So, about that sub-20…

I registered for Sunday’s 5k about a half hour before online registration closed. I had tossed around the idea of doing it when my father suggested it a couple weeks back, but for whatever reason sat on it.

Mostly because there was no way I’d go there and NOT go under 20. I couldn’t.

I realize that in the grand scheme of things, its not a huge deal. Its not. Its a milestone that doesn’t mean much. I’m not elite. I never will be elite. I’m in that group of women who is generally a few places out of the money and mostly races middle aged men. And I’m OK with that.

What I’m NOT proud of is the fact that I often can’t make myself do the work needed to run FAST. If you asked me if I’d rather do two speed workouts a week or 5 long runs, I’ll take the long runs. (Part of the advantage of being a relative “big” girl – and relative is huge (lolz) when you’re only 5’2″ – is that you don’t break as easily. Thank you, sturdy legs.) Partially because I’m a slacker. Partially because I’m bad at time management. Partially because I’m really bad with sticking to a plan.

But mostly? Because I just…can’t make myself do it. No excuses. Just failure to do it.

Right.

So, I started off this summer with some speedwork…and its fallen by the wayside. I’ve been forcing in mileage and somehow…getting a bit faster in the process. Have I been adding striders? Doing anything differently? Not really.

What was different this time around is that this sub 20 attempt was as much an escape from everything else as it was a legit race.

I wanted to NOT think about Chicago.
I wanted to NOT think about work.
I wanted to NOT think about 50 billion other things frustrating me right now. And rather than sit on my couch with vodka/throwing things around my apartment in an effort to smash them…I thought I’d make something fucking happen for once. So off I went.

I had to drive east to get to the race. I’m very familiar with the course: I can’t count how many times I’ve run the race. I’d done a 19:38 in the mid 90s the day after a cross country race. (And got lectured by my coach as a result) I’d lived in the area and trained on it. So, good place to jut get this over with, right?

I got out of my car and felt dizzy and nauseated. Curious, I put on my HRM to find my heart rate was over 100. I sat down. It barely dipped into the 90s. Hm. I warmed up. Slowly. 180. Uh…no. I stopped. Stood still. Watched it fall. Ran again….back to 180. Was it malfunctioning or am I THAT wound up?

I have no interest in finding out. I make the decision to take the fucking thing off.

I change shoes, etc. I don’t really do strides. I try not to think about it. My father is there. We talk about TV. He reminds me that its best to not hold back on this course because while its flat, the second half seems to run just a tiny bit slower for some reason. (Wind? The slight grade just after 4k? I dunno. But its true.) Duly noted. He’s gone under 19 on the course.

Time to go. Because this race is doubling as a big master’s race, it looks to be crowded up front. The more company, the merrier.

Did I mention its only women in this race? (With that, it should be pretty obvious to figure out what race I was running. ;p)

We’re off.

And frankly, its a blur. Nothing like focusing on a marathon to realize how fucking short 5000 meters happens to be. I feel like I’m sprinting. Why am I running a 5k again?

There is an orange line marking the tangents. Nobody seems to be following it. I run right on the line, tucking behind one of the top masters. (I know because those in the masters race have their ages group pinned to their backs.) First kilo in 3:56. Not bad. I stay on the line. I pass the woman in front of me. I just think about staring at the line and moving. This race is fucking short. 1st mile is supposedly 6:18, but I don’t really pay attention…I’m focused on the kilos.

2k and we’re at 7:54? I think. Ok. Still staring straight ahead. Still passing people. I’m noting the lack of wind. I see the leaders on the other side. I see the turn coming up. There aren’t all that many in front of me, and there is a good sized pack right in front of me.

Turn. Halfway in 9:53.

Hm. This feels…doable?

I stare at the line. I look at the women ahead. I wonder who I can pick off. I think of YEARS of dying around mile 2. Years of fucking up. Years of fucking up IN THIS VERY RACE. But…that’s not gonna happen.

I go back and forth with a couple of the masters. I see somebody I recognize not too far in front of me and start focusing on her. There are maybe 3 runners between us, and two coming back right in front of her.

3k is 11:54 or so? Ok. Keep going.

I still feel like I’m moving really fast, but its ok. I start watching people on the sidelines and remind myself to just got it out. We’re almost there.

I pass somebody. She’s working hard. I can hear her breathing even after I pass her, so I know she doesn’t drop back.

4k…I’m scared for the split. It’s something like an 15:53. Fuck. I’m gonna do this. Fuck, I know its just up this rise – how did I forget about this rise – and then its downhill. There is an open runner running next to a master, her track club friends are cheering for her. They are also cheering for one of the women behind me. I pass one at this point?

Left turn at the top of the rise. Ouch, this hurts.

And then…you can see the finish. Its probably about 500 meters at that point, but its visible. The woman I know glances over her shoulder and starts moving just as I pass the open girl. There is a big pack of us.

And I just go. I know its not a lethal kick by any means, but its enough to 1. stay where I am 2. NOT FUCK THIS SHIT UP. I’m moving hard. I can hold off the pack, but I can’t run down the one in front of me.

And with that?

Its done. 19:51. ROOM TO SPARE. I’ll fucking take it.

And for once? I’m okay with not running down every single person in front of me in the stretch.

Because I was pretty even. For all the jockeying back and forth? I only passed people. Nobody who tried to pass me stayed ahead. And having a strong group of women RIGHT THERE to gauge off of? Perfect.

In fact? I think it was the perfect tune up for next week.

Am I happy about the prospect of it being warmer than I wanted next weekend? No.
Am I as confident as I could be? God no.

But at the very least, at least whatever I’ve been doing has gotten me into the kind of shape where I can crack sub 4:00/km pace without training at that pace under the right conditions.

I’m going to choose to focus on the positive for once (well, to the extent that I can), even though I’m sitting here scared shitless. Already.

And don’t even get me started on the weather, please. (And to all of you Chicago Marathon people, read the long range before freaking out about the WGN forecast. It might not be THAT bad.)