September 24, 2006

It’s over and done. My shoelaces are untied; the water bottle lays empty on its side; salt begins to crystallize on my face; and a wet spot is clearly visible on the curb where I was sitting.

In am standing in the full morning on the chink that separates the training from the taper, exhaling the weeks of work, but not yet breathing in the anxiety leading up to the race. This is the sweetest run of all.

“What’s your goal race Rosie?” my running group coach asked me conversationally at the beginning of May.

My second annual family reunion race had just been chosen and it was an out of town race that we had gotten shut out of last year. Each fall, the family’s women runners pick a race somewhere in the country to run together and have a good time. I had more than enough time to train.  My plan was to build miles slowly during the beastly summer months and then make the most of the last five weeks of cooler temperatures before the race. Running in the heat has a terrible effect on me, and I was envisioning a low-key training period.

On one of those early summer days when the temperature crept up to where bare arms were noticeable and iced tea was a refreshing treat, my running top clung to me like peel on an orange and sweat poured like juice dripping down my back.  That afternoon, a running buddy, Gwen, was recounting her awful one and only half marathon experience for at least the fifth time.

Gwen had been on her feet broiling in the late summer heat the day before the race at the first UVA home game. She ate too much junk, drank too few fluids, went to bed well after midnight, and to make the race truly miserable, had to use the bathroom the entire race.

The steamy late summer race was debilitating both physically and psychologically. As she yet again recounted running from the finish line to the port-a-john where she got sick for the next half-hour, I knew the words that would follow: “I’ll never run another half again.”

It made me sad like it had the previous 4 times. I was still tapping into my runner’s high from my first half marathon earlier that spring.  Everything about it had been perfect: I had trained through a mild and dry winter, invigorated by each mile of the frosty days; my training partner was a stronger runner, but patient and never outwardly frustrated by my slower pace; race day was cool enough for leggings; there were encouraging onlookers all along the way; and the course looked like something from a magazine. My daughter came to watch the race, and it was the first time she had ever seen me run.  When she told me “I got so choked up when I saw you come down the straight-away to the finish line,” I knew that she saw what being able to run meant to me.

I didn’t want Gwen’s experience to be the only half marathon dream she ever relived. There was a question in the sticky air, afloat on heat waves, buoyed up in the humidity, that stuck on my teeth as it came out. “I’m going to run Battlefield as a training run for my goal race, do you want to run it together? It will be different for you having someone to run with; we’ll keep it low key; won’t even look at out watches.”

The deal was struck. I searched the website for the opening day of registration to be sure we would get a spot. Money paid. Names entered. Done.

We quietly kept our bargain. Every Monday we would swap family stories and trade work complaints, picking up our feet through the laughter that fell each mile. My confidence was intact, not questioning for a minute that I could run another half marathon. My focus was keeping our training fun as we built on an easy companionship. I was not going to look at my watch.  The race was just a training tool for me, something to get me in top shape for the goal race more than a month later. So as the southern summer heat clawed at my feet, I split my weeks between the camaraderie of running with a regular Saturday running group and training runs.

Another friend had signed on for the Battlefield Half after he had finished a spring 10K. The two of us were equally paced and enjoyed each other’s company.  We decided to start running some mid-week distances to step up our fitness for the weekend long-runs. Summer had taken a stronghold, so we planned evening runs and soon my training schedule had fallen into place without even having to jiggle the pieces. Early in the week I focused on a good time with Gwen; mid-week I built distance and speed with evening runs; and on the weekend I had running group for motivation and long runs to build miles.

My mid-week partner and I did not fill the roads with chatter. Most of the miles were quiet–a question or discussion here and there. We knew each other’s least favorite routes, discovered neighborhoods in town that had previously gone unnoticed, and enjoyed the breezes as they snuck between buildings.

We soon began including other novice half marathoners training for the Battlefield Half on these evening runs. As our group grew, we began planning routes, and I would find myself looking over my shoulder to see how far the group had strung itself out. I slowed down to run mid-pack, changed my pace to motivate a group member, talked through the blossoming of the honeysuckle, and planned and knew the exact distance of each run. My schedule became inclusive. Accommodations were made, water stops were stocked, and the miles were built. I didn’t remember if the wind dried my sweat anymore. Getting home after a long run, my husband would ask, “How was your run?” But I had not thought about my run.  It was the group’s run that peeled away and whizzed down the shower drain.

I was also brushing away grime that had been clinging to my Monday runs. One week I was certain that I saw Gwen looking at her watch; the next week, she stayed after our run to do speed work. “Good for her,” I thought, “but it’s too hot for me; I’m done for the day”.  It was that following week that I heard: “I haven’t done any speed work in so long, my splits are slipping.” Had I missed the shift from low gear? That wasn’t me dragging my foot to the park the next Monday, was it?

The build to the half marathon swept me on despite my growing malaise.  My running partners’ goal race was here. We had pre-race happy hours and carbo-loaded last meals. Race day was lovely, and the mid-week group flicked energy on anybody that brushed by.

With one ear funneling their excitement to my feet, I stood on tip-toes looking over the crowd to find Gwen. We had made a pact to run this together after all, and I was not going to miss one footfall of her joyful run. Scanning the faces, I caught the eye of Gwen’s speed work partner.  He’s a long experienced runner with a mile pace that can turn heads, and I was surprised to find him there since he had previously told me that he was not running the half.  He explained that he was “going to pace Gwen to keep her at her goal,” but there was no time to get footing on the ground that had surely shifted under me. We were called to the starting line.

My mid-week partner was next to me, and the mid-week group a few heads behind. I spotted Gwen, called forward to wish her a great race, and we were off. For the first several miles, I could not stop smiling; everything was right. I was able to watch Gwen pass people, the chatter of the group was over my shoulder, and my running partner and I fell into an easy charged step.

My mind was overwhelmed with the experiences of everyone I had trained with. It was all coming together; all eyes were on the goal, and we were indeed going to grab it. My shoulders felt lighter as routes and training schedules dropped along the way, and the enthusiasm was all I could feel. I sprinted to the finish line and knew I had accomplished what I was supposed to for that race. I traveled with others on their dream; it was a privilege, and I loved it.

I came upon Gwen watching runners come in as she cooled down. I asked her how she did, and she told me hesitantly, quickly adding, “You had a great race too.” But it wasn’t my race; it was my groups’ race, and without that recognition, I felt off kilter.

Post race, my motivation took a predictable nosedive. I took an easy following week, telling myself I needed recovery time, but hiding from the knowledge that valuable training time lay ahead.

My first effort at a real training run was considerably less stellar than it should have been, and I was discouraged. The next was better, and within a week, I was back feeling in control.

The race is now only two weeks away, and running is exhilarating with my goal in sight. I am always a stickler for planning my weekly runs, but this particular week’s schedule was particularly critical to me. It would culminate in my last long run before the race. I was going to be out of town for my usual Saturday running group, so a long run that day was not possible; it would have to be done on Sunday.

Running with the mid-week group on Wednesday, someone asked if I wanted to join them on a Sunday long run. Once again, it all fell into place. My schedule was in tact. But in a flurry of emails on Friday, my long run partners cancelled, and I was stuck. I would have to run it alone.

There was one more possibility: I could post my plans on the message board and hope someone would join. I chose my favorite route and a starting time that would coincide with sunrise as I ran across the Manchester Bridge. I sent an email to the Saturday group coach explaining my Sunday plans, and his response back was “Be careful; it’ll be dark.”

On Saturday night, there was still no one posting that they would join me.
I laid out my clothes for the morning so as not to disturb my husband.  Small band-aids for my black toe and a large one for the persistent blister on my big toe were next to my socks.

It was pitch black out when the alarm rang in the morning. I dressed and went downstairs for the all-important morning hydration . Standing in the kitchen, I was confused by the odd noise I heard outside. Rain? Rats, my solitary run would be cancelled! But it was just the wind. I got in the car.

Driving along to the park, I was sure someone would be standing there waiting for me as I parked. I looked up and down the street, but there was no one. There are usually several runners and walkers already heating up the paths by now, and I thought I saw a person on the path, but I wasn’t sure.

At 6:30, I decided to get going. “Do I remember the route?” I asked myself. Of course.

I ran right down the middle of the road, and sure enough, a car came speeding toward me. “See, someone is joining me after all; I just forgot the 5 minute rule,” I thought. But looking back, the taillights didn’t stop.

I ran down the first street trying to remember where to turn. I turned down the next one, but quickly realized the turn was a mistake; it was the one before. “I’m glad no one is with me to give me a hard time,” I thought, turning down the next street to get back on course.

Wait, had I said I was glad no one was with me?

My shoulders started to relax, and my natural pace crept up my legs and settled in my hips. I don’t stop at the red lights; no one is awake.  The rhythm of my feet tap dances up the row house walls and harmonizes with my stride. Where the houses meet the sidewalk at the vanishing point, silver gray pries a crack in the black. By the time I get to the downtown park, there is enough light that I notice late summer flowers preening for me as I swoosh by.

I look forward–always forward–not twisting to make sure my group knows the way. At the crest of the hill, I turn right to begin my descent to the river. Just as I hoped, sunrise will catch me just as I cross the bridge. There is no one to say “beautiful sky,” and for that I am surprisingly thankful.

The sun flips its organdy sheet of crimson over the inbound and out bound lanes, over the rocks, over the river, and over me. I slip unnoticed across the river like a raindrop down a gutter. Suddenly, I am riveted at the top of the stairs that take me to the road below. There are too many shadows there, and for the first time since making that wrong turn, I wish someone was with me.  Yelling “good morning” to the Burger King wrappers on the curb, I descend with a smile breaking once again across my face.

The road is invitingly empty; it curls its fingers, entreating me to run down the yellow line. I do, and there is no one to tell me otherwise. A long incline rolls up, but the road swells under my feet, and my legs are strong. I realize that I am not far from the home of the Harvey family, and prayers come to my lips as my stomach lurches and my imagination replays newspaper stories.

I see sudden movement out of the corner of my eye. Oh no! It is a loose dog. He races down the road with his leash trailing, gleeful in his freedom, and looking over his shoulder. I am not looking over mine. I am running with eyes forward, my mind infused with endorphins, and my soul, like his, unleashed.

I have seen no other runners on my trip, and passed only an occasional person out for the morning newspaper. But cars are beginning to pull onto the road with passengers dressed in freshly ironed shirts. I am at the last leg of the run. At the top of a hill, there is one more bridge to cross. I marvel at the strength of my legs braking at the incline. In my mind’s eye I am skipping on the tops of rocks to get to the other side.  Up, up, up, hamstrings pull.  Steady, keep your form; you’re almost there.  Turning down the road alongside the park, I spot my first runner. It looks like a friend from the back with her new curly hairdo. I call her. No one turns around, and again I am grateful. The corner is right there; I can stop there because I ran extra blocks after making that wrong turn, but I don’t. I pause at the very place where I looked to see if the taillights would stop and check my watch. This is my time. This is my last long run, and I did it alone. Thank you.

BPG Half Training group