I don’t run 10K’s anymore.
A hip replacement last summer put all doubt to rest. The hip doc said he occasionally allows his hardcore distance runners to jog a couple miles a day. That’s ok. I was never that class of runner and I haven’t competed in years. I miss the commemorative t-shirts more than the actual running.
I ran my first race in May 1993 in Fairfax Virginia. Dubbed the second annual Fritzbe’s Restaurant 10K, I edged my way inside the growing pre-start crowd of runners. Somewhere in front of me lies the starting line, obscured by the masses. Where I begin doesn’t matter. I do not expect to compete for a medal today or set any land speed records. I have two goals. Finish the race and do it in less than 60 minutes. The final results are all that matters.
I trained for today by myself and occasionally with my roommate Chris. Unlike me, Chris is an endurance freak. At 6’5” 240 pounds, he can outrun and out lift everybody I know. He possesses the odd combination of being able to pump iron with the meat heads and run with the marathoners. When he learned I planned to run this race, he immediately signed up and began training with me. My pace is painfully slow for him. I’m pretty sure he can walk faster.
We’re surrounded by every imaginable type of runner. Tall people, short people, skinny people, fat people, young people, and old people. Some look like professionals. Some look like they have no idea what they are doing. I own a pair of Brooks running shoes. Other than that, I look like another oafish participant hoping not to tie up my feet with some hapless runner after the starting gun fires.
As I bounce on the balls of my feet, anticipating the crack of the gun, Chris gets my attention. He asks if it’s okay to run his pace and not with me. I see the competitive look in his eyes and know that it’s not really a question, but a statement.
I prepared for this race by running 6 miles on Mondays, 4 miles on Fridays, and 2 miles for time on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Chris often ran on Mondays with me, but I’d done it alone, too. I felt prepared to finish the race with him or without him. I put in the effort and finishing in under an hour is all that matters.
I nod to him and say absolutely. No sooner do the words pass my lips, the starting gun sounds. We’re literally off and running. The first thing I see is Chris’s back as he knifes his way through the field of competitors. Within minutes he’s gone.
Apple music does not exist in 1993.
iPhones do not exist in 1993. iPods do not exist in 1993. Al Gore is still yet to invent the internet. All I hear in my head is my own breathing. I could have lugged my Walkman cassette player, but opted out since I had a partner to run with. Had is now the key word.
The crowd and I haven’t run more than half a mile and everybody seems to pass me. I feel compelled to run faster, but a coworker previously warned me not to get caught in the herd mentality of the race. I stay determined and go my pace, disregarding the competitive instinct to keep up. A 10 year old boy plods past me, wearing hightop basketball shoes. It’s early, but that visual concerns me.
A couple of months ago, I share my race plans with some married friends, Norm and Anthula. I tell Norm I want to finish the race in under an hour. He laughs and says even Anthula could run a 10K in under an hour. He doesn’t mean to be condescending to his wife. She’s not an avid runner. Norm could run like a deer. He couldn’t fathom not making it in 60 minutes. Having zero race experience, I know that going over the time is a possibility for me.
Each kilometer of the race is marked out.
However, I am not wearing a watch. I have no idea if I’m on pace to finish in under an hour. As I approach the 5K mark, I can hear distant cheering from the finish line direction. The fastest runners are completing the race. I respect them and hate them, all within the same gasping breath.
The best runners could run around a 5 minute mile pace for the 10K duration. That places the time at roughly 30 minutes. I decide there’s too much margin for error with my current pace. I slightly pick up my cadence and trudge forward. One foot after another.
Water stations are sporadically placed throughout the course. Even though I’m not thirsty, grabbing a drink seems like the thing to do. I snatch a paper cup from a jovial volunteer. Instead of rehydrating, I inhale the majority of the contents. I choke and cough up water, hoping the gag reflex doesn’t prompt a vomiting episode. I survive, but make a mental note that water is no longer my friend.
The course is covered in hills. One big incline after another. Fortunately, each hill has an equally impressive decline. But I loathe running up hills. I adopt a new strategy and begin running faster while on the incline. On the declines I slow my pace and regain composure.
Some of the people I pass on the uphills, pass me on the declines. I probably look funny, but shortening my time on the uphills psychologically motivates me. I feel like I’m conquering the hard part quicker. By the 7K mark I’m certain that Chris stands on the other side of the finish line.
As I pass the 8K mark, I see a familiar sight.
It’s hightop boy. He runs noticeably slower and he appears to be struggling. I don’t know if I ever passed any of the other early race participants that streamed by me, but this one I clearly remember. I stride by him and snicker to myself. Who’s going to finish with a better time now, I smugly think. I’m 80% done with my first race and I’m already turning into a 10K douchebag.
I pick up the pace as my adrenaline rises, knowing that the finish line is so close. I still have no idea where I sit for time, but I do recognize the need to push through. The hills are over and it’s a fairly flat course to the finish line. Once I see the end point, I run as fast as my legs will allow. Unfortunately, this is not a significant increase in speed.
I cross the line and record a time of 58 minutes and 32 seconds. From a running perspective, that sucks. But it was under my goal time, so that’s great. After all, I’m not a real runner, just somebody who owns the shoes.
The great part about a bar and grill sponsoring the race is the mass quantity of food and drinks at the end. Sure it’s only 9AM, but it’s the weekend and all of this is free for participants. Oddly I find beer does not go down well after running a 10K. But that’s fine. The bloody Mary’s were far more palatable.
After woofing down a couple of burgers and pushing my vegetable intake through tomato juice and vodka, I spot hightop boy. He made it and doesn’t look too worse for wear. He probably looks better than I do. I want to go toast him and share a drink, but like I said, he’s 10 years old and his parents will likely disapprove.
Still, it’s good to see he made it. I bet he could care less about his time. For God sake, he ran a 10K in hightop basketball shoes! My feet, knees, and back ache just thinking about it. The time never really mattered. Under 60 minutes was a random goal I made up. It was more to shore up my sense of masculinity after Norm’s comment. The results were the results. The only thing that really mattered was the effort.