If You Go Chasing Rabbits

Despite scoring a new half-marathon PR by exactly 6:00, I ran the SF Marathon 2nd Half three Sundays ago feeling like shit 12.1 out of 13.1 miles. 

Only on Haight Street, right after emerging from Golden Gate Park, near Amoeba Music, did I catch my breath and a sense of contentment, even a runner's mini-high.

Maybe it was a whiff from the nearby McDonalds, or the thought of perusing CD box sets; more likely, credit the GU gel I ingested five minutes earlier, or that weird crossover period, about 40 minutes into continuous hard exercise, when the body simultaneously burns glycogen and fat for energy.

Whatever, happy lasted about a mile.

Ready, Set, Worry!

Back at the 8:15 a.m. start next to chilly Spreckels Lake in Golden Gate Park, I was psyched out. "Will I be able to run even one mile?" I worried. "What if I can't keep up the 7:38 per-mile pace I've trained for? My hip is a little sore, ditto my Achilles and calves. Maybe I didn't taper my training right. My warmup didn't help."

Adding to mind and body fog, at Mile 8, extra-tightly tied shoelaces—Wince!—began sawing through my left foot. I didn't stop to relieve the pressure, for I was in the chase.

From park to Panhandle, SOMA to Potrero, Dogpatch to Embarcadero, I never lost sight of my "Yellow Rabbit", the nimble race pacer named Patrick I wisely chose to draft behind from start to (nearly) finish.

He plotted the time, dug the groove. I followed.

No need to check my watch, check the mile splits on my race pace band, or translate the course's mile markers, which listed distances for both my race (maddeningly, in decimals) and a full marathon, whose back half shared the same path. "Um, another few seconds and... that... will... be... 8 miles!"

My twin focus was Patrick's bright yellow jersey—weaving, climbing, descending, dodging, curving, tracking steady—and bobbing 1:40:00 sign held aloft like a beacon to the Promised Land beside the San Francisco Bay. And never mind the pain.

Breaking Away

Just north of AT&T Park, I left Patrick's wake and tried to sprint the final quarter mile. I wanted a cushion, "insurance seconds", if you will, in my push to break 100 minutes. Right then Earth's gravity suddenly magnified, dragging on my 5th Gear muscles. No wonder: "A half-marathon uses up your fast-twitchers," a fellow runner told me.

I crossed the line in 1:39:33. And felt awful. But a satisfied, proud, It's Done! awful.

Afterward

With two whole halves to my credit (at top, that's my November 2009 US Half finishing medal behind its new SF 2nd Half brother), I can safely brag a bit: "Yes, I run half-marathons, thank you."

Or as a friend at the gym put it the other night, "You do half-marathons."

Comments

[Alisa]

"I... felt awful. But a satisfied, proud, It's Done! awful."

The "awful" is why I can't understand why I keep signing up for races. Every time I finish one, I swear it's my last. And then I get the email announcing the next race and the process starts all over again.

Congrats again on a stellar finish. Now, how do I find a Patrick between now and October?

[Greg O.]

Maybe Patrick has a twin sister who'd like to run the Nike Women's Half with you, Alisa.

I sure liked him leading me onward through the Streets of San Francisco. Wonder if he can be hired out for future races as my personal pacer?

Awful? Yes, you're right: That fades, its place taken by a desire for another helping.

[Mary Gilbert]

I watched Greg invent himself as a marathoner and athlete. You have completely transformed your energy, your body, and your attitude! So inspired and proud. Nice blog dude.

[Greg O.]

Wow, thanks, Mary!

[Kristin]

Amazing, Greg. Kudos on a job well done and on an inspirational recap. Keep soaring!

[Greg O.]

Kristin, thanks. Soaring is IT!