The 113th annual Penn Relays
at Franklin Field-Philadelphia, Pa, Thursday-Saturday

Williams Affiliated Runners' Finishes:

Place	Bib Number	Name	Affiliation	Time	Event	Results
17	38	Stephen Wills	Williams	9:13.84	Steeple	link
21	26	Rachel Asher	Williams	17:24.99	5K	link
16	89	Neal Holtschulte	Columbus RC	30:26.33	10K	link
28	26	Colin Carroll	Williams	31:04.67	10K	link

I imagine that a long time ago, even before the dinosaurs roamed the Earth, there was a calm cool Thursday at the end of April in Philadelphia. It was so before Thursday was called Thursday, April called April, or a certain place on a map Philadelphia, and I imagine it will continue to be so. Global Warming may sink Florida and turn the heartland into a desert, the bombs may go off and plunge us into a nuclear winter, Hell may freeze over, but pleasantly cool conditions will reign between 10 pm and 11:15 pm in Philadelphia on the last Thursday in April.

It is the end of the first day of the Penn Relays and despite forecasts of rain during the evening and throughout the night, the 10K runners are presented with a cool, windless, fifty degree setting for their competition. This is how it has always been through time immemorial. The rain cannot fall during a reserved window. A pleasant cooling mist is the extent of the moisture in the air. The wind softens in deference to the ultimate event of the evening.

42 athletes, far fewer than I expected, take to one of two lines in a double water fall start. Macharia Yuot is on my left in the forward line, which occupies the outer lanes. I’m in the back of three rows. I say his name and wish him good luck. He looks back and says, "you too." Someone else remarks that it’s a D3 reunion. The only other D3 runner I know is Dave from Elizabethtown who I met a half hour ago. No one should be offended by this since I know of few to none athletes of great or small stature in running or any other sport.

I’m annoyed that I’m starting in the back of the pack, but the feeling passes. I’m not throwing any tantrum over a second or two. A rate involving a second or two is an entirely different matter. The math is quite easy. 75 seconds to run a single lap, 400 meters, will round out a 5 minute mile (1600 to be precise) in 4 laps. Multiply by 6 and add 75 seconds for that one extra lap to get a 10K taking 30 minutes and 75 seconds. Since the 10K is 25 laps around the track shaving off one second per lap takes exactly 25 seconds off of the total time. Since my goal is a sub-30 minute 10K I need to shave off 75 seconds from a 5 minute mile pace. That is 3 seconds per lap to get 3 times 25 equals 75. My improbably high number of combination mathematician/runner friends who are reading this are shaking their heads at me right now.

In the end, the key rate is 72 seconds per 400 meters. That gives me a 30 minute flat 10K. Scratch a few seconds for a finishing kick and I’m under 30. Dare to dream of comfort going into the final mile (or even two!) and I’ll be looking at breaking my 29:49 seed time.

The math is clean and polite and designed for mammals with five digits on the ends of their limbs. The weather is sufficient proof of God’s singular love of runners. Finally, the track is a track; a setting controlled like a science experiment. It is designed to minimize the variables so that mettle may be tested more perfectly, but the sloppy humans mess up everything: they bump into each other, run too fast or too slow, annoyingly they keep changing pace. It’s a rough race. I can remember little but fragments. Though they seem to string themselves together once I find the first fragment. Images stand out like snapshots in an album, but the album itself is the real story. The images are accidental crumbs crushed between the pages of an album bound together with fear, pain, choices, and victories and failures having nothing to do with finish lines. ...and if you think that was too melodramatic, you might as well stop reading now.

The gun is completely absent from my memory, but I know there was a gun, so I suppose that is where to begin. After that gun goes off it does indeed take me a second to cross the starting line while I wait on two rows of runners ahead of me to get moving. I run on the outside of the pack taking the long route. Upon completion of the first curve the runners in the outer lanes flow into the inner lanes. The runners already occupying these lanes jealously guard their territory. I settle in the outside of the second lane for the second curve. As a single pack we cross the starting line where coaches and fans yell out advice and times so that no one can hear a single word that anyone else is saying, but I glimpse the clock. Something like 73 seconds for the first lap. Not so hot, but the race is young.

Everything still feels easy. I had mentally prepared for this so I wouldn't go out too fast. It’s funny that one should prepare for comfort, but it’s important in this race where the runners traverse the spectrum of pain slowly, inevitably, and entirely, so that I don't traverse it too quickly.

The first mile is uniformly slow. My time is somewhere in the 4:50’s. Eventually I nudge and negotiate my way into the inside of lane one. This normally ideal location puts me in line to catch a runner who was over eager and is now falling backwards through the pack. The other runners carve a lane that boxes me into the path of the falling object. I catch him and am left holding the hot potato. I'm forced backwards until a gap emerges in traffic where I can cut out and around.

By the time I’m free Dusty has called out a few of my splits and they aren’t good, but I know this already. I could feel the pace slipping. I spend some time in the outside of lane one and pass handfuls of runners in two surges over the course of a half mile. The surges come easily. The speed is so accessible I think I might be able to sustain it for the duration, but this is a naïve thought. The race is still young.

I linger near the front of my pack. Other runners have broken the continuous train and formed their own group tens of meters ahead of us. No-man’s land: Like sand on a beach no-man’s land seems to be an obligatory feature of every 10K. This is my first decision, but it isn’t hard to make. Taking charge of the situation is the bold move that I am entirely capable of at this point in the race. Waiting patiently is the choice of fear that may put me so far into time debt that I never recover.

13 or so minutes into the race (I remember it was distinctly before half-way) I surge into no-man’s land. The strong and the patient follow me eagerly. I lead for a half mile at least. I recall it is at least that far because that’s when I began considering dramatically slowing to force a new leader to "carry the flag". I didn’t have to slow dramatically because I was already slowing subtly. A coach tells one of his athletes that my pack is dying. "Get out while you still can," is his message.

Someone does get out: a tall strong runner in a red, white, and blue jersey who I would have thanked if I had had enough mental clarity to do so afterwards. He climbs up beside me and relieves me of control. Before anyone else has a chance to dismiss me further I throw a mental lasso around him and hold on. The tall runner wastes no time. On the following lap coaches and other strangers are calling out 72 seconds or 71.

For a while the race becomes a quiet personal affair. I have a horse to carry me through the desert of endless latter miles. He is hitting the right pace and no one is passing me or being passed by me. All I have to do is hold on.

I feel stationary as the shadowy damp track curves towards me, straightens for a period, then curves again. Every sound has its own rhythm. My breath is the fastest (footsteps are too quiet). There is a clump of fans that know me by name they become the slowest regular sound, once per lap. Their encouragement is welcome, but I feel I am beyond help. Dusty continues periodically calling out times. I’m appreciative, but time no longer matters. My trusty horse knows the pace. It’s up to me to follow.

10 laps remain and I’m thinking about "guts distance": the maximum distance I can run on guts alone. All I have to do is last until guts distance, but a part of me knows that the situation is not so simple.

Adrenaline completely mutes sharp pain. "You have a side stitch," my brain tells me in an academic voice, "it feels like a shard of glass between your ribs." "That’s nice," I reply. My brain moves down the list of action items. "Discomfort is solidly established throughout your body." Adrenaline doesn’t mute discomfort. My brain goes on, "and there is an undercurrent of weakness heralding complete fatigue and collapse."

That's not so nice.

I’ve come to my second decision, before I can consider any options a voice in my head suggests that I could stop. "Imagine it! No more pain, no lingering pain, and it's all yours for the taking!"

Thankfully, the voice is shouted down. Maybe the strangers in the crowd can help me after all. It is their voices, and not my own that scold the desire to stop into submission. This leaves me with two options.

Option 1. Go Guts for Glory: hang on to the tall brave pacer that has been good to me so far. He is knocking down 71 to 72 second 400s like clockwork. I could hang on until my last calorie of strength and my final gasping breath.

Option 2. Strategically Retreat: back off until "guts distance" and then close with everything I’ve got.

Emotion is backing option one, but reason is backing option two. Fear is sitting zazen in the corner. Fear tells me that I’m trying to salvage the pieces of a losing battle and a big loss or a little one doesn't matter much to him. My goal time would be in reach if I dropped my pace to low 71's for six laps then dropped it at least one second per lap for the remaining mile, but that is impossible, I can feel it.

Collapse is dangerously close. I can sense the coming rebellion in my muscles. The imminent muscular failure possesses more reality than the jersey soaked with sweat and mist that’s clinging to my chest, far more than the track beneath my feet. It has not registered on my mind at all beyond the burning on the balls of my feet that indicate blisters. This pain, like the side stitch, is academic, it is reading a book. The rebellion is gripping the leather cover, hearing the crack of the spine as it opens, and smelling the glue and fresh paper.

I begin backing off of the pace. I am confident that this is the better decision. It isn’t natural since I’ve still got strength and energy, but those wouldn't have lasted much longer. I’m upsetting the train cars behind me. They pass me one by one. A runner hesitates. I wave him forward. For some reason I’m feeling courteous. "I’m coming back buddy, get in front or fade with me." He gets in front.

The train takes off ahead of me. I recall five cars give or take two. They gap me slowly.

Dusty is on the infield telling me that I’ve got to accelerate. I appreciate the encouragement and it is encouragement, not information that he is telling me. It isn’t time to accelerate yet. The order of operations must be respected. The order is:

Dusty doesn’t tell me my new pace and for that I am incredibly grateful. Later he apologized and said that it got too hard trying to keep track of Century’s pace and then run across the infield and get mine too. I guess I have Century to thank instead then. No thanks at all Dusty!

After my pack of give-or-take-five passes me no-man’s land swallows me up and for once I am glad to be alone. Coaches and fans are yelling to their runners behind me, telling them to catch me, but I can tell that those runners aren’t near from the time delay between my passing of the coach and the coach’s instructions to his runner. For some reason this amuses me and I think of the Doppler effect.

During my mile of rest I focus on my breathing. It is quick and shallow. I force it down into the blade of glass between my ribs, but it doesn’t go down smoothly as if I am inhaling gravel. Damage control progresses in fits and starts, if at all. I do my best.

Slowly, over the course of the fifth mile I am caught. Surely I had acted as a lure to the runners behind me. They were in pain and suffering like me, but I dangled a victory before them. They could pass me and move up one more spot on the finishing list. It took them the entire mile, but finally they arrived.

The first one passes me and I match his pace with confidence and renewed strength. Miraculously I have recovered during my four lap hiatus. I feel like I have come back from the dead. I wake, ready to race the mile. My mental lasso snares the new runner before me. He is a shorter fellow, my height, with blonde hair and a mono-color uniform, the color of which my memory has painted gray.

He starts pulling me forward, bringing me back to speed. We charge into the last mile like storybook heroes about to overcome the antagonist. "Guts distance" is upon us. All over the track the mental bonds holding together the "trains" are fractured. All the old alliances are destroyed. The runners propelled forwards have their guts and flesh to thank. Those falling backwards certainly need not blame their will power. They merely asked too much of their bodies too early.

My new leader and the handful of his friends that are tight on my tail rapidly gain ground on some of the less fortunate members of my former group. In no time at all we enter the last half mile. The leader quickens the pace. I stay right with him. I find myself asking the same old question with a new emphasis. "How soon can I go all out without dying before the finish line?" More emphasis on "all out", less emphasis on "dying before the finish line".

The pace keeps accelerating. Two black guys, sprinting like hell, pass us just before we enter the final lap. Then and there it’s not depressing being lapped. We are inspired into the final lap and we feel wings on our feet. I’ve forgotten all about running for time. My being is consumed by a desire to beat these strangers ahead and behind me. They are friends of mine, bound by an intimate knowledge of pain and effort anchored in experience. They are my worst enemies.

150 meters left and all restraint is gone. I’m blasting around the final curve like I was flung from a sling. The runners with me are breathing fire and alive for speed. We’ve just met a few other runners who were ahead of us. The track is crowded in the last 100. Engaging the highest gear feels like bathing in glory. Some of my comrades drift into my wake. The leader is motionless as he matches my speed. No one can move faster.

We cross the finish line and return from heaven. I won’t say it’s hell we are returning to, but it’s cold and painful. Most people are weak. All are mortal. There are bodies everywhere. Most are standing, but they look like walking corpses, except for the ridiculous few who look fine. In this godawful den saints pass out bottled water. The den has a six and a half foot concrete wall up to the floor of the stands. I put my hands up on the wall and hang there waiting. I take hold of my breath. It steadies. I steady. Everything will be ok.

My breath returns and I can walk. I’m not going to puke like my last race. That’s a beautiful thought. Macharia Yuot is finishing up a conversation with a cameraman. Yuot looks like he hasn’t raced yet. I wobble over and say hi.

He took third overall. He tells me that this is basically speedwork for him. He focuses on marathons now. Speedwork! Sheesh, I’d say so. He clocked a 29:20. He asks me about my training. I say it’s lonely. I’ve got no one to do hard runs with. He says he does a lot of training alone too. I’m thinking, well damn, it sure seems to work for you. It ain’t cut’n it for me. I congratulate him. He says he will see me again. He will be right, eventually. We go our separate ways.

I’m jealous of him. I shouldn’t be. My race was a catastrophe averted. Somehow I pulled out a 30:26. When I started giving ground in the fifth mile I thought 31 minutes plus change would be my fate. 30:26 was a massive coup. The success of my plan to slow down and "recover" in the middle of the race strains credibility and no one is more incredulous than I.

My training has not been what it could be. I am not self motivating well. That is what I am most jealous of Yuot for, for his training. When I do kick my own butt out the door for a run I feel bitter and depressed. I’ve forgotten how to run for fun. I forgot that I race for fun.

I ran a cool down after the race with Colin Carrol (Century), Stephen Wills, and Rachel Asher. It was astoundingly painful. The mute button had been released on my side stitch. My legs protested with every step, I was sweating in the extra clothing I had put on, and (since the meet was over) the rain had begun to make up for lost time. In spite of my physical condition and all the discomforts I could have seized upon I felt calm and easily smiled. Running with friends temporarily cured all my pain. We didn’t talk about anything particularly special. Everyone got on the nationals list in their respective event. "Except Neal," Colin pointed out. Jerk! Ha, truly it had to be said.

I haven’t been the same since leaving Williams. I cannot express how much I miss it. It isn’t the setting, though that is nice. It isn’t the classes or my professors to whom I am eternally indebted. What I miss, the thing that has left a hole in me, is the act of covering ground with friends. It creates a bond that cannot be replicated by any amount of friendly conversation or common interest. It is a bond that can only be created by this one particular type of shared experience.

Appendices

1. Close Finish:
   Upon seeing the results I was surprised at how close the finish was for me. I had two guys within a half second of me; one ahead and one behind. Return to write-up


2. Video of the 10K


3. Williams Affiliated Runners' Finishes:
   

   Place	Bib Number	Name	Affiliation	Time	Event	Results
   17	38	Stephen Wills	Williams	9:13.84	Steeple	link
   21	26	Rachel Asher	Williams	17:24.99	5K	link
   16	89	Neal Holtschulte	Columbus RC	30:26.33	10K	link
   28	26	Colin Carroll	Williams	31:04.67	10K	link



4. Decent Pacing (Cheering myself up):
   First off, my race wasn't nearly as bad as it felt. To get the time that I did, I reckon that I kept each lap between 71 and 75 seconds. The range might have even been more slim (slimmer?). My last lap, which I'm excluding from this analysis, was a 66 I'm proud to say.


5. Results:

   Olympic development results (college athletes removed)

   Results for all events



6. Photos:
   
   All photos: prettysporty.com. Photos are in chronological order.
   

   Stephen

   1 2 3 Grim determination 4
   
   

   Rachel

   (there were a lot more of her but I skipped consecutive or nearly consecutive photos). 1 2 3 4
   
   There are many photo opportunities in a 10K
   

   Colin

   1 2 3 4 No man's land 5 6 7 Still with the demon eyes 8 9 10 11 12

   Myself

   1 2 3 4 5 The tall guy who helped me 6 Fallen off the pack, I'm the blurry one 7 8 9 Finally I'm caught 10 Back in the hunt 11 12 13 Final 100m
   
   eliterunning.com: Maybe they will eventually get around to putting up photos of other events... and maybe not.


7. Century's Race Write-Up:
   Colin, in his race write-up, describes having trouble remembering parts of the race like he was "either going through a bit of a rough stretch or else just zoning out and focusing on a uniform". I felt very much the same way. Also, he mentions hearing weird numbers for splits. I noticed this too and my conclusion is that people at the starting line were reading off bib numbers for some reason, not splits of any kind. This would explain why I heard numbers in the 80's.


8. Prerace Food and Water:
   I'm going to describe my food and fluid consumption before the race. This is primarily for my own records, but other hard core runners might be interested (maybe some can even give me some helpful comments). I ate an early breakfast of a big bowl of cereal. Then I waited until I felt hungry to eat two pieces of bread with peanut butter and a banana on them. Around 2 o'clock I ate six inches of a subway roast beef sub with tomatoes, olives, and pickles, (pickles have salt and potassium right? They are like nasty little bananas). I took off some of the meat. Then I started eating again around 6:40. I finished the last half of the sub, this time pulling off about half the meat, I also had a nature valley bar and a fruit drink that was mostly coloring and high-fructose corn syrup. I finished eating just after 7:00 giving myself three hours and forty minutes to digest. I continued sipping water and the fruit drink for the next 2.5 hours. At 8:15 I ate a banana. This routine seems to have worked well. Signs suggested I was dehydrated after the race, but I don't know what to make of this since I was "clear and copious" before the race.


9. High heart rate: After my last race I had the frightening experience that my heart rate didn't decrease after the race. I've been checking my pulse regularly in the two weeks since that race and I checked it after Penn and was pleased that it was down to normal very quickly. One change that I made since the previous race is that I have stopped taking the nasal decongestant half of my allergy medicine, Pseudoephedrine Hydrochloride or Suphedrine for short.
   
   I can't confirm or deny that the drug is what was affecting my heart but anecdotal evidence from my dad and information from two websites, netdoctor and wikipedia, have reinforced my aversion to this drug.
   
   My dad's experience was a racing heart that woke him up in the night after taking the drug before bed. The netdoctor site states that

   Alpha-receptors are present on the muscles in the walls of blood vessels. When these receptors are stimulated by pseudoephedrine, the muscle contracts, which causes the blood vessel to narrow. This allows less fluid to travel through these blood vessels.

   And both sites say that people with high blood pressure should not take the drug. I think the duration of my race certainly counts as a period of high blood pressure and the last thing I want in a race is my blood vessels narrowing. So, no more suphedrine for me. I haven't been badly stuffed up since going off the drug and if I do start to have problems there are some simple drug free alternatives.


10. The Future:
    I haven't got new goals for the future yet, though some money races have already tempted me. For now I'm going to recover and re-learn what it is I love about running.