Racing Halves

Before my last half marathon, I sat on a towel behind my car and stretched. The morning wasn't exceptionally cold, the garage was covered (the second level of a downtown Austin bank affair), and it was early enough not to be too busy (i.e. I wasn't in danger of being run over). I'd rarely, if ever, stretched before a run or a race, but I'd also rarely, if ever, been a month away from my forty-ninth birthday. And I'd learned in the course of my training that my legs responded better on longer runs if they'd been stretched. Easy math.

I was nervous that morning, perhaps somewhat irrationally so. It wasn't about racing. Or the distance. In my twenties, when they said I should win, should set a PR, my nerves were exclusively attached to the race and my ability to perform at a high enough level. I knew I wasn't racing for anything other than myself that morning. I set a goal of sub-1:50, entirely too conservative and pedestrian for me, but such a goal should have prevented pre-race jitters. And it did. I wasn't worried about my finish time; even if I totally blew up, I'd be able to run at least a 1:50. I'd trained enough - Ok, I didn't run enough but I'd done enough long runs - to know how fast I could cover the distance. The majority of my training runs had been good, maybe even better than good, so I knew what I was capable of. Finishing definitely wasn't a worry and, because I'd set a ridiculously slow goal, neither was the clock. 

I stretched that morning partly to get my legs ready for what was assuredly coming, but - as much as I don't want to say it - I think I also did it to stretch my mind. To relax. And to psyche up. As I ran through my flexibility routine, I listened to contemporary classical music - a few from my favorite composer, Ludovico Einaudi. Once I was suitably relaxed, I switched it up; I needed ferocity. I turned to the "GI Jane" soundtrack, then I to a trailer for the new Lara Croft movie. 

"It will be an adventure," Lara says.

"Death is not an adventure," replies her trusty side-kick (all action heroes have one). 

Just a couple seconds of a couple minute long trailer, but damned if I didn't come back to those two lines a couple times during the race. And, if I'm honest, more than a couple times since. 

What was I so nervous about that morning? What was I afraid of? Variables. 13.1 miles is a long way and a lot can happen. Weather - too hot, too cold, humidity, rain, sun, sleet.  The body - muscle fatigue and cramping, digestive disturbances, needing a porta-john, frozen hands/feet. Equipment - shoes, laces, socks, appropriate clothing for the weather. Injury - a twisted ankle, losing footing and falling. Obviously some are reasonably controllable. If you do what you've always done, you'll get fairly consistent results. Like, I can wear socks I know I like, shoes too. I can eat what I always eat the night before and the morning of. I can dress in a way that I think will accommodate the weather, but, man, 13.1 miles is a long way to be over-dressed. Or under-dressed. I'd done everything as "right" as I could, but let me assure you, on race day - when the race is a half marathon - nothing is a given. Nothing.

I felt ok for the first few miles, but just ok. There was a log-jam at the starting line - too many slow amateurs who didn't quite understand that they should have started closer to the back of the pack - so my first mile was slow as I picked my way through the crowd. The Austin Marathon Half Marathon starts off going (literally) up South Congress, which slowed me down as well. I turned the corner onto South First and once I got on the downhill, I breathed a sigh of relief - my legs felt good and I was ready to execute my race plan. Though common knowledge says to hold back on the big downhill stretch - so as not to shred the quads - I'm a downhill runner; it's my strength. I pushed the pace (within reasonable limits) and came through the 10k mark at near record pace. I still had the flats along Lake Austin Boulevard to go before I hit Enfield. The Enfield section of the race is a potential shredder for me - Unlike the steady incline on SoCo, the Enfield hills undulate with steep uphill sections followed by not-as-steep-as-you'd-expect downhills. In 2017, I was taken completely by surprise, novice error completely, but this year I was better prepared. I knew my pace would slow but I'd banked some time on the SoFi section, all part of my race plan. I'd done a lot of Spinning to increase my leg strength and it paid off. In the toughest section of the race, I managed to keep my pace, my legs, and my nerve steady. I wasn't entirely undaunted - I still ran perhaps too conservatively - but I was no longer as scared as I'd been.

Somewhere on Enfield, something happened. Usually in the mid-to-late stages of a race, I regret ever learning to walk much less signing up for a half marathon (What in the fuck was I thinking? I paid to suffer like this?!?). However, on the morning of Sunday, February 18th, as I told myself to just keep peeling off the miles, I had an epiphany. Even with the misery and doubt that invariably plagued me through much of the race (Can I hold this pace? Will I blow up on Enfield? Am I going too fast? What if I can't stop my quad/hamstring/gastroc from cramping?), the race had become an adventure. And, dammit, it was fun.

I guess that's the mystique of the half marathon that shorter races just don't have. It's the adventure, the unknown. It's crawling out toward the tip of the sword. It's the risk, the balancing act. It's the maybes, could bes, probably wont's, and just mights. It's the possibility of death, figuratively speaking, of course. Without that, there's no challenge; there's no adventure. Where's the fun if you're not dangling over the precipice...at least a little?

I came away from that morning with a nearly three minute course PR (good for sixth in my age group) and an absolutely excellent realization. I love racing half marathons. So much so that I have an entirely new goal (I'm sure I need one of those about as much as I need a hole in my head) - I want to race internationally, as soon as this October. I'd thought about doing the Amsterdam Marathon (race day is just a couple days shy of the twenty-fifth anniversary of my marathon victory in Wichita), but now... I really think the half is my calling, my distance.

I know someone out there is going to ask why I don't just do the marathon. Wouldn't the challenge and the risk of figurative death be that much greater? Is that what I'm in the race for? Here's the thing about the marathon - you have to train. A lot. Like a lot a lot. You have to be willing to give up time, other hobbies, and maybe even suck a couple years off your running career, if not your life. You have put in zillions of miles. And I don't really like running all that much. Especially not in the summer. In Austin. To commit to Amsterdam would mean a bunch of long runs - really freaking long runs - in hot - really freaking hot - weather. Plus I like to write, play tennis, binge watch Netflix series - i.e. have some semblance of a life that doesn't involve running. Additionally, if I'm going to afford a trip to Europe in October, just five months from now, I'm going to need a part-time job.

Besides, there's something about racing half marathons that lights my soul. And - get this - I could feasibly do two halves while I'm over there. The Reykjavik Autumn Half is the Sunday after Amsterdam. I'd have to fly past on the way home, why not stop over for an Icelandic half marathon adventure?

Truly, next fall could be begininng of something really cool. And it all started with an epiphany in on Enfield, the worst section of the Austin Marathon Half Marathon, on a misty February morning. I love racing halves. Who would have guessed?


** By the way, the stretching really works. I'll never run long without it again.**