"My basic theory of running is, simply, this: The faster you run, the sooner you get to stop."
- Sarah Fisher
If running is my addiction, racing is when I mainline the strong stuff. There’s nothing quite like the rush of pinning on a number and seeing how hard I can push myself to reach the finish line.
When I began running regularly in May of 1992, it was mostly so I could eat what I wanted and still keep my weight down. Within a month, after I knew I could get through a few miles without stopping, I was ready for more. Jogging in circles for fitness wasn’t enough. I wanted to see how fast I could run.
I found a four-mile race in a running magazine that started in nearby Somerville at a bar called Khoury’s. I ran the 4 hilly miles in 30:48, finishing 35th out of 85 runners. My lasting memories from the race were sucking in clouds of hot automobile exhaust from idling cars as I ran by, with their indignant drivers glaring from the front seat, and an annoying competitor who kept sprinting by me, stopping to walk and rest, and then dashing by again. Even so, while sipping my free post-race beer, I knew I wanted to race again, and do better when I did. I was hooked.
I ran another race in July. I bought my first running book, "Galloway’s Book on Running", in August. I entered my first half-marathon in October and I finished in 1:48:19.
Recently, I finished my 178th race, the 2010 Newburyport Spring Fever 5K.
For a well-adjusted person, a race is a way to get together with their running friends, experience the thrill of competing, and measure their progress as they strive to reach their potential. Only the gifted few are actually competing to win.
I may never be that well-adjusted. Just about the first thing I learned when I started racing was that I was never going to win the big race. I’m faster than the average person, but the people who win races aren’t average.
I may not like that, but I’ve had to get used to it. I’ve lost hundreds of races. Literally. I haven’t been the first one across the line since high school. And that was in the slow heat of the quarter-mile (it was a long time ago, before U.S. track went metric) in a dual meet in small-town Vermont.
It is true what they say – everybody who climbs off the couch and gets out running is a winner. In some sense. But another equally true cliché is that second place is just the first loser.
Racing is rewarding in itself. Otherwise, given my level of success, I would have quit long ago. A garden variety mid-pack runner like me has to find satisfaction in the act of competing, whether or not I win, in order to keep going. If I run well, don’t get hurt, and give everything I’ve got to reach the finish as fast as I can on that day, that accomplishment is enough to make it a good day.
Even on a bad day, when I’m just chugging along to get to the free beer at the end, I’ll find that my competitive urges kick in, and I’ll break into a sprint to beat that fat guy or pass the nice looking girl I’ve been following the whole race. Sometimes, finishing 102nd instead of 103rd can be a great victory.
But I have had enough success to know that all else being equal, winning is a lot more fun than losing. So like all the other runners who chose the wrong parents or have jobs, families, or injuries that keep them from being that one guy (or gal) on top of the heap, I’m always looking for ways I can experience the joy and satisfaction of coming out on top.
One way I challenge myself is to race myself. Everyone can train harder, put in more miles, eat better, and strive to beat last year’s time in the local 5K. This gets tougher as I get older, but I still think I have room for improvement. Even if I never beat my 5K personal best from 1992 (the one that was probably on a short course), I can still try to run better than I did in my last race.
That’s OK, but…. I admit it. I want to beat people. Other people. I want to be the one who congratulates the lesser runners for putting forth a good effort. I want to modestly tell others that it was just a good day, and that some other time, I’m sure they’ll come out on top. All the while, inside I’m dancing and shouting "In your face, slugs!" That doesn’t make me a bad person -- as long as I keep it inside.
The key to achieving the victories we all crave is to find an environment that’s conducive to your success. Look for races that play to your strengths and minimize your weaknesses. Maybe you’re strong on hills or especially sure-footed on rough trails. Maybe you run best first-thing in the morning, or in the heat of summer. Maybe you’re better off if you avoid races with free beer. Figure out what works best for you, search out the race that fits, and sign up!
Unfortunately, even in the perfect race for me, after a great season of training and a good night’s sleep someone faster always shows up. I have to face it, that’s usually going to be the case. Then I have to create the environment that allows me to succeed. Narrow things down, twist the rules if necessary (not too far!), get choosy enough, and I can be a winner!
When I joined the Somerville Road Runners running club and started running our free weekly fun run/race, I began to recognize other regulars who always finished at about the same time I did. I got to know them. I drank beer with them. I learned their kids’ names. And I worked to beat them, as they worked to beat me. Some of them knew we were racing, others never knew that I was stalking them every Thursday night. Friendly races within the larger race can be a lot of fun.
If you try and try, and just can’t beat your friends, sign up for a relay race with them and let the faster runners carry you to victory. Relay races are a nice break from the solitary routine of running. You get the pleasure of cheering a friend to success, and their success benefits you. If you choose your friends carefully, you’ll be sharing the glory in no time. In 1993, I was the slowest person on the second-place Men’s Masters team at a 65-mile relay race around Lake Winnepesaukee in New Hampshire. That’s still one of the high points of my racing career.
The most common way runners increase their chance of success is by growing old. Age group awards were created just for this purpose. I might not be able to run with the young studs, but I can compete with other old farts like me. My goal is to keep running long enough to get to where I’m heading to the awards stand regularly. "Long enough" may mean into my seventies or later, but no one needs to know that there were only two other people in my age group, and one of them was using a walker.
Another way is to look for races with multiple events. Maybe a 10K with a 5K or a marathon with a 10K. The faster runners always go for the marquee event, leaving the other race open for me to sneak in for a win. The last two awards I won at a race were both age group prizes in secondary races. Note: Don’t go so far as to enter a race for kids – that would be tacky.
There are other categories to aim towards. Handicapped people tend to frown on people who walk up to register for the wheelchair division. But anyone can be fat. Heavier people can win races with Clydesdale and Filly divisions without having to beat the scrawny types who train on air and vegetables. You can clean up at both the awards ceremony and the post-race spread. Unfortunately, a lot of the Clydesdale prizes end up being won by tall, muscular guys rather than short, fat guys.
There are plenty of other choices. Races have divisions for runners in red dresses, runners pushing beds, and even naked runners.
Some people address the problem by creating their own division. At the 2006 Boston Marathon, two men juggled while they ran the course, competing for the title of "World’s Fastest Joggler". They didn’t have to race the other 20,000 entrants for that title. I imagine that they would have had to struggle to find a third competitor.
If all else fails, I go small. Any of the ideas I’ve discussed are more likely to earn me a coveted win if I apply them in a race where only 30 people sign up. When I’m on vacation in a rural area, I look for a race in a nearby small town. I try to find races that run on weekday mornings. I’ll register to run early on New Year’s Day. With the Internet, there’s no excuse for missing out on those hidden gems. First place is first place – the trophy doesn’t say how many people you beat. The best I’ve done is a fourth place finish (second in my age group) out of 32 runners at the Echo Lake 10-Mile Road Race in Charleston, VT. I haven’t yet found a race small enough for me to win outright, but I’ll keep trying.
If I can manage to combine a small race with bad weather, I’ve hit the jackpot. On a cold, rainy day, runners will stay home in droves. Sadly, I can never count on the weather to help me out. Even a New England February has some nice, warm, sunny days.
I’ve used many of these techniques, all that I can, and I have accumulated a pile (albeit small) of hardware to show that they work. All it takes is a reasonable amount of training and an eye for an opportunity, and I end up with something to show for a race besides a t-shirt and sore feet. I can be a winner too!
Even when I don’t bring home a prize, I usually leave a race with a concrete memento or two in addition to the more ethereal memories that I’ve created.
Almost every time I enter a race, I get a shirt. T-shirts promote the race, give sponsors, supporters, and charities widespread exposure, and they’re fairly cheap to make. I haven’t had to buy a t-shirt for years. I get enough of them from races to have some to wear, a few to keep for sentimental reasons, and plenty left over to donate to homeless shelters and clothing drives. Any experienced racer has a trash bag or two full of old race t-shirts. Some people have their favorite shirts made into quilts or get them framed. Most runners have a never-ending supply of cleaning rags too.
Lesser races provide "one-size-fits-all" shirts, and that one size is frequently the wrong size for the majority of runners. Better races put their logo on a moisture-wicking shirt or on one with long sleeves, or maybe even provide a hat or some other item of clothing instead.
Races often give runners a goodie bag, but they’re usually filled with ads and other junk. There might be an energy gel or some useful snack food, and some of the big races have guides for runners that make nice keepsakes, but I usually end up tossing most of the contents by the time I get home.
I like to have pictures from races as souvenirs, especially pictures of me. Many races have official photographers, who take pictures of as many people as possible at multiple points in the race, then make the photos available for sale afterwards. I’ve ordered a few of these after memorable races, but they’re too expensive to buy regularly. In New England, we’re lucky to have Jim Rhoades and Ted Tyler, who take pictures at an enormous number of races and post them online.
For every race I run, I print one or two pictures of me from their site or the ones taken by my friends, and I save them in a race book, along with my race numbers and a note with my time. Every once in a while I like to flip through the book and look back. It’s been gratifying to watch the book grow thicker.
I have a collection of finisher’s medals, mostly from marathons, that I hang on a tie rack. They make a satisfying jingle when I run my hand along them, though I have to be careful to keep from shattering the ceramic medal I got from the Derry 16-miler one year.
Then there’s the finisher’s award from the Nipmuck Trail Marathon. They painted a chunk of tree branch with a trail blaze mark and glued a label on it. It sits on a shelf, a miniature leaning tower of running.
There are other things that I’ve collected over time. These include SRR cowbells, a "No Parking - Marathon in Progress" sign from Boston, space blankets from various marathons, and a 3’x2’ headshot of myself with my head uplifted in a "Soviet Hero" pose from the "Saucony 26" marketing campaign for Boston in 2005. I’ve also saved a SpongeBob SquarePants doll, badges, and a drinking game spinner from various hashes.
I even have a few prizes from placing in races. They don’t take up a lot of space.
All these trinkets need a home. Lots of runners have a "me space" where they display their running booty. In our house, we combine the me space with the gear closet and the drying rack in a small room in the 2nd floor hallway. To keep us humble, we keep the cats’ litter box there too.
One award is stored separately, in the kitchen. It’s a glass cutting board decorated with a picture from a 50K trail race in West Virginia. That one was hard to get safely home on the plane.
Ruth is starting to accumulate her own collection of running mementos. She used to run in high school and college, and she got back into it after we met. Something about never being able to see me otherwise.
I suspect that for the most part, my fastest races are behind me. However, I’ve enjoyed watching Ruth as she goes through the initial stages of becoming a runner. She is just starting to find out what she can do. She keeps running farther and getting faster, and it reminds me of how good I used to feel when I was just starting out and reaching new levels of achievement with every attempt. I’m both happy and a little jealous that Ruth still has years of improvement ahead of her.
Ruth ran her first half-marathon at the inaugural Half at the Hamptons in 2008. It was an eventful race. For better or worse, she got to see the full range of what can befall runners when they put their training on the line and sign up for a road race.
The race featured a flat, fast course. The roads were mostly clear of snow. There was a wet snow squall that lasted about 20 minutes, but other than that it was a good day, if you keep in mind that it was February on the New Hampshire seacoast.
Ruth had a range of goals for her first half-marathon, starting with simply finishing the race. She was also targeting a 10-minute-per-mile pace, and looking to remain injury-free. Ruth succeeded in reaching all those goals and more. She ran a 2:06:33, which was a 9:40 pace. She ran hard, but felt she had something left in the tank at the end.
The overall winner was Daniel Princic of Woburn, MA, who finished in a time of 1 hour, 14 minutes, 57 seconds. Ruth was also a winner. Out of all the women in her age group, she was the fastest first-time half-marathoner. Her prize for that was a beer glass.
Most of the other runners had their goals, did the work to prepare, and when the race was over they ended up with a shirt, a finisher’s medal, and the satisfaction that comes when your hard work pays off.
Some people didn’t do as well. Maybe they didn’t do enough work to support their goals, or maybe they misjudged their pace, started out too fast, and ran out of gas as the miles passed. Maybe they just had bad luck.
I was in that group. Somewhere after mile 10, my left calf began to hurt. I kept going, but it rapidly got worse. By the time I reached the 11-mile marker I had to choose between hopping on one leg for the last two miles, walking to the finish, or dropping out. There are races where I’ve walked longer distances to finish, but I like to think I’m getting better at taking the long view. In this case, it was cold and wet and I wanted to get to the finish to get some pictures of Ruth, so I caught a ride from a passing car and massaged my calf in relative comfort while I rode to the finish.
Other people had much worse luck. One woman, Lynn Bova, had a very bad day through no fault of her own. I was standing about 10 yards past the finish, waiting for Ruth to arrive. During a lull in the stream of finishers, I noticed the scaffolding that was holding up the finish banner wobble slightly. I didn’t see anyone leaning against it – maybe a gust of wind caught the banner, though for the most part, the high winds in the forecast did not show up that day.
When I looked back down at the course, Bova was approaching the chip sensor mats. From there, events proceeded too rapidly for anyone to do anything to prevent them. Just as Bova crossed the line, the top half of the scaffolding separated from the base and toppled sideways, carrying the whole structure over. People watching yelled for Bova to look out, but she was concentrating on finishing her race. All she had time to do was look up before a crossbar hit her on the head and the falling steel knocked her down. Spectators pulled the scaffolding off her and took out cell phones to call in emergency medical support.
In the meantime, the race continued. Bova had to stay there, lying on the mat, while runners went by, because moving her might cause additional injury. I helped direct runners around where she lay, pointing them to the third of the chip mat that was still free.
Things settled down, and I moved back to where I could get Ruth’s picture when she finished. Ruth was so focused on finishing that she barely noticed the group huddled on the mat as she went by.
I caught up with Ruth as she walked down the chute, basking in her personal victory. I helped remove her chip, and then we exchanged it for a finisher’s medal and headed off to the car to get dry clothes. As we walked down the street, the rescue personnel arrived on fire trucks, sirens blaring. They took Bova off to the hospital. Later, race officials reported that she had needed surgery on her ankle, but that doctors expected a full recovery.
Another runner had the worst day possible. Fifty-five-year-old Bill Paradis collapsed about halfway through the race. Ruth ran by as people were performing CPR on Paradis by the side of the course while waiting for an ambulance to arrive. That’s never a good sign, so she feared the worst. The next day, I read that Paradis was running with a friend when he complained that he couldn’t catch his breath. Not long afterwards Paradis went down with an apparent heart attack. The paramedics were unable to revive him and he died. Paradis had run multiple marathons and was an avid cyclist. He knew what he had to do to be prepared for the half-marathon, but that doesn’t always matter.
After the race, Ruth was caught up in the euphoria of her success. We went out for lobster, and the day was topped off when we were given number 1 for the number they would call when our dinners were ready. The next day, she wasn’t excessively stiff or sore, and she was ready for an easy run on Tuesday.
I was happy for her, and her reaction helped me remember how rewarding it was to discover that you were capable of physical feats you thought were reserved for "real athletes". But I couldn’t forget those who had found that tragedy can strike at any time, even at a moment of triumph, or in the midst of a pleasant diversion from your daily cares. The 2008 Half at the Hamptons was a clear reminder to live each day to the fullest while you can.
Running in a race is the purest form of competition. It's just me against the field, with a minimum of rules and equipment getting in the way. Other sports require teammates, expensive specialized equipment, or defined playing fields. The only other sport I can think of where the competition is as clear and straightforward as a footrace is boxing, but I prefer that all my physical pain be self-inflicted, so I’ll stick to running.
A hard race is one of the few times when I am truly living in the moment. I’m totally absorbed in what I’m doing, not worrying about work or money or relationships. I might be suffering, and while I don’t exactly welcome the pain, I’m not looking to be distracted from it either. I’m watching that pain closely to ensure I’m absorbing as much as I can, without redlining before I reach the finish. For as long as the race lasts, the only thing that matters is running as fast as I can, and trying to beat other people who are running as fast as they can.
There is a wide array of races, and each type has its own feel. I like the relaxed and intimate atmosphere of a small-town race. The race is where everyone checks in to trade stories about their lives and their families, and checks out whether their new training plan has finally helped them move up in the pack. Some of my non-running friends might jump in, and walk if they have to, if the race is for a good cause or it’s held at their favorite bar. If I’m at a small race in an area where I don’t know anyone, it’s a good way to meet people, especially if there’s a post-race barbeque or a party at the local pub. A local 10K might really be 9.8K or 10.2K, but that’s just one more thing for everyone to argue about afterwards.
Enormous races have a more energetic buzz. The size of the race indicates that it is an Event. All kinds of people from all over show up in their brightly colored running gear. It’s a fair, and the race for the blue ribbon is the centerpiece.
A large race needs to be organized more carefully to ensure the masses stay safe and everyone has fun. If it’s not, soon it will become a small race. Runners talk to each other about races, and if a race runs out of water or the course is badly marked, word-of-mouth will kill the race faster than a snowstorm.
If it’s a longer race, like a marathon, there’s more tension at the start. You can feel the focus of the runners on the test ahead of them. For rookie marathoners, it might be the first time they’ve ever tried to do anything that required an extended period of training. Veterans know that no matter how much they’ve trained, the race can still go horribly wrong. Everybody knows that they’ll need some time to recover afterwards, so this is their one shot at the distance for a while.
Running in a race series is another way to see how you measure up to other local runners.
For example, in my area New England Runner Magazine organizes their Pub Series, a string of smaller races hosted by local bars. Battling for points towards the series championship adds another level to the competition. You have to be fast, committed for the length of the series, and you have to structure your training so you’re ready to run each race well and still recover in time for the next challenge.
The Hocomock Swamp Rat’s Grand Pricks series puts together challenging races over a two-year period to determine "New England’s toughest runner". Rat runners get points according to their results, plus bonus points for things like finishing the tougher races or running naked.
The USATF-New England Grand Prix is a step up in competitiveness. It’s a yearly series where individuals and clubs compete in races ranging from a 5K to a marathon. Grand Prix races attract more of the people who make running a central part of their lives, whether or not they’re fast in an absolute sense. At the starting line, runners wearing club singlets outnumber those wearing funny t-shirts. They are trying to be as fast as they can, for themselves and to help their team. It’s still fun, but it’s serious fun.
I usually think of myself as the first slow guy in any race. That means everyone who’s ahead of me is a fast runner, while everyone who’s behind me is also slow. Using this definition, 10-20% of the entrants in a typical Pub Series race might be fast. In a USATF race, the number of fast runners is more like 50%.
Some races aren’t part of an official series, but still attract a high percentage of the dedicated runners in the area. The Boston area has a series of winter and early spring races that local runners traditionally use to get ready for the Boston Marathon. This Boston Prep series starts in January with a 16-mile race in Derry, NH. The races increase in length as the season progresses, ending with the Eastern States 20 Miler, a race that traverses the seacoast from Maine, through New Hampshire, to Massachusetts.
This far into my book, it should come as no surprise to you that I have obsessive-compulsive tendencies. I always try to do things as efficiently as possible, especially when it’s something I do repeatedly. For example, when I’m making coffee, I always start the beans grinding first, and while that’s happening, I set the refrigerator to dispense 19 ounces of water into the coffee pot. Then I can put the filter in its holder, the ground beans into the filter, and the holder into the coffeemaker while the pot is filling. Pour the water into the coffee maker, turn it on, and coffee is on the way! The process gets me coffee in the minimum amount of time, and the routine keeps me from making stupid mistakes, even though I’m pre-coffee. It gives me a comfortable feeling knowing that I have a plan, even for something as simple as coffee.
When I’m running in an important race, especially if the race is the culmination of a long period of training, I tend to get a little wound up when the race finally arrives. So I have a pre-race routine that helps me control the anxiety and make preparing for the race, without ruining what I’ve built to get there, as simple as making coffee.
My final preparation for a race starts days before with a taper. I run slower and for less distance than I usually do, so I can make sure I’m rested for the race. Tapering off for a few days is enough for a 5K or a 10K. Longer races require longer tapers. I usually plan on a two-week taper for a marathon. Tapering sounds easy, but it’s not. Slacking off leaves me with plenty of time to be anxious about whether I’m ready, or if I’m losing fitness, or if I’m gaining weight.
When I was younger, a day or two before the race I used to get an especially short "race haircut" to help me feel lighter, faster, and cooler (temperature-wise) than usual. Now that I’m in my 40s, my forehead has expanded into space formerly covered by hair, and my regular haircut has gotten shorter. Even though extra hair isn’t the issue it used to be, I still head to the barber before a big race.
The day before a race I try to rest, but time seems to crawl if I spend it sitting around waiting for the next day to arrive. If I've traveled to a new place for the race, one way to pass time is to walk around and see some of the sights. It beats sitting around in a hotel room.
The night before the race, I try to eat food that's easily digestible, so by race time it will have completed working its way through my system. I often eat plenty of carbohydrates the day before a race. I’ve experimented, and as far as I can tell there’s no need for carbo-loading, even for longer races. As long as I eat a healthy, balanced diet, I’m fine. Still, I like pasta, and I'll be running off the extra calories the next day, so why not?
I make sure I have everything I need for race day. That includes clothing, running shoes, anti-chafing lube, proof of registration, and directions to the race. I toss a set of safety pins in the bag. I have plenty of them around from previous races. The race will usually supply pins, but if they don't have enough, I'll still be able to pin my number on. If it's cold, or if I know I'm not coming home right after the race, I'll also pack a bag with dry clothes I can change into after the race.
If there is a course map or a race packet with a description of the race, I'll go over that and plan how I'm going to run the race. In particular, I like to know where the big hills are and what the approach to the finish looks like. Elevation maps are particularly useful, though they can be intimidating if it’s an exceptionally hilly race.
At the end of the day, I do what I can to get a good night’s sleep. Sometimes that means taking a pill. Otherwise, anxiety about the next day can keep me awake. An over-the-counter antihistamine usually works well enough as long as I don’t take them regularly.
On race day, it's important that I get up early enough to have time to unload the food I ate the day before. I also like to take a shower before a race, even though I'm just going out to get sweaty afterwards. A nice hot shower helps loosen up my muscles, and I just like starting out clean. It helps me feel better about myself going into the race.
I drink plenty of fluids before the race, but I don't eat anything on race morning unless the start of the race is later in the day or it's an exceptionally long race.
There are two things I always wear for a race. One is my Somerville Road Runners singlet, the other is a bright red jockstrap that I only use in races. When I put those on, I know it's time to compete. After that, I choose whatever running clothes are appropriate for the weather. On cold days, I wear less than I would on a regular running day because I know the extra effort of racing will make me warmer.
If I got my race number ahead of time, I pin it to my singlet before I leave. If there’s a timing chip I put that on too. Then one last trip to the bathroom, and it's time to go.
I always make sure to leave early enough so that I arrive at the race at least an hour ahead of time. That way I have time to deal with registration, make another trip to the bathroom, and go out for a warm-up before the race begins.
In a 5K, there’s no time to ease into race pace, so I’ll often do another five kilometers beforehand as a warm-up. I do most of my warm-up at an easy jog, but I’ll add some surges to try to find my good running form and lock into my race pace. If I have a course map, I’ll run the entire course to warm up. Knowing where the hills are and when I’m close enough to the end to run all out is a big advantage.
The longer the race, the shorter and slower my warm-up gets. If it’s a marathon, I might just swing my legs back and forth a few times to loosen them up before the start, and then run the first mile or two under my goal pace while I get warm.
When it’s time to line up for the start, I try to find my proper place among the other running junkies, all nervously twitching in place like we’re waiting for the man to bring us our fix. Too far back and I’ll have to weave through all the slower runners ahead of me. Too far forward and I’ll be discouraged when the faster runners who started behind me go by. Either one makes it more difficult for me to keep from going out too fast at the beginning of the race.
One time I saw a couple of women smoking cigarettes while they were waiting to start, which might have helped calm their nerves but still seemed somewhat counter-productive. I don’t quite understand the people with iPods either. An iPod is great for keeping me company on a training run, but when I’m at a race, it’s just a distraction that keeps me from focusing on my running or enjoying the company of my fellow runners.
While we wait, I’ll chat with the other runners. We usually end up talking about the course and our goals for the day. I usually have multiple goals. There’s a goal that I’ll share with people, which is usually pretty realistic, and enough to keep me happy if I make it. Then there’s a tougher goal that I keep to myself. It might be a little unlikely, but it’s one that I think is within reach if everything goes well. Multiple goals are an effort to manage expectations, especially my own. The secret goal helps make the public goal seem more accessible, and that helps reduce my stress level.
Finally the gun sounds, and we’re off. After all that waiting, I’ve got a lot of pent-up energy. If I’m not careful, I’ll go out at an overly optimistic pace. That feels good in the initial rush at the start. But just when I start to dream that maybe this time, finally, I can hold onto my fast pace until the finish, my lungs and legs start to burn, my form goes to hell, and my speed dies. Other runners start going by, and the race turns into a painful survival-fest.
Going out too fast isn’t the worst thing that can happen in a race. Getting hurt is worse. Losing five minutes in a 5-mile race while waiting for a train to finish crossing the course happened to me once, and that was frustrating too. But going out too fast is the most common way I screw up a race. It happens a lot more often than I’d like, especially if I’ve been focusing my training on a specific race. You think I’d learn….
My best races have often been ones where I was ready to run well, but I didn’t feel a need to show it that particular day. Then I start out at a comfortable pace and when the race gets hard later on, I still have something left for a strong finish. My first Boston Marathon was like that. I was just running to enjoy the experience, and I ended up with what was by far my best time at Boston.
My enthusiasm also gets the better of me sometimes when I’m running downhill. I’m better off if I dial it back and maintain good form, but it’s hard to keep from using the hill to go as fast as possible. That pays off in the short term, but leaves me worn down from the pounding when I’m looking for the energy to finish the race.
On the other hand, I usually walk through water stops. It’s slower, but I’ve never been really good at drinking on the run, so I walk a little instead. It’s easier to drink if I fold the top of the cup together. Folding the cup keeps the drink from sloshing out and lets me draw it through the narrow opening instead of trying to pour it into my mouth, but unfortunately a lot of races use plastic cups that crack when I fold them.
If it’s a short race and it’s hot, I’ll dump the water on my head to cool off instead of drinking. If I do that, it’s important to ensure that the cup holds water, and not a sugary sports drink.
The water usually sits out for a while before I get to it, getting lukewarm and collecting bugs and dirt. You have to take your chances. The water at one race near Lake Champlain tasted like it came directly from the lake. It crawled around in my stomach until I finally lost the struggle to keep it down in the home stretch. I still might have held on for an age group prize, but unfortunately, it took two vomit breaks before I could get all the water out of my system.
The first two-thirds of any race are always a balancing act, no matter what the distance. Whether it’s the first two miles of a 5K or the first 18 miles of a marathon, the finish line seems like it will never arrive. I’m trying to go as fast as I can without going too fast or letting my form get sloppy. I’m never quite sure whether I should turn it up one last notch, or whether pushing just that little bit more will ruin my race. Unless I’ve already gone too fast and fallen apart, there’s always room to go a little faster.
Then I get to the last third of the race, and my whole attitude changes. I can feel the finish line start to call me. It may get hard – if I’ve set my pace correctly, it will get hard -- but I only need to hold on and keep doing what I’m doing all the way to the finish.
My mind gets lost in what I’m doing. Maybe there’s pain, and maybe the last step was hard, but I know that I made it through that step, and the next one probably won’t be any worse. Soon enough, another pain shows up to distract me from the old pain, and I accept that too. All I have to do is keep taking the next step. If I do, the finish will arrive, almost by itself.
When the finish line comes into view, it’s time to see what’s left in the tank. If I’ve run slowly, I might not think it’s worth kicking in to squeeze out a second or two. Too fast, and I don’t have the choice. I can’t go any faster. But if I’ve run a good race, I’ve got a little extra left, just enough to sprint to the finish. I might not make it much past the finish line before I have to stop catch my breath, and sometimes throw up, but that’s OK.
My race routine isn’t compulsive, really. Really! I’ve gotten to the point where I don’t have to test how hard I can go in every race. I can treat some races just like any other run. I get up, dress and go out for some fun. The biggest differences between these races and a typical run are that I have to pay an entry fee and there are many more people running with me than usual. Then, my enjoyment comes from hanging around with other people who share my love of running. As I’ve gotten older (and slower) this reason to race has become more important.
When I’m running to socialize, I’ll start slow, before easing into my race pace. By running the race at a pace that allows me to talk, I can meet lots of interesting people. We’ll have at least one thing in common to talk about, and as we converse we’re likely to find others. If we don’t, the natural flow of the race will separate us and I'll move on to other people.
By starting slow, I’m often the better runner in the conversation. That’s an advantage when I’m trying to run and talk. Not everyone wants to talk, especially people who are running as fast as they can while I’m lounging along. But I can still help some of those people, by serving as a distraction, a pacer, or an advisor.
Once the race is over, it’s time to celebrate, commiserate, and refuel with the other runners. A good race has finish areas where there’s space for the runners to hang out, food, water, beer and other drinks, bathrooms, and shelter in case the weather’s bad. It’s an extra bonus if there are free massages or showers to help me relax and recover.
After the excitement is over, I need to recover from my effort. That keeps me from jumping right back into hard training. Sometimes, if the race was the focus of a long period of training, it can be hard to find another goal to get me going again. But even when my enthusiasm wanes, habit keeps me going through the motions. Then something new appears, as it always does, and it’s time to start planning for the next race.
The most dangerous thing for me is a successful race. Since I enjoy racing as much as I do, when it's going well I just want to keep racing. But then I race too often, without allowing enough recovery between races, and it's just like training too hard. Soon, my results start to fall off, and if I keep pushing to try and get back where I was, I get sick or injured. But I’m learning – I think.