The journey continues
While I didn't chase down a BQ or an OT qualifying time, Sunday May 7's Pittsburgh Half Marathon to me was one of those moments that I'll never forget.
From being a young kid who could barely sleep the night before our Elementary School's Jog-A-Thon, to my 8th grade season of the 1 mile and 800, to the years I chased down a football dream, the disappointment and fears of what my own body could withstand, to finally saying, you can do this.
My relationship with this sport is innate. It was disguised for years as something else, ultimately leading me back to square one. I'd be lying to say I haven't wondered what could have been if I'd stuck with distance running and building off a 5:28 1 mile PR I ran in 8th grade, 2 weeks shy of my diabetes diagnosis. I can never go back in time, but thoughts such as those also inspire my present day.
Last winter I was in a heavy strength training block, still logging some miles here and there, maybe 10-12 miles a week, but certainly not building up to a May 1 Half Marathon. I had two college roommates bugging me in our group chat on a daily basis about joining them for the Pittsburgh Half. I had every excuse under the sun, but really though, my biggest fear was myself. While I had ran a 20:38 5k and a 46:05 10k in 2015 on relatively light mileage, I still wasn't convinced my blood sugars could handle the 13.1 distance. The daily harassment continued, and all along I was thinking, "hmm, can I?" I wasn't fully convinced, yet.
While I was watching the Olympic Marathon Trials in February 2016, I was following a former pro runner who I randomly connected with in the few months leading up to the race. Chris Barnicle, a cool dude who had an interesting background that I appreciated, he was approachable and very genuine. He ended up running the slowest time in trials history while battling an old injury, but in a sport where elites will DNF for a variety of reasons, sometimes I'd venture to even say ego, he gutted out one of the toughest performances I'd ever come across. After walking away from the sport a few years earlier with several health setbacks, simply completing the race was more about pride and peace of mind. Naturally, some punk internet comments were made about his performance, but for many others like myself, his time transcended any podium finish. There was something about that story that made you question, what is it that really scares me, what's really holding me back?
I went out the next day and ran 5 miles in 18 degree weather here in Pittsburgh. The following week after a run and another round of daily disses from my beloved friends, I hit a sub 7 minute paced 5 miler and proceeded to text back a picture of my registration confirmation, and "welll here we go." I had never run more than 7.1 miles in my life, race day was 2 months to the day.
The next 8 weeks were a crash course into my first Half Marathon race. While my goals were overly ambitious for an almost non existent base upon toeing the line, I gave it everything, contemplated my life several times the last 5k, but crossing the finish line that dreary morning took me somewhere and beyond.
Over the last year, I've been fortunate. I've logged PR's in the 5 and 10k, doubled my miles, and most importantly, I've stayed healthy. I ran my first 10 mile road race in February, and only two days post sinus infection, I ran pretty damn strong. I've been very pleased with my progress the last 12 months. This year's A goal, run sub 1:40, and a second reasonable goal, sub 1:38.
Approaching the line with some time to spare, I saw an old friend who was in search for her pacer. Her anxiety was peaking, we wished each other luck and we're on our way. I clicked my watch, my heart rate was 59. I was comfortable, I was calm, I was excited. I wasn't running for a paycheck, I was running for the moment, because I can.
Instead of last year's hang out sesh attire, I ran in more appropriate clothing that made one hell of a difference. I ran the first mile in 8:20, real comfortable but as wise men have told me, "in a distance race, if your first mile or two feels slow, you're going too fast." Last year, I was already at threshold pace the first two miles, hence my epic bonk turned death march the last 5k. As the miles ticked away, I relaxed into a 7:32 pace. My shoulders relaxed, my stride felt efficient, my breathing was very controlled. A few strides past the 9.1 mile mark, 1:08:29, approaching the old Station Square stomping grounds, I felt the faintest cramp in my left calf. My inner coach told me, "Relax, get some GU and start grabbing two waters." My strength remained steady down East Carson St, the sun was out in full force, the memories of intoxication and shenanigans in the South Side brought a smile to my face as I drank one water and dumped the other on my head. With low humidity and 48 degrees, the weather man confirmed a PR was very attainable.
I took a left off East Carson St, up the Birmingham Bridge, the 10.2-11.5ish mile mark, a steady incline that nearly killed me last year. This year was different. While I was starting to hurt, one of my favorite Kid Cudi tunes, "Mature Nature" came on and the pace stayed strong. I settled in, let some other ambitious wild ones past me, and continued to run my race. After I conquered the Birmingham Bridge, I went down the hill, and steady up approaching mile 12. I told myself the whole race, a goal of mine was to sprint as hard as I could the last mile, and pretty much collapse to the finish line. As I passed mile 12, my left hamstring was beginning to spaz and tighten up. A few strides, another spaz. I put my head down, focused on my breathing, and just kept thinking, almost there, almost there, holding on for dear life, I saw others passing me, but whatever, this was my race.
I turned the bend down the Blvd of Allies, and one of my few glances up that last mile, I saw the finish line within maybe a quarter mile. I peaked down at my watch, 1:38 and some change. Another hamstring spaz. I took a big breath, head down and held on for dear life. I picked my head up maybe 20 yards from the finish, and as I "sprinted" the last few strides to cross the finish line, I clicked my watch, 1:39:42.
Euphoria, absolute euphoria, and "water, water, where the hell is the water?!" Gatorade is apparently a big sponsor for the race, as I had to continue walking to grab two bottles of water. Might have only been a few steps but it felt like I walked a football field for water. I grabbed a banana and a gentleman from MarathonFoto, "hey man, congratulations, fantastic race, I'll capture this, here's our card." Alright, I'll buy one.
I continued walking and rehydrating, soaking it all in, one of the greatest natural highs man can experience. Everything came together as I envisioned. I don't take any of this for granted. It's a blessing to toe the line, run strong, and cross the finish line healthy. It won't last forever, this I know. However, for the time being, I'll embrace this journey for all it's worth.
From being a young kid who could barely sleep the night before our Elementary School's Jog-A-Thon, to my 8th grade season of the 1 mile and 800, to the years I chased down a football dream, the disappointment and fears of what my own body could withstand, to finally saying, you can do this.
My relationship with this sport is innate. It was disguised for years as something else, ultimately leading me back to square one. I'd be lying to say I haven't wondered what could have been if I'd stuck with distance running and building off a 5:28 1 mile PR I ran in 8th grade, 2 weeks shy of my diabetes diagnosis. I can never go back in time, but thoughts such as those also inspire my present day.
Last winter I was in a heavy strength training block, still logging some miles here and there, maybe 10-12 miles a week, but certainly not building up to a May 1 Half Marathon. I had two college roommates bugging me in our group chat on a daily basis about joining them for the Pittsburgh Half. I had every excuse under the sun, but really though, my biggest fear was myself. While I had ran a 20:38 5k and a 46:05 10k in 2015 on relatively light mileage, I still wasn't convinced my blood sugars could handle the 13.1 distance. The daily harassment continued, and all along I was thinking, "hmm, can I?" I wasn't fully convinced, yet.
While I was watching the Olympic Marathon Trials in February 2016, I was following a former pro runner who I randomly connected with in the few months leading up to the race. Chris Barnicle, a cool dude who had an interesting background that I appreciated, he was approachable and very genuine. He ended up running the slowest time in trials history while battling an old injury, but in a sport where elites will DNF for a variety of reasons, sometimes I'd venture to even say ego, he gutted out one of the toughest performances I'd ever come across. After walking away from the sport a few years earlier with several health setbacks, simply completing the race was more about pride and peace of mind. Naturally, some punk internet comments were made about his performance, but for many others like myself, his time transcended any podium finish. There was something about that story that made you question, what is it that really scares me, what's really holding me back?
I went out the next day and ran 5 miles in 18 degree weather here in Pittsburgh. The following week after a run and another round of daily disses from my beloved friends, I hit a sub 7 minute paced 5 miler and proceeded to text back a picture of my registration confirmation, and "welll here we go." I had never run more than 7.1 miles in my life, race day was 2 months to the day.
The next 8 weeks were a crash course into my first Half Marathon race. While my goals were overly ambitious for an almost non existent base upon toeing the line, I gave it everything, contemplated my life several times the last 5k, but crossing the finish line that dreary morning took me somewhere and beyond.
Over the last year, I've been fortunate. I've logged PR's in the 5 and 10k, doubled my miles, and most importantly, I've stayed healthy. I ran my first 10 mile road race in February, and only two days post sinus infection, I ran pretty damn strong. I've been very pleased with my progress the last 12 months. This year's A goal, run sub 1:40, and a second reasonable goal, sub 1:38.
Approaching the line with some time to spare, I saw an old friend who was in search for her pacer. Her anxiety was peaking, we wished each other luck and we're on our way. I clicked my watch, my heart rate was 59. I was comfortable, I was calm, I was excited. I wasn't running for a paycheck, I was running for the moment, because I can.
Instead of last year's hang out sesh attire, I ran in more appropriate clothing that made one hell of a difference. I ran the first mile in 8:20, real comfortable but as wise men have told me, "in a distance race, if your first mile or two feels slow, you're going too fast." Last year, I was already at threshold pace the first two miles, hence my epic bonk turned death march the last 5k. As the miles ticked away, I relaxed into a 7:32 pace. My shoulders relaxed, my stride felt efficient, my breathing was very controlled. A few strides past the 9.1 mile mark, 1:08:29, approaching the old Station Square stomping grounds, I felt the faintest cramp in my left calf. My inner coach told me, "Relax, get some GU and start grabbing two waters." My strength remained steady down East Carson St, the sun was out in full force, the memories of intoxication and shenanigans in the South Side brought a smile to my face as I drank one water and dumped the other on my head. With low humidity and 48 degrees, the weather man confirmed a PR was very attainable.
I took a left off East Carson St, up the Birmingham Bridge, the 10.2-11.5ish mile mark, a steady incline that nearly killed me last year. This year was different. While I was starting to hurt, one of my favorite Kid Cudi tunes, "Mature Nature" came on and the pace stayed strong. I settled in, let some other ambitious wild ones past me, and continued to run my race. After I conquered the Birmingham Bridge, I went down the hill, and steady up approaching mile 12. I told myself the whole race, a goal of mine was to sprint as hard as I could the last mile, and pretty much collapse to the finish line. As I passed mile 12, my left hamstring was beginning to spaz and tighten up. A few strides, another spaz. I put my head down, focused on my breathing, and just kept thinking, almost there, almost there, holding on for dear life, I saw others passing me, but whatever, this was my race.
I turned the bend down the Blvd of Allies, and one of my few glances up that last mile, I saw the finish line within maybe a quarter mile. I peaked down at my watch, 1:38 and some change. Another hamstring spaz. I took a big breath, head down and held on for dear life. I picked my head up maybe 20 yards from the finish, and as I "sprinted" the last few strides to cross the finish line, I clicked my watch, 1:39:42.
Euphoria, absolute euphoria, and "water, water, where the hell is the water?!" Gatorade is apparently a big sponsor for the race, as I had to continue walking to grab two bottles of water. Might have only been a few steps but it felt like I walked a football field for water. I grabbed a banana and a gentleman from MarathonFoto, "hey man, congratulations, fantastic race, I'll capture this, here's our card." Alright, I'll buy one.
I continued walking and rehydrating, soaking it all in, one of the greatest natural highs man can experience. Everything came together as I envisioned. I don't take any of this for granted. It's a blessing to toe the line, run strong, and cross the finish line healthy. It won't last forever, this I know. However, for the time being, I'll embrace this journey for all it's worth.
Comments
Post a Comment