August 15th, 2010

Falmouth Road Race.
I have never been on a starting line with such little confidence in myself. It felt at that moment before the drawbridge in Woods Hole today as if I were in someone else's stale, airless dream.
I was in the second row, directly behind Lel and the Kenyan contingent; London Marathon Champs, Olympic medalists, World Cross champs, all right there. To my right was the incredibly tiny and tuned eventual women's winner, to my left, a bunch of the local usual suspects who I normally would regard as the people I wanted to and would beat today, but now I looked at them from within this foreign bubble and they just seemed as if they were the ones who were really going to race, as they should, as they were - of course - prepared to do.
I had arrived early and hung out for some time with the incredibly cool and history-rich Mike McGrane. Talked with Fitz for a while, spoke with Chris George for a while. I saw Jason Cakouros and he always makes me feel good somehow.
The main thing I will remember and what made my nearly-and-actually injured state real was Sean Doherty.
He has always been a serendipitously positive person in my life; seemingly showing up as if summoned. He probably had never seen me looking this vulnerable and I'd never really felt as such, but it was plain to see. I never complain about injuries, especially before or after a race. It is something beyond poor taste, it is simply a shit thing to do if you have any respect for your competitors or yourself.
It was after the warmup, after trying a wrap and seeing that it made no difference and then putting Bio-Freeze on it (which also did nothing but make my right leg feel as if it were preparing to run the MV 20 Miler,) that I was really accepting that this was not where I wanted to be.
Don't get me wrong, being the running geek that I am, getting to lounge around the start with some of the best athletes in the world and be treated essentially as a fellow competitor is a once-a-year gift, and one I don't even know how many more of I will receive. Still I knew that they would all be racing for real, or at least they were going to do their best to do so, whereas I was beginning to accept more and more that I didn't stand a chance.
Why dig such a hole? Why not hope for the best? Well, that's precisely what I was doing; hoping.
So here I was, directly behind Lel and BANG! the gun goes and elbows fly and where normally I would be fighting for position, I settled back, as I not only did I want to not get in the way of anyone actually ready to race, but I felt fragile as an old man. I knew if I stood any chance of making this race work at all, it was to mind my steps, every movement, which might somehow allow the leg to hold up, maybe even relax, as I asked it to drive forward at the rate my heart and lungs had become accustomed to.
The plan: 5:08 first mile, all that downhill, 5:08 2nd, working the rollers, carry it from there.
The road curved and I was finally free of the box of elite women I'd gotten trapped in and I felt OK, not great, but OK. We went down the first hill and I kept my stride quick and low. The last thing I could afford to do was pound with big bounding steps, which this early in the race, my lungs would have appreciated and I knew it. It occurred to me then, "Is this how it's going to go? Am I going to be wondering the whole way if I can run? Am I going to be sacrificing any and all enjoyment of racing, of pushing to just prove for something that is little more than a result?"
I pressed on. 5:08 for the first. Ok, that works. I still don't feel right, but if i was able to stay on pace when I'm off, then maybe that's a good thing? (oh, the rationalizations.)
All through the next mile, I was keenly aware of this tightness that pulsed like a heartbeat almost independent of my footstrike. Each time I raised my left leg, somewhere in the hamstring, it would nearly cramp, feeling as if the next step would snap it and have me on the ground. All through that mile, it felt just like that. 5:15. Not bad, but not what I wanted and I knew I had given up a good 5-10 seconds on just stress and adjustment. The next mile saw more tightness and more cramping and my lungs now began to not want to take it anymore, as they seemed to have a voice of their own that was saying, "If we're not all going to be on the same page here, we're going to have to slow this whole thing down." I realized how much energy was going to all this changing of what has always come so easily to me.
When I say "easily," I don't mean that I just glide along with little effort in these races, rather to the contrary. My best races have me riddled with fear and doubt, but my preparedness and fitness and ability to deny pain allow me to not only press on, but to dare my body to defy me.
Now it was, because I had not brought it to this biggest and most favorite of races with anything close to a sense of symmetry and readiness.
Mile 3 clicked off at 5:21 and the doubt took over, and as it did, the leg gave way. It cramped and seized and straightened like a dying horse, easing up for 4 or 5 steps and then seizing again. I know this course and I did still think, for a few moments, "Hey, the flatness of Surf Drive is coming up. Maybe I can hammer that, get my wits about me since I won't be climbing this might just loosen up."
It was as if my leg was listening, which of course it could not help doing, since it was indeed this part of my body I was most addressing. Boom! It cramped again and that was it. I pulled over and immediately felt relief. Relief that this worry I'd carried since the Irish Pub race some 8 days earlier where my record pace had crumbled under this injury-out-of-nowhere was silenced.
I rubbed it for a bit, took off my shirt so no one who I didn't know would see my number or my "Whirlaway" sign (regardless of the sensibility of my decision, dropping from a race is a shame I don't want to put on my team,) and started running easy, which after the burning racing was @ 6:10 pace.
I ran the remaining 3.8 miles with a few friends, new acquaintances (Max Darrah being one of them, who is just as happy and kind a character as one might gather from his Facebook page and anything you hear about him,) and with my blinders on.
As I saw spectators who knew me, they gave me the "what happened?" look and I just shrugged, not wanting to take away from anyone else's race or attention in the is much-heralded event.
I crested the hill and saw the Deegs and they knew, of course, something had gone, and it was OK. I ran down and saw everyone flying by me finishing strong, their goal of whatever time they wanted either getting closer or slipping from reach, but damn if they weren't going to give it their all. This was where I felt the most depressed, because I certainly had no right to kick it in and anyway, my leg had barely made it this far, so trying to speed up would be folly. The irresistible crowds which exactly a year earlier I had been beckoning to carry me home as I ran 36:51, were now a sad reminder that someone else was being carried, and not me.
I slinked off before the timing mat and hopped a fence, not wanting this day to be recorded any more than it already had been.
I wandered into the infield and graciously accepted the congratulations of the assembled volunteers.
This was when I realized I could swallow my pride and do what I would normally do; get a hot dog. And so I did.
The food volunteers welcomed me with cheers, as I was the first guy to grab a dog, just like last year. They didn't need to know my race had gone south. I didn't even need to know. I just needed a hot dog.
I ran into Tim and of course, his race had gone swimmingly and he was going to run more and so I went with him, still hurting, but desperately needing to share the end of this running day with someone who could relate. Lo and behold, we ran into Brendan Prindiville, who had run 36:30, just like I'd wanted to, and he was, as last week, generous and thoughtful.
Then I saw Rita and then I ran back to the field, got another dog (not nearly as good an idea as the first) and met up with the Deegs (where Tom pointed to the red and blue bruise of blood pooling behind my knee; not a huge worry, but a clear sign that the damage today was not limited to my spirit.)
So, on the day, I ran a wonderful warmup amidst my heroes, I ran a lousy race for 3 miles, I ran a strange but pleasant 4 miles and then 1 easy but meaningful mile at the end.
I note all this because it gives me 10 on the day, 48 for the week and it will be at least 5 days before I post another run-mileage report, as I am taking at least 5 off before I even think about running. I can afford to do it, but not for too long. One thing's for sure, if I don't, it may be even longer before I get all my parts to work together, as they always have.

M- 6
T- 6
W- 11
Th- 9 (5/4)
F- 0
Sa- 6
Su- 10

Week- 48 miles