PDR 2007

The 2007 Philadelphia Distance Run
September 16, 2007 -- Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

On September 17, 2006, I ran what I considered to be the greatest race of my running life. On a threadbare training plan, sleep-deprived, and without speedwork of any kind, I broke a 5-year old PR for the Half Marathon at the Philadelphia Distance Run. I ran a 1:42:52, and never saw it coming. The last tenth of a mile - when I knew I had it in the bag - was the most electric moment I'd felt since 2002 (when I broke my marathon PR).

364 days have passed since running that race, but I've thought about it nearly every day. I had no business running a PR. I wasn't in shape for it. I hadn't really trained to run that well. The only reason it happened was because I went out at a pace I couldn't possibly handle, and then proceeded to handle it. Amusement turned to fear, which turned to focus, and then for the last 2 miles when the whole possibility hung in the balance, I just willed it to be so.

When I posted the race report, Debi Bernardes wrote back to me, "This isn't the end of it. I ran my best races in my late 30's and early 40's. I bet you get under 1:40 by the time you turn 40." That was a laugh - I'd had to kill myself to get a 20-second improvement; another two minutes was simply too much to even consider.

This year has been more solid for me than 2006 was. I ran my best marathon in 5 years at Boston, even managing a negative split while running into a Nor'easter. I finished my 10th Tupper Lake Tinman in the best time I've had since 2002, and even made the top-10 at the Wilkes-Barre Triathlon with an 8th place.

So I had the base. I started running speedwork sessions in early August. My legs started to come back to where they'd been on the way to Boston. As race day approached, I actually tapered a bit. I focused on getting the rights foods into me from Thursday through Saturday. I even had a massage on Friday.

The weather forecast just added to the picture coming together: It was forecast to be cool, windless, and sunny. Nearly no humidity, and start-time temperatures in the 50's.

I was brimming with confidence. I knew I was going to have a good race - I just knew it. I went so far as to tell St. Lynda on Saturday night, "I'm either going to PR tomorrow, or drop out at mile 4." I said it, and I meant it. There was just no question - tomorrow was going to be fast.

At the same time, I was well aware of the last time I'd been this confident heading into a race: Boston 2005. I was so sure, so, so sure that I was going to PR at Boston that year, I never gave the possibility of failure a second thought.

Not only did I not run a PR, but my collapse and subsequent simultaneous implosion and explosion was so impressive, even guys on the International Space Station could see it. I was left crying on Boylston Street, arriving a full 55 minutes behind schedule. It was such a humbling, crushing experience, I would never run without keeping in mind that such a collapse was possible, even under the best of circumstances.

Even if you have all the elements lined up; even if you've done all the training to bring your body and mind into the laser-sharp focus you need, the thing about running on the edge is that it takes so very little to send you tumbling off.

My race plan was a simple one. Slow first mile, accelerate a bit during mile 2, and then hang on from there. Debi added some timing elements to help me, "Have your coffee 2 hours pre-race, to make sure it's gone before you start." In 2006, I'd needed a pit stop at mile 5. That stop cost me 25 seconds - if I could make it through this race without stopping, that was free time.

My estimated finish time was 1:44, which had put me in corral 4 of 17. I managed to get in the corral before the rush was on and lined up on the left side, right near the front. If things went well, I'd cross the timing mats at the start line in a little over a minute. For the rest of the time, I sat down and just relaxed the best that I could.

I was ready. The weather was perfect. I said to myself, "If you don't race like a dipsh*t today, in less than 2 hours, you're going to break a record you thought you'd never break. 364 days isn't never, is it?"

There were speeches. Dignitaries. Mayor John Street telling the assembled field of 12,000 runners to, "Enjoy your day of recreation!" Whatever. Let's go, let's go, let's go.

The cannon fired, and the masses started moving. Right on plan my corral hit the timing mats in 55 seconds, and then it was finally time to go. I settled into a stride right away, and hugged the left side of the road. The crowds in the early miles are always nerve-wracking. The narrow streets and tight pack really make for some nervous running; the positive is that the tight pack also keeps you from running too quickly. I just concentrated on the road (what I could see), and keeping my breathing under control.

Mile 1 came up, and I squeaked through in 7:59. "That's 10 seconds in the bank..." I thought, as my opening mile in 2006 had been an 8:10. Heading past City Hall, making the left onto Market Street, now that my legs were up to speed, it was time to really go. Throttles up, 12.1 miles remaining.

The blast down Market Street is slightly downhill, and directly into the morning sun. PDR is the only race I know I can run without sunglasses; aside from this stretch, it's generally run in shadows because of the early start time (7:45AM). I pulled my hat down, and focused on keeping my arms loose. My legs fluid. My breathing, easy. I was running faster - mile 2 would tell me if it was fast enough.

Mile 2 - 7:24. "Oh, sh*t." Yup, fast enough. It didn't feel bad, so despite the absurd pace, I let it go. I knew mile 3 would balance things out - we'd be heading back up Walnut Street, uphill as much as Market was down. "Relax - this feels good. Just take what your legs are giving you." I thought. Sure enough, the tight pack and slight drag up Market did slow things back to normal - I passed mile 3 in 7:43, and the 5K in just over 23 minutes.

"Dude, your 5K PR is 22:30. You missed it by 34 seconds. I reckon you're running fast enough." My thoughts weren't worrisome - just trying to keep things in perspective, I guess. "10 miles to go. Hey, if you run 7:30's from here, you'll be done in an hour and fifteen minutes." And that, as they say, was that.

Back onto the Ben Franklin Parkway at mile 4, and right past the point where I knew I wouldn't drop out. 7:24. The first chapter of PDR was done; I should explain that I divide the race into three chapters. Chapter 1: The Start, The Traffic, and the Downtown Loop. Chapter 2: West River Drive to Falls Bridge, mile 4 to mile 9. Chapter 3: Kelly Drive, mile 9 to the finish. I was now headed to West River Drive. The crowd was thinning out. The pavement would be nearly perfect from here to the end. The next 4 miles would be flat, shaded, and steady.

As we descended to the Drive, I felt totally in control. My breathing was as relaxed as it was when I ran 9:00 miles around the office loop. My body had elevated to the pace, and now I just had to hang on. So far, so good.

Mile 6 - 7:33. Past Strawberry Mansion Bridge, and the Dragon Boat Starting Line. At the water station at mile 6.5, I took my first cup of water of the race. I needed to chase down my one GU - the only nutrition I would need all day.

I was halfway now, and was nearly a minute under PR pace, "You've been running for 49 minutes. If you can run another 10K like that one, you might get 1:40..." I just let that thought stop right frickin' there. It was good enough to be on PR pace - I knew that getting greedy now was too soon, too soon! "Just run this mile - we'll think about THAT thing at Falls Bridge."

Mile 7 - Another 7:37. I'm nothing, if not consistent. "No quicker, no slower. Just stay right here - take what your legs are giving you."

Mile 8 - 7:31. When I saw the "MILE 8" sign way up the road, I looked down - my watch was reading 59:59. When I took the split, my race time was 1:00:33. I thought it was funny that I'd basically been running at 8 miles an hour - a speed I could run intervals in, but with lots of recovery. I had never, ever been so fast. Falls Bridge was coming - soon Chapter 2 would be done, and if I could keep this up, Chapter 3 could be the best miles of my life.

Around the bend, and passing beneath the giant concrete arches of the Route 1 Bridges - the gateway to Falls Bridge. I've been here 6 times before, but never so soon. Up the sharp little rise that put me into the red last year, this time without any drama. Past the bagpiper who stands here every year, his pipes echoing off of the steel beams above and below. I don't even know what he was playing - I just know that I've got about 4 miles to go now. Just 4 miles!

I feel like I haven't been running that long, and I haven't - when mile 9 comes up, it's another 7:30. The race clock is only at 1:08. I'm not Bob. Bob doesn't run this fast, or at least, he never used to. I might have no idea who I am, but I don't doubt it for one second that what I'm doing is something to hold onto. It's a once-in-a-lifetime race, and so far, I've run it for all I'm worth.

Chapter 2 is done - now it's time to seal the deal. Barring a fall, a cramp, an injury, a motorcycle coming onto the course while riding in the wrong direction, a meteor shower, or an airstrike, 1:42:52 should fall. And perhaps, just perhaps, under 1:40 is possible. Okay, so a few of those are unlikely, but nothing - NOTHING - is guaranteed until the banner passes over your head, and the timing mat goes, "Beep!"

The nicest part about turning onto Kelly Drive is the shade. Even on a hot day, the rising sun doesn't clear the rock walls to the East until 9:45AM or so. That means it's like entering an air conditioned room, and that's a boost that always helps. "Four to go - run 'em one at a time, and lets try to get them all under 7:30." Last year I'd picked up the pace on this stretch, running 10, 11, 12, and 13 as my fastest miles of the race.

Last year, I thought about the "Record Board" in my imagination - that posted board on the wall, where all the Personal Records are kept. The paint for "HALF MARATHON" is still white, shiny, and new...but it might not last. I imagined two guys in work clothes, standing at the base of the board.

"What are we doing here? Isn't it kinda' soon? The race isn't over yet. This is bad, bad luck." says one.
"Yeah, but maybe the thought of being here might keep him moving, you never know..." says the other.

As they're standing there trying not to look up at the board, say anything more, or do anything that might be a jinx, another guy walks in. He whistles to himself as he picks up the ladder, paint can, and brush, and walks away.

The new guy smiles and says, "No, no, fellas. He didn't blow it. Hell, he's done everything today BUT blow it. Do you guys remember Broad Street, 1998?" The other two look up, tilting their heads like a pair of twin puppies trying to understand a question.

"Righto," replies new guy. "1:16:39." And then he just smiled. He just let the moment hang, allowing time and the nature of human thought to put it together. The other guys look at their watches, and it hits them just like it hit me when I was writing down my splits at home that night. I didn't know it, but I'd just broken a nine year old PR that I'd set on a downhill course, in a 10-mile road race.

"Gotta' get this done now. If he keeps this up, you guys are gonna' need this ladder pretty soon." Says new guy, grinning with each brushstroke.

Mile 11 passes in 7:28 - still under 7:30. "Two to go - TWO TO GO." It was here last year that I finally had to admit to myself that a PR was possible. This year, not only do I know it's possible, but now I can look at 1:40 as well. The time that Debi said I could run - the time that only fast people run - it was right there. RIGHT there.

"You need two more 7:30's, and 1:40 is a done deal." It was very simple. I just had to keep it right here - just hang on for 2 more miles...

I knew I could do it. I just knew I could do it. It wasn't arrogance; it wasn't overconfidence. It was belief. I had told myself I was going to do something, and I was simply doing it. I knew it - every part of me knew it. As I ran the tangents up Kelly Drive, I thought back to what had happened along here in 2006. I thought about how in a desperate race I'd needed all the help I could imagine, and called on a few lost relatives to help.

This year, at the same place, the same space opened up on the road before me. An opening big enough for 4 cyclists to fit, and even when I cut across the road to the right, it stayed. People just parted in front of me. I didn't ask for it, I didn't know I needed it, but it sure didn't hurt.

Maybe I'd started to hold my breath. Maybe I'd started to kick just that much, too soon. Who knows how a side-stitch begins, but once it does, it can get very bad, very fast. I'd just passed mile 12 - I was approaching the biggest hill on the course. It would be a half-mile uphill drag, then a long drive to the line.

I tried to run through it, and I couldn't. It blasted from left to right - instantly crippling. My mind started racing. Alarm bells and red lights everywhere. "You've got to run through this! You've got to run through this!" It wasn't panic, but I knew this was bad. I'd come so far, fought through so much, and this was the moment that would define the race. I had to get rid of this thing, and there was only one way to do it.

The command from my brain was instant. It flew in the face of everything this day had been, but I knew I had no choice. I broke stride for the first time since Mile 0, and slowed my breathing down the best that I could. I watched my watch tick away; for 20 seconds, people passed me...I just let them go.

As soon as 20 seconds had passed, I took off. Just like running my 800's on a Tuesday afternoon; the short break had been all the recovery my legs needed. The stitch wasn't gone, but it was slowly fading. I made sure to keep breathing in and out; I probably sounded like a one-man Lamaze class headed past Boathouse Row. "Knee drive, knee drive...push, push, push!" I tried to keep my form strong, and my body light. The climb up to the Art Museum is only 25 vertical feet; a bump you barely even notice when you run it in training. But coming at the end of 13 hard miles, it's just mean.

But I was handling it. I was passing back some of the folks that had passed me during my walk; I was moving faster than I had all day. As the rise finally slipped behind me, I knew I'd dodged the bullet of the race. Less than a half-mile to go, no more hills, and the stitch was gone. I just had to bring it home. I passed mile 13 in 7:24 - even with the walk break and the uphill, it was my fastest mile of the day.

As I cruised towards Eakins Oval I looked up the road for the finish line...but it wasn't there. This struck me as odd, because it's not like the finish line is in a different place, is it?

This year instead of finishing back on the Parkway, the course made a right behind Eakins Oval, and then another hard right INTO the oval itself. But since I hadn't really looked at the updated course map, I didn't know that. Which is why as I was motoring up the Parkway, I was very confused to see a barricade across the road where the finish line used to be.

"What? Where Finish Line? Where GO?!" For some reason (oxygen debt, perhaps), I was so confused, I went caveman. Then I saw the guy ahead of me do a double-take, and turn right. I followed him (it wasn't like I had a choice), and for two or three horrible seconds, had absolutely no idea where we were running. I thought, "If I lose this because I got LOST..." My proudest moment - my best running in years, was borderline Charlie Foxtrot...

But with the next right turn onto the Oval and towards the Art Museum steps, the panic, fear, and pain left my body all at once.

It was there at that moment I saw the huge blue banner beneath a perfect blue sky, and knew I'd done it. Not only was I going to break 1:40, but I was going to shatter it. The race clock was still in the 1:39's, so I was going to get it on the official clock as well - including my start time!

Who can say what makes someone fast. Is it a physical gift? Is it the ability to take pain? Is it the power to concentrate and shut out everything else? Is it the focus one has to close out the mind, and let the body do its best? Or perhaps the same focus to make the body listen to the mind, to go somewhere it has never been?

I don't have the answer. I may never have the answer. But for those final seconds on that perfect Sunday morning, I found MY answer. I simply said I was going to do something, and then went out and did it. I didn't doubt. I didn't second guess. I didn't look in the mirror and judge the reflection as, "Too slow, too fat." For this morning, for this race, for the first time in 36 years, I left all that self-defeating shit behind, and set myself free.

I left all the doubts, the negative thoughts, and the pain behind. All those times I'd said, "Oh, I can't. I'm not a runner. Never will be..." They were nowhere near me. They couldn't touch me. All because I finally stood up and said they couldn't.

1 hour, 38 minutes, and 54 seconds. A new Personal Record by 3 minutes and 58 seconds. It meant I finished 1,502nd out of 11,148 runners, my best placing ever at this race.

The next day, when I posted my splits to the TRI-DRS list, Joe Bator - a many time Boston Qualifier and BAA member wrote to me, "Welcome to the club. You're one of the fast guys now. Incredible!"

I have the Philadelphia Marathon coming up in 8 weeks. I have no idea if I'll break my marathon PR there; I might not. But I can tell you this: When I line up at the start line, it won't be with the same doubts, fear, and dread. It won't be with that feeling of not being worthy because I'm not one of the fast guys. Because now, I am one of the fast guys.