or A1A Half Marathon story, part 2
Very hard to believe a whole week has transpired since the race. I did myself some good, taking it easy this week. One run Wednesday, not so hot. Today a nice, solid 6 miler on the Griffin loop, the air so inviting and my pace just as together as the week before. Running for fun.
Last weekend, I had my hopes, and well, mostly hopes. Things had been going well. Maybe not as much distance as I'd liked but the bike training thing was doing me good. I felt strong. And even though I did not make my PR, I handled, from start to finish the 13.1 miles with even keel and good strategy. These legs have their rhythm. These feet their way of making contact. If anything a race always inspires me to want to be a better runner, to rise up the ranks and approach, regardless of how far, the aura of the uber-runners, the girls with cut bellies and legs, the guys swinging long arcs of grace and speed, thrilling and amazing to watch! I had several good looks along the route. We all began as a pack spread along Las Olas, but once the park loop came up, those in front passed right besides those of us coming in, and as we made the right turn descent into the park proper, they came bats out of hell up the rise to A1A north- swoosh!
My race so far was fine. Las Olas in the dark, the overpass, making the turn at the beach and the light coming up from behind some cloudiness, the temps just fine, high 50's or low 60's. The park loop, once the celebrity vibes of the superstuds passed, was a sentimental and comfortable place; at 5-6 miles I was still feeling ok, doing what I would have sworn were 10 min. miles. We had just trained in this park, I have run this park many weekends many years now. I felt I owned that park. Sliding out the entrance, we head up and north...the small rise to get there suddenly slows me down, my momentum is lost. We veer spread out to take the street and once again I am confortable, away from the restriction of numbers in the park. This is my kind of run now, flat out on the pavement with lots and lots of room. The stellar front pack comes our way, flying down the their corridor on wings, guys and girls, tight tight tight. This gives me inspiration; so I find my gait, I settle down and tuck in for the long trek north.
Now this is not many miles, and the turnaround, as I kept looking on the map, was just north of Oakland and this is not terribly far. I kept thinking. At this point the need to pee was becoming a distraction. How much time, I kept trying to figure out, and felt I was more than halfway home. The f*@king turnaround took forever to appear- the BATAN death march was upon me; on this stretch we see EVERYONE coming down from the turn, and I watch as they morph from uber-to great-to pretty damn good- to I wish that was me- to ....me. I see now older runners, bigger runners, I dont necessarily like running in this pack. I had a girl in a skirt from early in the race, and I kept looking for her. She looked young and a fairly good runner. It was good for my ego to think if I could keep up with her I'd do well and have a decent time. The oldsters were passing, though, man there are ALOT of good older runners.
Anyway. Finally. The course directs us to the right and tight around to the split: the marathoners head right, and north. Us halfers, to the left, and blessedly, south....yes, south past the ocean on the left, south with the breeze, past Sunrise, the hotels, the restaurants...south to the FINISH LINE. I couldn't hold it any longer and be okay. I suddenly saw a portajohn with its green flag flashing at me, and ducked in as fast as I could. The sudden stopping was disorienting, and I stiffened, hurried out and back on the road.
Lost my girl. Found a new few women running about my pace a little faster and began tieing to them. I picture a cord of energy and throw it out, a la Carlos Castenada. I think its how I came to learn how to run distances. I always thought it infinitely smart to throw out that energy cord as a lifeline to your future. And in running it seems to help me feel something is pulling me along without my need to push so hard into the air for momentum. I was in a good rhythm but really couldn't feel my legs much, hoping I just kept the crank up, and trying to enjoy the ride. My hip was hurting. I dissociated a tad towards the end, when within the last few miles it began to have that slowed down, surreal, endless feeling...of just going on and on...Maybe that's when I got emotional and cried, a phenomenon that seems to happen in every race, at least the long ones, for the feeling I get of being so overwhelmed to be doing it, so grateful, so happy to test myself, push myself, go for it, make the accomplishment happen. I usually think of everyone I run for. I run for peace, but at some point I get specific and this time I thought mostly about my Dad, and my Mom. And Michael flying. I seem to recall using the glider image at the end there in an effort to keep my spirits up, wings on my feet, feel the flight of the motion.
It was full on to the line. The crowds had spread along the side, and rounding into the lot, people began to wave and cheer. I was coming in with a big group. The bunch of us crossing in a lump- but I saw the pad, raised my arms and saluted myself. I ran my half-marathon in good form, finished strong, good kick. I was damn proud.
The other fun part was watching other runners coming in. Since my half marathon was around the super runners, marathoners were coming in. Flinging themselves and flying into the line. Rubbery legs, hyperventilating, hot, some weirdly relaxed.
And, oh yea, pancakes.
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