Even after 30 miles on Friday evening, including being threatened by an animal of unknown species while on a darkened trail, I woke up Sunday morning feeling fairly unsore (not a word, I know, but the somehow "fairly unsore" is not tautological with not sore.) This was good news and somewhat surprising given that I hadn't done that type of mileage in quite a long time -- er, five months (see last blog post). I showed up early to the race, but parked a mile away on purpose to get in a nice, slow warm up. Foreshadowing: note that on the list of things one should do to prevent injury, I have both done one pretty unintelligent thing (running for a long while just a day or so before a race) and one pretty smart thing (warming up).
The race began as most do for me with a surge of adrenaline from the id and the subsequent response by my frontal cortex -- "just what in the hell are you doing...again?!" I passed the first mile in 5:32, which was almost exactly my goal pace, but still something that I thought beyond me on this day sans taper. Just after the first mile, I caught up to the women's lead pack and thought I was in for trouble at that pace. In fact, they ended up using me as a draft for the next 3 to 3-1/2 miles -- it was really cool being a rabbit for these powerful Ethiopian female superstars. It was helpful for me to keep a consistent pace knowing there were other people behind me -- and tripping my heels at various points, actually, which reminded me of the joys and frustrations of true cross-country and track competition in high school. Of course, I didn't mind being their wind blocker because this race was a tune-up for me and something quite serious for them, particularly when you're racing for a four day cruise for two (seriously that is a prize in this race) or other such luck-of-the-Irish prizes. Perhaps if I lead one of them to victory, we can share in the prize?
We passed the 5k mark in 17:10 -- hallelujah! That meant I beat my high school 5k PR by 20 seconds -- in the middle of a 5 miler! I was getting tired but cinder block legs hadn’t set in yet either. One of the Ethiopian women begins to make a move about this point, and the other stays with me. A bit later the one staying with me asks, “how far left?” 1.4 miles. She doesn't look happy about that. I give her some encouragement – "you are strong; stay close to her and try to outkick her" -- and then she starts a very pleasant-sounding groan of pain. It continues for the next mile...I don't mind one bit...it sounds, well, aroused to say the least. She asks several more times -- how far? I look at my watch and respond. With a mile left, this is where I begin to make a move, so I pull ahead of her by a couple yards; her response -- "don't go!" I didn't know what to say. Had we developed such an intimate relationship already, such that I was to stick with her to the end, or did she know something I didn't? She did. I keep pushing. She catches me, and I pull ahead again. There's 3-4 guys in front of us, and I've made it my plan to race more competitively this time, so I am thirsting for better positioning at the finish…
With 600m to go, I start to contemplate my strategy -- kick it in at 400m. The Ethiopian woman is now 10 yards back -- sorry hun, I've got to get these gents. I surge. My right hamstring twinges -- weird, never felt that before...AHHHHH! The most excruciating pain of my life surges through my right leg. Somehow I don't fall but I come to an immediate stop screaming, "F@$% F@$% F@$%!!!!!!" I start carpet bombing f-bombs as I hobble and crawl. I have a quarter mile to go but I am walking through the worst moment of bodily agony of my entire life. The crowd sees my hurt. They start cheering for me. My reply is an Andrew Dice Clay assortment of self-loathing tirades, s-mines and f-bombs. And then I think, "Boy, this is really stupid -- what extra damage am I doing to my hamstring by trying to finish a ‘fun’ run?" But the crowd is going nuts for me, which never happens when you’re just another joe coming in well behind the leaders. The race director announces my name and says, "Now that's the grit and determination we like to see!!!" How can I stop at this point?
I look at the clock with 10 intensely painful yards to go -- if I walk just a few paces faster I'll still break my PR for the course. I do. I PR. Sadly, by only 10 seconds, but at least I have that victory. I fall onto the fence in the finisher's pen. I almost cry.
My first four miles were 5:32, 5:35, 5:32, 5:36. Without being hamstrung, I almost certainly could have kept a 5:40 pace or better putting me at 27:50 or so -- over a minute faster than my previous PR. The agony of defeat, injured defeat, is really, really hard to stomach.
(Try to spot the point on this graph where the hamstring snapped.)
As I write this, my leg is elevated on my desk at work, I reek of old man (i.e. ben gay) and furthermore look like an incontinent geriatric because I bought a compression band soaked with menthol which dripped down my pant leg and makes me look like I had a little accident. I had to stop 4 times on my walk to work this morning as my leg spasm-ed. This is now my fate for at least a week -- during prime Boston training season -- hopefully not much more.
I am simultaneously angry, and lacking any aspirations for my athletic future, but also trying to be hopeful that this will be a short recovery. I can only hope at this point.
