Caught Up in the Chase

I have run three five km races in the past month or so, and in each case I have been chasing a time of 19:59 or faster.  Yes, I was trying to break what to me was a daunting barrier of 20 minutes. Whenever I tell people that I find 5 km races tougher than marathons, they look at me like I am out of my mind. It really is a statement that requires explanation.  What makes five km races so difficult, for me, is the level of effort required throughout the entire race.

Here’s what a five km race feels like.  At least here is how it felt last night, as I ran the Summer’s Night race in Guelph, beginning and ending at the Music Center on Cardigan. The gun goes off, and I try to get over the starting mats as quickly as possible.  I pick up speed and stride along to the first corner, feeling good as I hear the crowd cheering and before my body fully registers the effort I am making.  After I turn onto Dufferin St. I look down at my watch, check my pace, and see that I am going out way too fast, as in a 3:45 minutes/km pace.  May day, may day; this is not sustainable. I will blow up, and blow up quickly if I continue, as in collapse at the side of the road gasping for air, or worse.  I immediately dial back the pace, and watch as friends such as Chris and Tanya surge further ahead of me, as they should. 

Okay, this feels better, especially as I finish the slow rise up Dufferin and turn right, heading downhill towards the bike trail. As I begin on the trail, the numb feeling in my legs passes as a little more oxygen seems to be making it to my muscles.  I slow to a 3:55 pace.  Still a little ambitious; it could cost me later.  I have run enough races to know that for every second I go out too fast at the start, I will pay tenfold in the final kilometers.

Running behind the music center, I am buoyed by the voices of friends cheering me on, and I turn with exuberance towards the Norwich bridge. Turn again and I am on Arthur, running past my old condo and past the park where I walked Frodo in my early days of dog ownership. The daylight is dwindling, and dusk descends as I enter the grounds of Homewood and run beneath a canopy of trees.  I can feel myself slowing a little and check my watch to see I have dipped down to a 4:00 pace, yet I feel strong as I surge past my running friend Art, who encourages me as I go.  ‘You look strong, Robin, lots in the tank; just run by feel.” Perhaps he sees me checking my watch.  The thing is I can run by feel to a degree, but if it feels good, it is probably because I have slowed by a few seconds, and the watch keeps me honest.

I am through the Homewood grounds, and winding along the streets towards Speedvale, past the live music. I believe it is a trio to mark the 3^rd km, but I am labouring at this point and am focused just on breathing and regaining my pace.

Onto Speedvale and a small uphill to get to the trail, then onto the trail I have run hundreds of times.  It is straight in to the finish from here, but the city has not opened the bike gates, so I have to slow down to get around each one.  Hey, I’m fifty and not so nimble, but I manage to avoid colliding with any gates, even in my oxygen-deprived state.

I am uncomfortable, extremely so, and feel like retching, but miraculously I am still moving. I get onto the gravel trail and know it is just a matter of winding around past the park to the finish line behind the music center.  With the finish line so close I try to pick up my pace. I am not sure if I do or if the two men in front of me are merely slowing down, but either way I manage to pass them as I surge toward the finish line.

I can see the clock.  It is already registering 20:08 and I still have meters to go.  I have gutted it out, but today is not my day to break 20 minutes.  I am flooded with a mixture of relief—it is over—and disappointment—at finishing in 20:13.  I need to bend over for a few seconds to regain my equilibrium, but as I straighten I am greeted by Tanya and Chris, who finished a minute ahead of me. Their first question, of course, is did you go under 20? I shake my head, and they are quick to reassure me. This is not a PB course, they say consolingly, and the warmth of their words helps dissolve my disappointment.

As the evening settles in, I go for a cool down run with Chris and Deb, both very talented runners, and as we jog along, the talk quickly shifts from the race to the challenges of training while raising small children (do puppies count?) Deb recounts having run on her treadmill in the garage last week while her daughter napped.  The garage door was open and her neighbour looked at her quizzically as he mowed his lawn.  

We return to the music center, where the meeting room is full of runners consuming a seemingly endless supply of pizza and chocolate milk.  For those who can stomach it, there is beer to be enjoyed. As I stand talking to fellow runners such as Kelly, my training partner on the coldest winter days, and my travelling buddy to marathons such as Corning and Boston, thirteen seconds suddenly seems so very slight.