2018 Running/Cycling Thread - Page 5

This race was a fun one. It nearly never happened.

Forest fires have engulfed huge stretches of BC this year. Among the many unfortunate consequences of these fires is the smoke they’ve pumped into the atmosphere. For reasons not quite clear to me, this smoke (along with small particulate matter from the fires and sundry other nasty hangers-on) has amazing transitive properties. It can travel amazing distances without dispersing, causing awful air quality wherever it arrives and lingers. I’ve seen news stories about smoke from the fires causing the air quality to plummet in Nova Scotia, which is more than 4,000 km east of the fires.

But the favorite destination of BC smoke is usually Alberta. This summer has been no exception. Edmonton was positively swathed in smoke for most of August, with hideous air quality and almost no sunshine. When my flight landed on the Friday before the race and I first breathed in a lungful of prickly, sticky, burning air, my first thought was: hoo boy, I can’t race in this.

A call to a friend who is a respirologist on Saturday strengthened my skepticism. She told me that running in bad air can do long-term damage to your lungs, and urged me not to race if the air quality was 6 or high on the air quality health index, a measure devised by the federal government. At that point I was almost certain I would not run. The AQHI on Saturday morning was 10+, the highest rating on the scale. It was forecast to improve overnight and be OK for Sunday, but I took a “I’ll believe it when I see it” attitude to the prediction. Lungs are useful things, you know? I’d personally prefer to use mine to their utmost for as long as possible.

Then on Saturday night, things cleared up with remarkable speed. By Sunday morning the AQHI was 4 and heading down. The race went forward. The fact that air quality immediately degraded again on Monday is proof positive, I believe, that Sunday’s clearance was a special dispensation from the gods of running.

This miraculous atmosphere extended to the race itself. For perhaps the first time in recorded history, everything went according to my race plan.

That plan, which I’d developed in consultation with my coach, was this: run somewhere around 3:35/k for the first 10k of the race and then make a game-time decision. If it’s hard, just dig in and hang on; 3:35/k nets you 1:15 and change in a half marathon, and that’s enough for my goal race this training cycle (Victoria marathon on October 7, where I hope to run 2:3X). If you’re feeling good, hit the gas a bit and have fun.

After the disaster of the BMO half in Vancouver in June (see earlier in this thread for my outrageous and pathetic whinging in its aftermath), and my very underwhelming run in the lead leg of the Sinister 7 ultra in July, I desperately wanted a race to go well. I wanted racing to be fun again. Most of all, I wanted to feel afterwards like I’d given a good, strong effort.

All of which made me more conscientious than usual when the starter’s pistol fired. Instead of getting carried away for a mile and a half, as is my custom, I cooled my jets and tried to lock in on goal pace. This was a bit tricky as the field was pretty crowded at the start. The field was in the neighbourhood of 2,000, I believe, which necessitated some jostling and dodging in the opening few miles. I made a note of a few runners who I thought I might see later at this stage.

By 5k I was cruising in the wake of a dude rocking some salmon pink shorts. I gave him the private nickname of Chinook in honor of this. I thought he was running just the right pace to take me to 10k in 36 minutes.

But this soon proved false. I realized, listening to Chinook’s breathing over a mile or so, that he was working much too hard to keep this pace up to the 10k mark. Not wanting to get caught up in what I saw as his inevitable fade--I don’t mean that he’d literally grab on to me, of course, but rather that I’d subconsciously slow a bit or just settle into a too-comfortable rhythm running next to him--I made a gentle push off the front to put some distance between us and stick to the plan.

This brought me within spitting distance of another runner who I thought might be a good pace buddy to the 10k mark. But the situation repeated itself again: we ran together for a bit, I decided I’d be better on my own, and made a small push off the front.

Now I was less than a mile from 10k. The watch said I’d been running 3:34/k and I was feeling good. The course got a bit twisty here, but on the straights I could see a running duo I recognized from the start of the race. It was composed of a man and a woman. I assumed the woman was one of the elite field and the man was pacing her to some kind of goal time. I went through 10k in a little under 36 minutes and decided to try and catch them. It took me about two miles to reel them in, which took us just to the point where the course straightened out again.

They must not have been a pacing team, because they actually split before my arrival. I passed the woman first and then the man. Both times when I made contact, my thoughts were the same: “Boy, it sounds like you’re working hard. I don’t think I’m hurting as bad as you. I bet I can push on a little more.”

The male I thought might pick up and race me to the finish, but to my mild dismay he rolled over almost as soon as I pulled even with him. Before long we exchanged words of encouragement and parted ways.

Now I was in no man’s land. I could see, on the straight stretches of road, my friend S a little ways ahead of a man in a neon singlet, who I’m going to call Neon Keon here. I thought I probably couldn’t catch S, but I decided to have a go at Neon Keon. I’d say he was about 300 metres up the road from me.

We were approaching the 15k mark here and I was starting to hurt. But with just 6k to go, that felt OK. I thought of some of my workouts in the last few months and told myself that I could hurt for that long.

I always feel a strong urge, in the early portions of a race, to deny that I’m working hard. I think this is an attempt at psychological self-preservation: if you admit to yourself, five percent into a race, that you’re barely hanging on, the realization of the amount of pain in front of you can be overwhelming and dispiriting.

Conversely, I find, towards the end of a race or a hard workout, it can be liberating to say to yourself: self, you’ve done some good work so far. You’re doing great, and there’s not far to go here. Pin your ears back, go hell for leather, and show the devil a clean pair of heels.

Which is more or less what I said to myself here. Abandoning by inches the conservatism that had brought me to that point in the race, I opened up the throttle and tried to run Neon Keon down.

Not long after I hit the gas, a voice in the crowd called out that “S is not that far ahead!” I craned around to see my coach standing there, giving me the thumbs up. I flashed a thumb at him and ran on.

One of the reasons I love running the Edmonton half is the crowds. It’s not Boston or Chicago or anything, but for a race of its size it gets some pretty large and rowdy groups of spectators. Plus, since I spent most of my life in Edmonton and know many runners there, the odd person in the crowd will recognize me and call out encouragement by name as I pass.

This happened a few more times as I chased Neon Keon. I stared at his neon top with a maniacal obsession and imagined a rubber band linking our waists, slowly cinching us together.

He must have known I was chasing him, because with about two miles to go he turned back and looked at me. When that I happened, I thought “I’ve got you now.”

We went through the biggest cheer group on the course right after that, with pounding music and bubble-blowing machines and people holding all manner of fun signs. I reached my hand out for a high-five and an acquaintance of mine, who I hadn’t seen in years and didn’t know would be at the race, popped out of the crowd and delivered and epic high-five. I put in a small surge and screamed around the final turn in the course. I was less than 10 metres back of Neon Keon at this point.

Right after this turn, there is a very modest uphill--a gentle grade that lasts no more than 100 metres. But, much like Heartbreak Hill in Boston, the location of this feature right at the end of the race can make it seem like a monstrous hill if you are hurting enough. Neon Keon must have been at the limits of his strength, because he slowed to a crawl when he hit it.

Passing people in a race is sometimes called “scalping”, as in “I can’t believe Bob scalped Galen Rupp in that 5k!” I’d never really thought about why the term is used until I passed Neon Keon. It felt personal and somehow gruesome and rude and primal. It was just the two of us on the course, neither able to speak, having a weirdly intimate moment. I felt like I was somehow ripping some part of him away as I passed.

I must have been flagging myself at this point, because my splits show I ran the 20th K in 3:39. My watch had been reading 3:32/k since I passed halfway. Now it jumped up to 3:33. I summoned the last of my strength and emptied the gas tank over the last mile.

My chip time was 1:14:05, about as good as I could hope for. I had a ton of fun, received a huge dose of positive vibes for my Victoria training, and remembered why I love running so much.

S still beat me by about 50 seconds, though. I’ll have to wait until next year to try again.

I can’t wait.

Basically looking to make 50k+ a year, ideally 75k+ working 30 hours a week by 35. I absolutely love endurance athletics and coaching, so that is a part of that plan. Credibility is a part of that, and I still somewhat lack the credentials I'd like to have as both a rider and a runner. Not to mention I have unfinished business with these sports.

Minimum, I want my Cat2 in cycling so I can go to nationals for CSU in spring 2020. Then, if the body can still do it, I want to run sub 4:30, 16:30, and sub 1:15. A marathon would be nice to have on the resume, but it takes a long time to build up to a successful one of those.