What does running a race feel like?
That’s what my friend Kelly wants to know. I learned in my very first journalism class that one of the things you cannot talk about without attribution is how another person feels. Such instances of “ESP” earned you a ride in a virtual ejection seat (this professor is pretty entertaining).
But having run tons of 5Ks and half-marathons myself, I can describe my own experience.
Narrowing it down to single words depends on the day: exhilarating, frustrating, satisfying, free, exhausting, amazing, painful, essential.
The first one is anxious confidence. Standing in a corral with hundreds or thousands or tens of thousands of my sportily attired best friends, I know I put in the training yet there are no guarantees of what will happen once the gun goes off. In the last minutes the adrenaline begins to build. A national anthem or jet flyover (that’s only happened once) only enhance that.
BOOM. We’re off. The first half-mile of 13.1 is chaos. I’m alternating between flying and throwing on the brakes as I navigate my way through a dense crowd of people running at all different speeds. I try to move to the far left where there’s usually a lane to avoid much of the craziness, but often it’s like playing sideways Frogger finding the right nooks to duck in and the right people to follow.
Then the crowd thins out as we spread into an ever elongating snake through the streets of whatever city. I try to get a sense of how well I made it through relative to my goal pace but the real answer comes with a sign that says “Mile 1.” The time on my watch is almost always faster than I expect, bringing immediate instructions from body management to breathe and settle into my pace.
It’s here that I take a good look around, checking out the scenery and those around me. Is there someone who’s running my goal pace? Someone a tiny bit faster? Let’s keep them in view and let their strides lead the way.
The next few miles are the hardest. They’re the ones that make me question my sanity and whether I can maintain this pace for another hour. I do my best to not think about how many miles remain, but it’s impossible. Breathe. Settle in. When my stride or pace feels off, I often think of a song to get me back on course. This song:
WE are, YEAH I said it, WE are….LEFT right, LEFT right then, LEFT again…That’s my fast, comfortable pace. I’m working hard, but not destroying my legs in mile 4. I do this on my tempo training runs too, so while the music plays in my head, I see the bike trail by my house flying by in the memories of runs that I CRUSHED.
Miles 5, 6, 7…cruising. Confidence builds with each one. In my head these are the miles I “click off” as if they are checkboxes on a form. Get through that seventh mile anywhere near goal pace and I’m on top of the world. I’m about to hit the stretch where I feel the best. My stride is open and free, gliding along knowing I’m only counting down the miles now. I think ahead to the finish where volunteers, family, friends and random city people will be lining the street yelling encouragement while thumping music plays and a guy on the PA calls out names of people crossing the line.
Miles 8, 9, 10…Thoughts of Sunday mornings at sunrise stepping outside my house and doing long runs at these distances. Week after week, building muscle, getting used to being on my feet that long, up hills, through heat and cold, splashing carefree through the rain. At the end of this leg is a major mental milestone. Just a measly little 5K to go. The math is easier too. Figuring out what time is possible in mile 7 is an educated guess. At mile 10, I’m adding three numbers with a much better idea of what’s left in the tank.
Mile 11 I’m hanging on. One more good one to set me up for the final stretch. Breathe. Push. Forget about what hurts. Think of the food at the finish line. Twenty more minutes of hard work and then I can collapse on the couch the rest of the day. I’m not running for a week after this so there’s no reason to leave anything in reserve.
Mile 12. Go. Go go go. I’m thinking about the million two-mile runs I’ve done, many of them with a giant hill after working all night. This is cake. I try to pick out someone ahead of me to catch. It won’t happen immediately — this is a longer game. I have two miles to reel them in. At the same time, my mind turns to a macro view. All those training runs, those first 11 miles, and here we are. There’s only a tiny bit left. WE’RE DOING THIS. No matter how many times I’ve raced this distance, the end is a real thing. It’s an accomplishment, something I’ve worked toward for months and I’m about to reap the reward of every drop of sweat.
My greatest race memory is mile 12 of the Raleigh City of Oaks Half-Marathon in 2009. I think about it all the time when I need a boost on a long run:
That was the best mile I’ll ever run in my life. Not the fastest by any measure — the BEST. The biggest shot of adrenaline surged through my veins when I saw 7:18. Not only was it ridiculous for me to go that fast in mile 12, it was at that point that I knew I was going to crush my personal best. I went into that race wanting to finish in 1:45, and with this mile I knew I could do the next one in 9 minutes and still beat that goal. Anyone looking on would have seen me pumping my fist. YEAH!!
Mile 13. The finish line calls. The first half of this mile is like number 11 — hang on. The second half is about pushing every last bit of energy through the soles of my shoes as my legs and lungs burn. And yet, it’s a celebration in my mind. Just like the last leg of the Tour de France where the winner glides along sipping champagne, my brain knows at this point how close we are to being done and how satisfying it will be to stand there with a medal around my neck.
With every step the city gets louder. A few people here and there on the sidewalk becomes small groups, then entire blocks with a line of people holding signs and offering WOOOOOOs and shouts of encouragement with the names of the runners around me. Cow bells are ringing. The bass of the finish line sound system is thumping. The archway with its ticking clock comes into view. Yes yes yes yes yes, go go go go go. Finish. Finish. Finish.
A few more steps, a big exhale and a glance at my watch. A personal best, right on goal time, a little slower or a time that means I simply finished. Breathe. Relax. Drink. Another look at my watch and I’m already debriefing. Whatever that number means, I’m evaluating it in light of how I trained, and what happened during that race.
But most of all I am done. I have accomplished. I will eat pizza and take a nap. And in a week I will tie my shoes, step outside my door, and take the first steps toward next time.
