Kristi blew her whistle. The race was on, and I took off. Around the first turn of the track, I led the way. It was the first time I ever led a competitive race at any stage. Nobody else went with me. I was the rabbit, the pacesetter.
I crossed the eventual finish line for the first time and I thought of what happens in the Kentucky Derby frequently. Some longshot of a horse with no endurance in his pedigree would bust out of the gate like a rocket and lead the field under the wire for the first quarter-mile but would run out of gas somewhere down the backstretch, having most or all of the field pass him in the process. Would this be me? Would I be out of energy and barely be jogging at the finish? Maybe I should slow down...
But I didn't. I kept at my possibly suicide pace as we headed out of the stadium and began the cross-country portion of the race. The course took us along a fence row adjacent to a golf course. I actually had to run around a golfer who sliced his drive out of bounds and was on our side of the fence looking for his ball. He probably didn't expect to see 25-30 folks running at him while he was searching in vain for his wayward Titleist Pro V1.
As I continued down the fence row, I actually noticed the scenery. It was beautiful; rustic wooden fences, golden grass, I really did feel like a horse running in his field at a Versailles farm. There were no mile markers, at least none that I saw, but I still had the lead when I estimated we had gone one mile. I didn't even bother to look back; I would undoubtedly be passed in short order by one of those other guys. I could say that I led the first mile of a 5K, and anything else would be gravy to me. I was starting to feel tired. Such is the way of the rabbit...
I saw one of the race volunteers point to to the path that would begin the trail portion of the contest. It was then that I took a right turn into the woods that I decided to take a quick peek over my right shoulder and see what sort of margin I had on the field. I was floored; I had a sizable lead on the guy in second place, who was still on the back fence row.
This I did not expect. As I entered the woods, the ridiculous thought of me actually winning the race outright crept into my mind for the first time. It was then that I first felt the pressure of the race leader. I flew through the woods with my heart pounding feverishly from that pressure. I felt like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive being chased through the wilderness by a troop of dog-wielding U.S. Marshals.
Fortunately by then, the next song in my running mix came on, "James Brown is Dead" by L.A. Style. Released way back in 1991, it is widely considered the first ever "hardcore techno" track. Back in the day I used to listen to this on my Walkman while I cut grass. Very fast, very hard, it's like an audio adrenaline rush and never fails to get me going during a run:
I kept trudging through the woods, keeping a close eye on the red arrows Kristi spray-painted on the trail that showed the way. Bad time for a wrong turn. The woods then gave way to another field, the soccer field Kristi mentioned before. I must be going the right way. Then, up a hill, I noticed two women sitting down at a table covered with cups. The water stop! I must be around the halfway point of the race. They stood up when they saw me; they knew that when the first runner emerged, their work would begin. I chugged a small cup of ice-cold water, they told me where to go next, and I looked behind me again to where the rest of the runners would be. I saw no one.
The pressure of leading didn't go away when I realized that I left my competition out of sight. A lot could happen; I could step in a hole and sprain my ankle, which I have done numerous times. Fortunately for me, I have such a competitive nature that any pre-race thoughts of "what if I get hurt" go completely away when the bell rings. All I think from then on about is running fast, injuries be damned.
I made it to the road portion and noticed that the path was marked by arrows made with colored chalk, the same kind that kids would make hopscotch squares with. I circled my way around a neighboring school's parking lot and then suddenly realized that I didn't know whether to turn left or right out of the parking lot. There were no race volunteers around, there was nobody around at all. I began to run right, without a lot of conviction, but after 10 seconds or so my internal GPS took over and I turned around and headed left. Did I make that wrong turn I so dreaded? I turned out that I didn't, because after turning back left, I soon saw more colored chalk arrows pointing me up the road. I was relieved that I was homeward bound, but would my slight detour cost me the race? I looked back. I was still alone.
It was then apparent to me that I was going to win the race. All I had to do was hang on and avoid any speeding cars, wild dogs, or lightning bolts. The pressure was starting to fade away and I began to relax. While running, I noticed that in the same colored chalk that made the road arrows were motivational messages; "You're doing great!" "Almost there!" "What hill?" Coming back up to the football stadium I noticed an ambulance parked on the street; an ambulance on standby is required for any running race. I ran by it, giving the "thumbs-up" to the EMT sitting in the driver's seat indicating that his assistance wouldn't be needed, no matter how tired I may have looked.
The final stages of the race would take me around the football stadium, along another section of fence, and back on the track where the race began, through the same gate we left some twenty minutes ago. Running on that track alone made me feel like I was finishing the Olympic marathon. I crossed the original start line and then Kristi met me on the final turn."You're almost there!" It was then a straight shot to the orange cones that marked the finish line. In front of a small throng of race supporters, I crossed the finish line with a new personal best time of 21:01.
I got a nice round of applause, but when I heard my race time, I was a bit disappointed. If I didn't take that wrong turn and didn't take it easy at the finish, I would have run the race in something like 20:20 or so, which would have put me close to my ultimate goal of a sub-20 minute 5K. Winning races outright wasn't a goal of mine because the thought of me actually winning one seemed completely outlandish. In every race I have entered, the winner has always been either:
A: A rail-thin, 140-pound ringer from a college track team, or
B: Wesley Korir.
Pudgy 36-year-olds aren't supposed to win any sort of running race, even if the field is small and the distance short. What I did that day may have been the fluke to end all flukes. I wouldn't doubt that comparatively modest running time may be the slowest winning time of any non-obstacle 5K in recorded history. Nevertheless, a win is a win. I felt great about my accomplishment, and took in some refreshments after the race:
I don't even like watermelon. But it tasted so sweet.
Approximately three and a half minutes after I finished, the second place runner crossed the line. He told me that he was, by his estimation, thirty seconds behind me, but he took a wrong turn in the woods during the trail portion and that was pretty much all she wrote. Incredible. The thing that I thought would be the worst possible misstep to happen to me instead happened to my closest competitor. It really was my day.
The rest of the runners and walkers trickled their way to the finish line and then the awards ceremony was conducted by Kristi. She called my name as the overall winner, a medal was placed around my neck, and then we all went home.
This really is an unconventional way to start this blog, with a win in the first race I write about. I want to tell stories in the vein of an ordinary everyday running enthusiast slowly clawing his way to respectability. But here, I win right off the bat. Not too good as far as character development goes. In the movies, the plucky underdog has to endure various trials, tribulations, and close seconds before breaking through with the run of a lifetime, nipping his rival at the wire by a nanosecond, and walking away holding the hand of the girl of his dreams. Roll credits.
But this is real life, not some movie. Besides, if I didn't pull off my win that day, I might not have been compelled to begin this blog in the first place. And so it goes. Heck, I might not win another race as long as I live. I might as well document it as best I can.
Race photos courtesy of Kristi Whitehill
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