. My teeth went numb
immediately – one of my body’s cleverer tells when I’m completely anaerobic.
“Good timing…” my brain slurred…
I kept looking up at the banner, and it wasn’t moving. I knew it wouldn’t be
long – I just had to keep going. I saw “MILE 13” hastily spray-chalked across
the road – less than 1/10th to go now. I took a split, and nearly
missed my own watch. 7:39.
With that split, race time was 1:41:39…but I couldn’t see that. I had more than
enough.
But I kept on thrashing, straining, and pulling everything. When I could
finally see Rodney Square and the line, I saw on the official clock that I was
going to make it. I didn’t smile, but I was so relieved, I floated those last
awful strides. I crossed the line in 1:42:21 – my fastest Caesar Rodney, ever,
beating my 2001 time by 53 seconds.
And I HURT. When I stopped to take my chip off, everything cramped. My calves,
my hamstrings, my quads, and even, inexplicably, my forehead. I knew I had to
keep moving, so I started jogging towards the YMCA and the always-welcome,
post-race shower. I fought through the cramps (must’ve been the sudden stop),
but the soreness was already there. That has to be some kind of record. For
DOMS (Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness), doesn’t there usually need to be a delay?
My earlier guess played out – I would remain sore until the following Friday.
Every single muscle hurt – even my core. I was proud of that, though. It meant
I’d used everything – every part of my being carried me. Not sure why the
forehead thing happened, but I’ll blame that on my shades having rested on my
hat the entire way…with the rain and all, it must have just been too much.
Right. Sure.
But that race showed me something. Even with a minimum of training, you’ve
probably got more than you think you’ve got. I’m disappointed that I can’t have
that laser-focus, super-disciplined year, cranking out the 40-50+ mile weeks
it’ll take for me to get to Boston, but I’m okay with that. When that time
comes, I want to be able to enjoy it – every part. With everything I’m dealing
with now, I won’t force it. I’ll do what I can to keep moving this year, keep
that base fitness there, and move that boulder just a little bit farther up the
hill.
I’ve signed up for the Delaware Marathon just the same. If I can put together a
couple of long runs over the next 5 weeks, I’ll be ready. Even if I’m not all
that ready, I’ve run farther on less – I’ll be just fine. Another PR won’t be
in the cards, but that’ll be okay.
As long as I can keep moving through these next few months, I’ll be alright.
Plus, I need to keep some kind of speed in these legs. I told our head of HR a
few weeks ago, “The day you come for me, I just want you to know, I’m putting on
my shoes. If you catch me…”
In this economy, that might not be a bad plan.
Hurricane Bob
* Just Keep Running... *