Despite hitting the wall at mile 11, I finished in 1:32:17, or about 7:02 per mile. I am very pleased with the result because I had virtually no training build-up. I've been injured for most of the past three months with a soleus tear. In fact, I had no more than five or six training runs prior to the event, the longest one being six miles on the treadmill, which I accomplished just two days ago! So as you can tell, I really didn't know what to expect or what I might be capable of doing. My game plan going in was to run the first 6 miles at 8:00 pace, and then pick it up from there if I was feeling good. However, as they say in the military, "no plan survives first contact with the enemy." It's pretty much the same in running. I came through the first mile in 6:50 and I felt like I was walking; it was effortless. So my plan pretty much went out the window at that point. Then, up ahead, I could spot the 1:30 pacer. I figured if I could stick with him and his pack, I might just be able to run a decent time. I joined up with the group, which had a solid pack of maybe twelve runners of all different types. The pacer himself was a light-skinned Latino guy in his mid to late 40s. Then there were several middle-aged men, a serious-looking blond gal with expensive racing attire, a 16-year old boy, and a Latina girl who could not have been more than 13. As I think about it, I realize that this is one of the great things about running. When would you ever see such a diverse group of folks pursuing the same goal?
This was probably the most enjoyable part of the race, running stride by stride with these folks. There was a sense of team unity, even though we were all strangers to one another. I joked with a few of them and encouraged the pack as we clipped along at 7:00 pace. Around the 4 mile mark, this pack started to break up. Some slowed, while others picked it up. Soon after, it was just me, the pacer, and the 16-year old. The pacer said that he wanted to throw in some surges, a kind of "one mile on, one mile off" kind of deal. I didn't protest; I simply voiced my agreement. Things were going well and he seemed to know what he was doing. We could see Papago far in the distance; knew we would get there around the 10 mile mark. What I didn't know is that a few miles of reckless surging would ultimately make the last two miles a nightmare.
And surge we did. One of them was a 6:20, according to the pacer's watch. This was a little taxing, but we slowed back down to 7:00 and I was fine. We were catching lots of people, the crowds kept me energized, and I felt good. We were traveling at well below my VO2 max, even considering the fact that I was out of shape. 7:00 is an easy pace regardless of what shape I'm in. I didn't feel a great aerobic strain; the half is not like the 5K, where you're running at close to VO2 max pretty much the whole time, and your lungs are gasping for air. No, this was different. It was a cumulative fatigue, more neuromuscular than aerobic. The one thing I had not done was prepare my legs to run fast for 90 minutes. The pacer said that he wanted to surge at the beginning of the hill, around mile 9. I told him I would stick with him as long as I could. In a few minutes, he and the kid completely dropped me. There were uphill and downhill portions for about a mile. This is where the fatigue kicked in, muscle fatigue. My calves howled in protest. I had been having some problems with them for weeks in the run-up to the race, and now they were urging me to back off. At mile 11, I felt like hell, and at mile 12 I felt a lot worse. I was at the bridge at this point, painfully close to the finish, and yet I had to slow down. I had hit the proverbial wall. I was past the wall, in fact. I had nothing left to give; I had exhausted all of my glycogen reserves, meaning no more energy in the tank. That, combined with inadequate muscle preparation, produced severe cramping in both calves. All I could do was struggle along at about 9 minute pace. I knew at this point that I would not make 1:30. About thirty people passed me in the last two miles. They had conserved, intent on finishing strong. The idiotic surges had caught up to me.
When I reached the finishing chute, I did pick it up a little. There were hundreds of spectators. I felt like they were cheering for me specifically, and maybe they were; I felt the crowd roar with approval as I pumped my fist into the air. I heard the announcer as I neared the line: "Let's hear it for these runners, folks! They're finishing with 7:00 minute mile pace. Just think about running one mile at 7:00 while your watching football later today." When I was finally done, I thought to myself, "You know what? 7:00 for 13.1 isn't bad at all." My thighs and calves hurt so bad I could barely walk. After getting my medal (by far the nicest medal I've ever received; these rock n' roll folks do a good job with that), I grabbed several energy drinks and two power bars, and basically just plopped down on my butt for thirty minutes. I swapped some stories with a few others, including a 40 year-old female triathlete who finished just in front of me. She and her friends were trying hard to decide if they were satisfied with the race. This is also one of the great things about running. You can talk to total strangers and instantly be interested in their goals, PRs, ect. It's like a giant fellowship centered around the shared struggle of putting one foot in front of the other.
So that's the play-by-play action of the race. In the next post, I'll reflect on my overall experience with the half, to include the fitness expo I attended on Saturday.
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