PDR 2008

The wakeup came too quickly - sleep had been far too short. The Princeton Dragon Boat Festival the day before had been much more of a drain than I'd expected: I'd raced 6 times - distances from a 200-meter anaerobic tear, to a 2000-Meter marathon. In-between, as team captain, I'd been running all over the place to check lineups, help out teams short of paddlers, update the schedule, and make sure we got down to the docks on time for each round.

By the end of the day we'd lost two Finals - one by 0.05 and another by 0.02 seconds. That hurt. All that effort, and I got to watch another team hoist a trophy and gather gold medals each time, wondering just how close that measured out in real space (worked it out to be about 3-4", if you were curious).

12 hours of running around in the sun, interrupted by 6 bursts of anaerobic liftoff. Not the best of taper plans, but at least I knew my heart and muscles would be warmed up.

Brian called me at 6:05AM. "I'm here. I'm at the start. I'm pretty sure we beat the volunteers - I see them having a meeting over on the other side of the oval."

Excellent. If it's one thing Brian and I share, it's the "arrive early and help the volunteers setup" approach. Gives you a chance to settle in, find your own space to warmup, and most importantly, you beat about 14,388 runners to the little blue boxes.

Once we'd gotten our bags checked in, we headed down Kelly Drive for a short warmup run. The plan called for the two of us to run a total of 16 miles on the day - 2 before, 1 after the finish. I was a little leery of that post-finish mile, mainly since in the past 3 years at PDR I'd crossed the line, folded up like a cheap lawn chair, and called it a week. It wasn't a race that leant itself to having anything left at the end.

And why should it? Since 2005, the Philadelphia Distance Run had become my personal Bonneville Salt Flats. I'd broken my Half Marathon PR there in 2006 and 2007, and set two PR's in the 2007 race - 10 miles and 13.1. On this Sunday, the weather was once again perfect; clear skies, no wind, temps in the low 50's. Fast weather. Would I have fast legs, again?

We lined up in corral 3 (out of 15), with predicted start times of under 1:40. This would be our mid-semester exam on our way to Philadelphia on November 23; to know if we had even the slightest chance of running a qualifier in November, we'd need to be close to 1:30 today. That would mean an 8-minute PR for me.

After the gun fired we only had to wait 50 or so seconds to cross the start line, and we found open space right away on the left side. This would be a 'fast but controlled' mile. Fast enough to get us moving well, but with lots of room to pick it up. In 2006 I'd covered it in 8:10, in 2007, 7:59. I'd turned my watch over so I'd have no idea of the time until I got to that marker. As it came into sight, I had a bad feeling about it...

In two seconds I knew that the first question on the exam had reached in and scrambled whatever brains I had left like a Rubik's Cube. The pace had felt 7:45, but there I was about 30 seconds slower. No legs, no chance. 1:30-something was gone. Still, there were 12 miles left to keep going and see what kind of race might shake out...but it was hard to think ahead knowing that we were probably already done.

As we manuvered through the downtown portion of the run, Brian and I stayed side-by-side. He'd warned me pre-race that when he's locked onto someone, he's REALLY locked on. We'd already banged elbows a few times, so I was doing my best to watch for him and steer him the right way. We dropped the hammer at mile 2 and picked it up; I could tell Brian was working. The harder he runs, the higher his elbows swing.

Miles 2, 3, and 4 went past in 7:35, 7:44, and 7:43. Since I knew we'd need to be able to hold 7:30's and that wasn't happening, I settled on 7:44 as the magic number. That seemed to be the groove we'd found, and that would be it. There wasn't much talking - we were both running pretty hard. It was perfect half-marathon pace; hard - nearly 10K hard - but just barely under control.

As we came out of the shadows by City Hall and entered the Ben Franklin Parkway for the second time, I said to Brian, "The first chapter is over - all the traffic is done. Now we've just got 9 wide-open miles to the finish. We're good - the pace is right on."

There was a slight pause as Brian lowered his left arm a bit, and swiveled his head purposefully, yet gracefully towards me. "You just mentioned the finish line. We just passed mile 4. I must kill you now."

He had a point, but in my mind the race was pretty straightforward from here: Run up West River Drive to Falls Bridge, cross the bridge, then pound it home on Kelly Drive. Out and back. Simple, right?

As we zig-zagged through the Art Museum circle, the quick descent down to West River Drive was a welcome break. I reminded Brian, "Tangents - follow the tangents." PDR uses the entire road, so running the short line was worth plenty of seconds.

Somewhere in here I heard gasping; the ragged breathing cadence of someone having a really bad moment...but it was a moment that kept. on. going. over. and. over. After a few seconds, to my horror, I recognized the breathing - I'd heard it before. Making a non-triumphant return to my race report, it was Pornoman.

I'd run past him at Caesar Rodney in 2007 (http://www.bobmina.com/2007_Reports/Caesar_Rodney_2007.htm), and here he was again. Still gasping and moaning, and more frustratingly, ahead of me. How does someone who sounds THAT bad get ahead of me, twice? I turned to Brian and said, "Hey, remember that guy I called 'Pornoman' in one of my reports?" I just left the question hanging. No follow-up was required.

Brian looked to his right, and as he did so, his elbows (which were now roughly at shoulder height) shuddered in fear, horror, and mild concern. Without saying anything, we picked up the pace just enough to make sure we wouldn't hear him again.

We stayed on the pace under the trees of West River Drive. Each bend, one bend closer to turn for home. We passed the occasional band, heard the occasional cheer, but we were still locked on to the job - this was all business. That was, until Brian chirped, "Hey! This is the transition area!" Somewhere in the fog and lactic acid swirling around his mind, he managed to pick up the descent from Black Road. He pointed off towards the large field where we'd had our first duel 3 months ago...and in doing so, one of his now neck-high elbows knocked an American Goldfinch right out of it's nest.

Somewhere in here we passed a guy covered in Hammer Gel logos; shirts, shorts, hat - the works. I looked over at him and said, "Hammer! Put down ze hammer!" He looked back at me with a look that pretty much seemed to say, "F*ck you..." in about 14 different languages. The silence was damning. I turned to Brian and said, "I don't think he thinks that was funny."

Brian looked back at me and replied, "That's because you're not funny." Oh, hahaha. Everybody's funny. Now you funny, too.

As I reconciled my lack of successful punchlines through mile 8, though I didn't know it, the stretch had been very solid. 7:44, 7:44, 7:44, 7:49. Hard to be much more consistent than that; since we weren't looking at our watches, we were doing this purely on feel - pure effort and pain management.

Falls Bridge came into view - nearly 9 miles down, and just the stretch drive for the last 4.1. "Falls Bridge, dude. Get across this, and we'll be galloping for home like a horse that knows where the stable is." I mentioned to Brian that there was traditionally a bagpiper here, and sure enough, there he was.

Maybe it was the 4-deep crowd waiting as we swooped off the bridge - maybe it was the bagpipes - maybe it was the elbows that he now had swept back behind him in delta formation, but Brian took off, and there was nothing I could do to stay with him.

"Go on! I'll be right back here!" I saw Brian nod, I think. But I was getting so cooked from the miles, I could barely see the road ahead. He crept away - 10 meters...20 meters...then no more. It's funny; when you watch a race on TV and you see someone make a move and get the slightest of gaps, it's so easy to say, "Close up! Get 'em!" When you're watching someone run, it's always just a matter of guts. But right there, right then, even though he was gaining all of an inch a second...I knew I had to let him go.

Redline is redline. I had 4 miles left. I could run 3 at my pace, and then leave whatever I had left in that last 1.1.

Brian stayed right there. He remembered to run the tangents, and I followed him like a chase plane. As everyone around us followed the yellow lines, ("You're all SHEEP!"), we gobbled up free distance. A meter here, two meters there. Even when I lost sight of him in the crowd, all I had to do was watch for people's heads getting plonked out of the way as some flying elbow nailed them.

At mile 11 Brian was still 20 meters ahead of me, when something completely unexpected happened - I was passed by a woman. This in itself is unremarkable, as women pass me all the time in races - I can deal with that. What floored me was that her sleeping baby passed me first, nestled comfortably in his jog-stroller.

On cue, Brian spun around. His arms made a Sikorsky-esque, "Fwoop, fwoop, fwoop" with each stride as he looked back, mouth agape, and eyes opened wide. Yes, Principal Gatens, she's gaining on you.

A random woman next to me said, "She's fast - really strong. Tell your friend to drop his arms. It hurts me just to watch him."

As mile 12 slowly crept into view, I found just that little bit more and closed down the gap. I was really hurting now - it felt like a 10K, and was bordering on 5K pain. Just one mile to go, though - that's not too far. I drew up on Brian's shoulder and said, "One to go, buddy. Let's do this."

As we approached Boathouse Row, I knew this was it. "Aim inside - short line." Brian nodded, and we started to move left. As we did, I saw a glimmer of pink. Someone was off to my left, but behind me...just. Maybe it was the bike racer in me, but I didn't give it a second thought as I leaned over to take the corner.

"HEEEEEY!" She called out, accelerating to get even with me. We banged shoulders as Brian motored off to the left. NOW the bike racer in me took over, and I leaned on her. It was a total 'Fog of War' moment. Pink or not, girl or not, I had gotten there first. It was mile 12.5 of a long race. She wanted to take it personally; it was just racing. It was my corner - I'd gotten there first.

I'm going to have to say that she didn't agree. "You DON'T have to cut me off!" she said. I replied, "Hey, the short way is that way. You want to go long? Be my guest!" Again she said, "You don't have to cut me off." Now she was just whining, so I finished with, "Lighten up, sister," and headed after Brian.

Actually wait, no - not end of story. It's been almost a month since that exchange, and I have to say I'm still not sure who was at fault. Could I have backed off a bit - maybe waited another second before cutting over? Or should she have just NOT accelerated when I started to come across? Was it close? Not really - not to me. Maybe it was too close for her. I assumed that someone capable of running 7:40's would be able to handle a close pass...but maybe all the lactate running through our systems made it worse than it needed to be.

So now I was REALLY annoyed. Well, actually, that isn't true. When I caught up to Brian he turned to me and said, "Did you just nearly start a fight, with a GIRL?" THEN I was really annoyed. As we headed up the false flat into the morning sun, the pain was getting really intense. I knew the pace was coming up - my teeth were starting to go numb.

I pointed up ahead and picked someone out of the crowd, just like Joe Bator (our mentor) had said to do. Of course, she was still puishing that baby jogger, but hey - a target is a target. "We're going to get her. Let's go."

Brian didn't react. I couldn't see his elbows anymore, so I had to assume they were back in delta, headed supersonic. As we passed the Art Museum we caught and passed the jog-stroller, mile 13 went past in 7:39. Just 40 or so seconds of running left now - we were pretty much there.

The crowds, the sun, the Art Museum circle. That moment of knowing it'll all be over soon - that you've survived just about everything the day threw at you - that relief can't compare with anything. And relief was the word for it; this was not a the triumphant run we were hoping for. This was not the moment of Time and Glory reaching down to crown us. This was a savage reality check, one that took Boston and pushed her over the Eastern horizon for now.

And still, I turned to Brian and said, "Is there anywhere else you'd rather be, right now?" When I said it, he didn't react. Probably because there were 200 meters to go, and the place he'd rather be was 201 meters away, but I digress.

We turned the tight right-hander towards the line (I actually remembered where the finish line was this year), and thundered down the stretch to the finish. As we closed in towards the clocks, Brian got in the last word without saying a thing. He raised his arms, and this time - for real - clocked me right upside the head. I was really hoping the finish picture would catch the moment of impact...

Only on the way to my car would it hit me: That was still my second-fastest Half-Marathon, ever. Sure that 1:38:54 in 2007 was fast, and I expected to be below that, but I was disappointed with a time that would have had me turning cartwheels before that ridiculous race last year.

Brian and I walked a bit through the chutes, and it took about 12 seconds for us to reach an unspoken bond - there would be no extra post-race mile, the walk to our cars would do just fine, thankyouverymuch. I spoke first and said, "Pretty good - that will put us in the top 2000." Officially, we would be credited with 2004th and 2005th place...tied with 7 other runners who'd run 1:42:16. So technically, we were 1997th and 1998th. So there.

Brian found his voice a few seconds later. "That was a hard race. That's a tough distance to race. It's like a 10K that never ends." We grabbed some water and kept moving, letting our legs slowly find a way to hold us up again.

We both knew it now - our Boston dreams are still dreams. We'd need a 3:15:59, and this race - even if we magically were able to turn around and run another one at the same pace - 3:24. No good. It was a reality check, but a good one. Now we know what we can do - what we can learn. If this year is just a stepping stone, that's perfect. Something as big as Boston needs a long chase - it shouldn't come quickly, or easily...and it won't.

We have Philadelphia in 6 weeks. We'll follow the plan, put in the miles, and run our best races on that day. Hopefully the clock will show us both times that we've never seen before. Hopefully some of the minutes that stand between us and Hopkinton will stand aside.