Grey and gently breezy, with just a hint of Fall to come, would be a great way to describe six am on Saturday morning. There was a hurricane on the way, but for almost eleven hundred runners, the Patrick Henry Half Marathon had to be run.
Sporadic drizzles gave way to definite rain as the locomotive whistle started the 13.1-mile trot into the Ashland countryside. I hadn't even made it a third of a mile before I was wet and my sneakers began squeaking on the asphalt (a sound which never went away). This race would be different from my last half marathon and from last week's race - I was going to push even harder.
Unlike any of my previous non-triathlon races, this one had two checkpoints which HAD to be made or I would be carted back to the finish line with a stigmatic "DNC" (Did Not Complete) attached to my checkpoint time. When I registered, I was unaware of the cutoff times and, only a week before, realized the challenge which lay ahead.
My Shamrock half marathon time had been three hours and six minutes. My half Ironman run time had been three hours and twenty-one minutes (after 56 miles of biking). This race I determined I would beat my previous times and come in under three hours. I knew what it would take and I also knew how many excuses to stop I would end up making on the course; that needed to stop.
I don't know how many of you have ever traveled 13.1 miles by foot, but that is a long way for your feet to keep hitting the ground. I had prayed for something new for this race - for the patience I needed to run a good race and for the strength to finish strong. I never before understood patience with respect to the metaphor of running (in the Bible). I do now.
For a couple months now, I have been a living example of quitting that which I started. From June 2010 until April 2011, I worked hard, and I do mean HARD to lose weight. I went from 315 pounds to 197 and then, with my goal weight 27 pounds away, I quit.
Let me make it clear: I did not "fall" off the wagon, I "leaped". For three amazing weeks, I was able to eat whatever I wanted and the scale did. not. move. It remained under 200 pounds and I was euphoric. I had clearly arrived.
All too soon, it became apparent what I had done. A couple of months basically maintaining and then the weight started creeping back on and one day, I found I had gained 30+ pounds back(!). That realization, instead of strengthening my resolve to fix the issue, only served as a point of depression and negative thoughts. I think "fat cow" was my favorite.
Running became uncomfortable again, but still I continued to compete and watched my times and post-race "feelings" drop. I was ashamed of those races because I knew, if I had just pushed myself a little harder, I could have finished better. I always finished hard; always. I always started strong. It was what happened where the crowd couldn't see me... those telling moments alone on the running course.
This race HAD to be different and, I hoped, would launch me into a new era of focus, discipline, and determination. I wanted so desperately to be proud of this race and to finish ahead of all the time checks which were in place.
So I ran. And walked. And ran again.
After a mile, I was the second-to-last runner on the course (de-ee-e-pressing), but I knew I could do better. A runner wearing bright red stockings saw me walking so soon and asked if I was following a certain run/walk strategy. I had to say I wasn't and she cheerfully informed me she would see me at the finish line and trotted away - not fast, but faster than my walking. After three miles, my legs felt so knotted, neither running nor walking seemed to feel right - but I was half-way to the first checkpoint and there was one runner behind me. Having forgotten my stopwatch helped fuel my desperation to get to that first point. Fairly certain my middle name was "AtLeastImNotLast" at that point.
Five miles brought even heavier rain, driving gusts of wind, and rolling country roads. Have I ever mentioned how I "love" hills. I was soaked and beginning to wonder if I would make it. The sweeper police car, with his flashing lights, traveled sloooowwwly behind the last runner; a mere eighth of a mile behind me. Behind him, a truck was picking up cones and volunteers were collapsing aid stations as the last runner passed. I was so embarrassed. Maybe I wasn't last, but I could see the police car and knew it was time to speed up, because my middle name had become "IHopeTheVolunteersDon'tSeeThoseObnoxiousFlashingLightsBehindMe."
A mental game seemed in order. I tried counting steps (75 run, 25 walk); that didn't last long. Then I saw the orange cones dividing runner from traffic. Perfect. Run past two cones, walk to the next one. Oh. Gonna walk for two cones? You're gonna run for at least three. That's a mile cone; you need to make it there before you can walk again. That helped pass time well, despite the "rolling" hills and the change of my middle name to "IsThatAnotherHillUpThere?!"
Shortly after six miles, a "greeter" was screaming at me that I had just a few minutes to make it or they would take me back. I looked over my shoulder at the sweeper police car, now further back, and the two runners behind me and made sure I got to that checkpoint in time, with four minutes to spare. "Victorious" seemed a good middle name to adopt.
That was as refreshing as the Powerade waiting there. I could make it to the next point, four miles away. I think my mind started going numb between seven and nine miles. My feet were getting tired and so were my arms, which I kept reminding myself MUST be kept above my waist so they didn't puff up so badly. The mind is a powerful thing in a long race. It whispers encouragement and discouragement alike. Wanna talk about the whole "taking every thought captive" bit? It becomes essential to finishing. In my head, I was Ruth "WhereAreTheGels" Cooper (there never were any gels provided along the course, I found out).
This is always the hardest part of any race I do. The middle part. The part where you are not really half-way, but you're not almost done, but you haven't just started, but you're just in a kind of limbo land - waiting to get to the next milestone.
Limbo land is where I have been, personally, since June. Kinda close to the completion of my weight-loss goal, but still in the middle. Too far from the start and too far from the finish. Personally, something fizzled and, though I am not entirely sure what happened, the fact remains, something happened. The fire seems gone. The desire to finish seems gone. I care, but I don't. I "know" what I need to do, but don't want to do it. I know what it takes to finish and I simply do not want to do the work.
I know returning to my exercise and dieting will get me the results I so desire. I even know once I get started, I will continue. As I relive this race, it is painfully clear how I am (and have been) sitting on the side of the metaphorical race course, munching on a donut, dreaming of how glorious it will be to cross the finish line. You know, amidst cheering and applause and spectators... not to mention the medal!
Thankfully, I remembered my desire to do something different for me. I was out here, in a hurricane, running a half marathon which had a time limit. The whole world of storm-trapped people on Facebook was waiting to hear how I did. There was a picture to be taken and posted. Another entry to make in my race book. Another bib number and medal to pin to the wall.
This race was not over. It was time to put into practice the "running patiently" part I had determined. And I did. One foot in front of the other. I thought of other runners in other states who were or would be running races that day. And I thought of what I was proving to myself - this was doable. "Patiently" became my middle name for those endless miles, but I kept moving and the choice to move became easier with each footfall.
I found I was passing people after the eighth mile; people I was positive I would never catch up to. And yet, they fell behind me and the evil sweeper car disappeared in the distance. Ten miles and the final checkpoint before the finish line - I made it with two minutes to spare. Only a 5k left - just 3.1 miles. My middle name was "AlmostThere" even though I knew I still had another 40-ish minutes of shuffling.
Rain started coming down even harder. The wind grew stronger and the trees swayed ominously. Many of these races, I am alone for the greater portion of the race (due to my lack of speed) and so many times, it feels as if it would be so much easier to just stop, sit down, and wait for the sweeper car. My shirt was soaked, my shoes gushed water with every stop and, what was worse, sand from previous mud runs was exiting the shoe and entering my socks. Water poured off my elbows and dripped into my eyes, stinging and making the contact lenses feel like unwelcome guests. A bathroom would have been nice, but that was something I had already determined would not be on the race course for me; I had to beat that time.
Feet hurt, knees ached, legs started feeling a little numb. Yet, halfway to mile eleven, a miracle happened. I wanted to pass one lady (whom I am almost positive I saw at the Shamrock), but couldn't get myself to run. I focused on passing her and suddenly found I was running again! It had become easier to run than to power walk! Up ahead, I spotted those red stockings which had passed me in the first mile - they were just ahead! I never thought I'd see her again! That goal gave me "wings" and I passed her, giving a cheerful word of encouragement and trotting on in front. My middle name was now "tortoise."
To finish mile twelve, a huge hill had to be climbed and that seemed to never end. Some bounding, extremely-fit guy came springing down the hill, informing us we were almost there - just another 400 meters and we'd be done with this hill. Thoughts of springy muscles tormented me the remainder of the climb; must be great to bound about like that. "Jealous"
Thoughts of running patiently, of enduring to the end, of a timely finish, of persevering, of anything but running were scrolling in my head as I crushed the thoughts of slowing down, of stopping, of ambling to the finish line, of the growing discomfort I felt. Mile thirteen was finished and with it, one last handful of volunteers and finished runners calling out encouraging words. And "ThatLastTenthWillGetYouEveryTime" Cooper headed for the last turn.
As the rain beat down as I turned the corner, I could see the finish line just one block ahead. My problem was my legs had decided to all but stop working and I could feel my middle name changing to "WhyIsItSOFarAway?!" I was doing the glorified shuffle and then couldn't even do that. As I walked, the finish line in sight, and wondering where that last little bit of energy could possibly come from, the thinned-out crowd began screaming, "Beat it! Beat it! Beat it!"
The finish line clock showed two minutes until the three-hour cutoff. "You can beat it!" "You can make it!" "Do it!" And I started running, a little harder, a little faster. That clock was ticking faster than I wanted it to and the spectators were yelling for more speed. I pushed harder and "Grrrrrr" Cooper's body pushed back.
There wasn't anything left. Twenty feet away and I began to realize falling was a serious threat. The outer edges of what I could see started getting dark and I worked to not make hideous faces which would be captured for posterity by the photographers. Fists clenched (another thing I work not to do) and wordless prayers issued, I focused on that point, one foot behind the finish line. Didn't think my legs would make it, but somehow, they did and I broke three hours for my half marathon, taking nearly ten minutes off my previous time!
I walked slooowwwly forward, stooping to receive the finisher medal, and slooowwwly moved out of the finish chute. Well, Ruth "OoooShinyMedal" Cooper, THAT was a race well-run! A finish I could be proud of! Everything had been used to get there and the victory was, indeed, sweet.
Outrun a swirling vortex of terror. Outwit the damaging mind games. Outlast a tiring body. More than a Survivor.
