August 7th, 2010

8 miles. Irish Pub Race (5.2 miles.)
"Everything right is wrong again..." (They Might be Giants)
Showed up in time to sign up, stand in line for 20 minutes for the bathroom, warm up for a little over 2.5 miles and then get ready to run on a gorgeous, relatively cool, dry day. Tim was there and I knew he'd be running well, so I was already thinking I had my work cut out for me.
I saw a guy warming up who looked very familiar and very legit, but I wasn't sure if it was because of his yellow BAA jersey on both fronts. I figured it might be Brendan Prindiville, who I'd always harbored a certain fire for as a target due to 1) his being consistently fast and 2) this idea that he somehow trash-talked me at this very race some 2 years prior.
I've always known that it wasn't so terribly bad (if at all,) whatever it was he said, I know it's just some invention my talkative, anxious head carries around to distract me from the desperation of racing and the fear of the task before me.
I was excited and nervous as hell to race and race hard, as I hadn't in 6 weeks and these 80-90 mile training weeks might be for nought for all I knew (though I suspected that wouldn't be the case.) My warm-up had me feeling good and springy, even after having done 12 yesterday, so I was on the line and ready to go.
The horn sounds and we're off. I'm told that there were well over 1,000 people this year, but I was concerned only with the few around me. It quickly became just Tim and I out front, though I could hear steps close behind.
We went through 1 in 5:12 and I felt great, but still I couldn't have gone much faster this early without getting into a little trouble. I knew that all this training would at least give me some strength later, or at least that's the way it's supposed to work, right?
I hit 2 in a 5:06 and by that point had put maybe 20 feet on what I imagined must be Tim back there (and I think at that point it still was.) I was a little surprised to go through 2 that quick, but it did have a pretty good downhill portion. Still, I felt good.
Started to hit the rollers and went through 3 in another quick one at another 5:06 and was looking at a sub 16 5k split. Nice.
My lead over 2nd was growing and I was determined to go through 4 fast, which I did, in a 5:07.
I figured, I'm pressing and I'm feeling it, but not so much. I'd been flying up hills, using my arms and careening down them.
I had a twinge in what I thought must be my right hammy, but I'd never had any issue with it before, so I just figured it was a little no-race-in-6-weeks tick, so I just went on driving, thinking whoever is in 2nd right now better have a hell of a kick if they're going to get me.
As I passed the water stops and spectators, I could see I was proabably going to take it if I could just hold it together. Then, within that span of 30 feet, I went from, "Gee, that hurts a little," to, "holy shit, that hurts a lot," to "fuck me! I have to stop and work this thing out because it feels like it's about to snap like a rubber band!"
I pulled over and looked back for the first time and some 10 seconds back was Prindiville. I instinctively started to run again and, holding my leg as I tried to get back into a 5:15 groove (unsuccessfully) had him come up to me, still running hard and ask what was up. "I guess it's my hammy, I don't know, I've never had this happen..." I felt angry at my body and wimpy for not having more guts to hammer it out, but more than the pain, which was substantial, was the very real fear that I might tear something irreparably. I also felt terrible that I was putting a weird asterisk on the races of two very legit competitors in Brendan and Tim and that's what I felt worst about.
Anyway, Brendan slowed down and said "Come on, I'll run in with you."
Oh..my..goodness.
Amazing.
I was able to keep it cranking pretty good and we ran the rest of the way side by side and I was trying to insist that he go ahead, as he was going to win this thing and he should, as we train and take risks and bring ourselves to the line as fit as we can and this was the price I was paying for trying to put a little more in the bank, whether it be in training or in the first few miles of flying downhill like I was falling off a cliff.
But he he wouldn't hear of it and we went down 28 together, with everyone on the sidelines thinking this was a hell of a neck and neck battle, when it was in fact a very, very good runner (and even more so an incredibly honorable competitor and gentleman) slowing down for the sake of my bum leg and blown race.
We finished in 27:23 for a 5:13 pace. My best time ever here.
Had I not blown the leg, I'm quite certain I would have gone under 27, but there is no "would've," there is only "did."
Without sounding too hyperbolic, this really has changed the way I will look at many things in ways I probably don't even know yet.
When they put out the results, I was relieved to see that they had Brendan as #1. But of course when the awards came out, as I suspected he might, he insisted that I take the trophy and ring. I tried to refuse, but he wouldn't hear of it. Like, he really wouldn't take it and was so incredibly kind and honorable in asserting his view (which I still disagree with, though it's hardly my place to) that I was the winner today. I know I've overused that word, "honorable," but there is just no better one to describe this act.
I still feel lousy about screwing up someone else's race, but I plan on being at peace with it by actually holding onto this trophy and, unlike the rest of them that have ended up in the garage, keeping it in plain view, where I can look at and remind myself that while there are a number of things I may think I know something about, I don't know everything about anything, and more importantly, I know what grace looks like. Thanks, Brendan (and Tim.)