First Race, Best Race, Worst Race

I started the blog on this website to document my training and experiences as I prepare for my 5 half marathons/5 states/4 weeks road trip next summer. However, as I am still wearing my walking boot the only training I’m able to do involves an exercise bike, which doesn’t make for very interesting content (although I am enjoying watching old episodes of Battle Bots in the basement while I exercise. My six year old is really into it, it’s a new shared thing for us. Anyway.) So for today, I thought I would write about my first significant race, my favorite race that I’ve ever run, and my worst racing experience. Let’s see if I can discover a unifying idea about life as I work through this!

Oh, and I’m talking about races that I ran since I got back into serious running in my late 20s. I’d love to write the story of running the semi-state cross country meet my sophomore year of high school and losing my glasses on the first turn so I had to run the whole race blind, but that was 30 years ago and I literally just told you every detail I can recall. Onward!

First Race. The first race I ran once I got back into serious running (after I started dating my future wife, found the will power to quite smoking, and generally started working on getting my act together) was the Indianapolis Mini-Marathon in the Spring of 2009. At the time, running 13.1 miles sounded like an impossible feat, no different than saying I was going to run to the moon or something. But I signed up and commenced a very loose training regimen, ultimately relying on “being 28” more than strict monitoring of VO2 max as my secret weapon. A few weeks before the race, I received a thick envelope in the mail from the Mini-marathon, and I said to myself,. “Ah, this must have my bib for the race in it, I will put it somewhere safe,” and put it, unopened, on a shelf. I was coaching high school track at the time, and we had a meet the Friday night before the race. It was a cool evening in the low 50s, and a brief but intense squall of rain rolled through before things started, thoroughly soaking me and my cotton sweatshirt and dockers. Then the temperature dropped. That might have been the most serious danger I’ve been in because of cold, even though I’ve been in much colder conditions. At one point, I went to the bathroom and my hands were so numb I couldn’t work the buttons on my pants—- I got it done somehow, and then was able to borrow a jacket from an assistant coach and live through the experience.

When I finally got home that night, very stressed about the fact that I’d been out in the rain and cold for hours the night before this big race, I opened up that envelope from the race committee to discover that it contained not my bib, but the credentials I was supposed to have used at the expo earlier that week to pick up the bib I needed in order to enter the race. Having only ever run high school competition races and neighborhood fun runs before, I had never heard of a race expo and had no idea that, as the handout in the envelope clearly stated., “THERE ARE NO RACE DAY PACKET PICK UPS. YOU WILL NOT BE ADMITTED TO THE RACE WITHOUT YOUR PACKET.” I was devastated, having spent several months earning people’s respect by announcing I was training for the mini I had no desire to have to tell all of them that I didn’t run because I didn’t open an envelope. I decided to show up the next morning with the expo ticket and hope for the best.

I arrived the next morning dressed to run and carrying the expo ticket, went to my assigned corral, and was told in no uncertain terms that I would be unable to join the race without my bib. In a total panic and unsure what else to do, I stood next to the gate with a not-so-bright look on my face while the race started and thousands of people started jogging past me. And then, as the serious runners sped off into the distance and the fun runners and walkers started to pass by, security let their guard down and I jumped into the race. I ran whole 13.1 miles without credentials, confident that, at any moment, race stewards were going to wrestle me to the ground and throw me in mini-marathon jail. That didn’t happen. I finished the race, and my time of 1:52 and change remains my all time half marathon PR—- I’ve probably run twenty more 13.1 milers in the years after that one and never gotten close to the time I ran on next to no training, with no race bib, and nearly having died of hypothermia the night before. The power of being 28! When I told the story to my class the next week, one of my students told me, “That’s so punk rock!” and this remains one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.

Worst Race. As for the worst race I’ve ever run., that was a few years later. Having completed the mini and discovered that this accomplishment did not make me feel that my life was now complete because of this monumental accomplishment, I decided I would need to run a full marathon, which would, no doubt, finally eliminate all of my self doubt forever. I knew I couldn’t jump off the couch and run 26.2 miles the way I had the mini, so I made an effort to follow an actual training plan. In order to motivate myself to stick with it, I signed up for a series of other races of increasing difficulty leading up to the marathon. I didn’t stick to my training plan, but I showed up for the races anyway, which is how I ended up running a 30 kilometer race that I was in no way prepared for.

When I arrived at the race, I knew I wasn’t in enough shape to run 18 miles, so my plan was to run the first nine miles at my race pace, then walk the entire tenth mile, then run the remainder of the race at whatever pace seemed comfortable. I did not design this plan with the help of any kind of coach or expert, it just seemed like a thing that might work. I forgot to wear my watch to the race, but I assumed there would be timers and supporters out on the course that could give me a sense of how I was doing. It was a cold, rainy day, but I was confident that it wouldn’t affect me all that much. The other side of the superpowers of being young is stupidity.

Before the race started, we were told that many of the volunteers for the course had not shown up because of the weather, so we wouldn’t be able to count on manned mile markers or water/nutrition support on the course. I definitely would not be getting regular updates on my time. As the race started, I was worried about this, but I figured I would be with the big pack of runners and things would work out alright. Remember, my only previous experience running a race this long was the Indianapolis Mini, literally one of the most popular races in the country. This random 30k, the name of which I don’t remember, was not that. I didn’t appreciate at the start of the race that this meant I could not count on being surrounded by a constant moving crowd of other runners (this is called foreshadowing…).

The race started and I went out too fast, because that’s what I always do. I knew I was running too fast, but I liked running with the faster runners and felt confident in my “walk the middle mile” plan. I made it through the first half of the race OK, and, as planned, dropped down to a walk. It was raining, it was cold, and a steady stream of runners passed me as I walked along the empty sidewalks of Indianapolis. I couldn’t help but notice that the stream of runners was getting thinner and thinner, and also more depressing as the level of athleticism of the people jogging past me steadily decreased. But I stuck to my plan. By the time I found the next mile mark and started running, I was alone.

But “started running” is not entirely accurate. I had done 80 minutes or so of vigorous exercise followed by fifteen minutes of walking on a 40 degree day in the rain. Every muscle in my body had tightened up and started to cramp. When I told myself to push it back up to race pace, my quads made a sound like the Millennium Falcon’s disabled hyperdrive and I started shuffling along. By myself. With no way to tell how long I had been out on the course or how far I still had to go. There were no volunteers, only a few mile markers, and sporadic paint on the sidewalk indicating which way to go. For long stretches of the race, I had no idea if I was still on the course or not. I ran past a golf course named “Purgatory” and legitimately wondered if I had died. Somehow, I shuffled to the end of the source, staggered through the finish chute as the race staff was packing up, and made it home. From that point on, whenever I find myself running a race and start feeling unsure if I have enough fitness to finish it, I remind myself that I survived running through literal Purgatory and I can probably survive this other race too.

Best Race. The best race I ran was just a few years ago, on Grand Island in Lake Superior. This story will be shorter because It’s a pleasant memory and those make for less compelling drama. It’s a story of everything working out great—- I had a pleasant drive up to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and checked into a wonderful AirBnB cabin in the woods with no TV or cell reception. We caught the ferry out to the island at sunrise and I took some amazing photos of daybreak over my favorite body of water. The island itself is almost entirely undeveloped, but the trail was not too technical or challenging. We got to run along the beach for stretches, up and over some hills, along clifftops, and finished by running out into the brisk refreshing waters of the big lake they call gitchigoomie. Every aspect of the race production was great, I had designed my training regimen perfectly, and I finished with a profound sense of satisfaction. See, that’s a less entertaining story.

So, what does it all mean? These stories are good evidence of the fact that I was faster in my twenties but much happier in my forties, I suppose. A reminder that running has been one of the great through-lines of my life. An explanation of why being injured has made me so depressed, but also inspiration for me that this too shall pass and I will be back out on the trail before too long. And, hopefully, it was entertaining to read. This website is part of a fundraiser I’m doing for the National Diaper Bank, please click the donate button!