08 Penn Relays

Some distance runners prefer track. Some prefer cross country, and I've always been one of them. The allure of track was explained to me once. Track is harder, I was told, the mental element is larger. As someone who prides himself on being a mentally strong racer and who has found greater success in cross country than track, I dismissed this argument.

Track is more boring perhaps, but harder? No way. It's so much easier to stay on pace. There aren't any hills to deal with. So on and so forth.

The 10K at Penn proved me wrong. More specifically, my opponent proved me wrong.

I'm on the infield, after a warm up and a handful of bathroom stops. The field is littered with people: hard edged athletes summoning will power to themselves with palpable density. Coaches moving slowly, minimally, removing themselves psychically to clear space for their valued charges. Officials, tired after a long day, maintaining diligence. All of this under the lights and a perfect cool April 24th in Philadelphia. I feel a sense of belonging. This is my right place in the right time. I encourage this feeling in my self. I try on a smile like a pair of shoes. I read that pretending to be happy can actually make you happier. I try this during the race, not smiling like an idiot, but brightening my face a little. I'm going to hold pace. This will be ok. I'm going to hold pace. The cameras apparently missed my happy thoughts. Tinkerbell apparently passed me over when dispensing fairy dust.

Seventy two seconds per lap, for twenty five laps is exactly thirty minutes. If I subtract a few seconds for a kick, I've got my goal time: under 30 minutes for 10K. I've attempted this before, last year. It's a long race. It usually hurts a lot, which I remind myself as a mental prep. This race will hurt. I will not slow down. I repeat myself. I will not slow down. I will not lose self respect.

In the majority of track races the opponent never gets tired, never goes out too fast, never hits the wall. You can't dishearten your opponent with a strong kick or a confident pass. The opponent doesn't get emotional. It doesn't make mistakes. In track, the opponent is often a time. Cross country is for racing people, but like the river the philosopher spoke of, you never step on the same cross country course twice. Track is a sterile lab. Variables are controlled. There could always be rain or wind, but I've never seen it in Philadelphia on April 24th.

The race begins as a two-tier waterfall start. Olympic Development in the outer, forward lane. College all back at the typical starting line. I'm in the outer-outermost lane. My right shoulder is touching the wall supporting the seats.

The gun goes off and I move fast enough to cut in a little. The college men are edging up to parallel in the inner lanes. After the first turn we swoop down on them, jockeying to be close to the rail for the second turn. I stay close to the guy on my left, but I've decided not to put up with the pushing, shoving, braking, and accelerating, so I round curve two in the outside of the second lane.

I take the first lap conservatively, thinking it will be fast regardless. I'm wrong. It's a 73. No worries. A steady pace and the second lap is in the 71's, as in, 71 seconds plus a fraction of a second. The fraction is important. One half second per lap adds up to 12.5 seconds over the course of the 10K. The clock is relentless.

Runners in the pack go through the obligatory renegotiations of positioning as people decide the pace is too fast or too slow. The pace is right on target for me. I latch on to another runner at speed and try to think happy thoughts. Every 71 is money in the bank. It is good to be racing. Six more 71's brings me through two miles in 9:30, six seconds under goal pace.

There's a heavy feeling of fatigue starting to manifest in my legs; a thickening like curdling milk. I tell myself it won't get worse. Last year, same race, same goal, I backed off the pace in the hope of gathering strength for a re-surge at the end. It worked, but not well enough to hit the goal time. This is a new year. I'm not trying that strategy again.

I round the "homestretch" of the track and I'm begging the race to be nearly over. The big bold numbers on the lap counter stare back, nonchalant: fifteen laps to go. Pep talks begin in earnest in my head.

71, 72. Different coaches yell different things to the athletes around me. Bib number 73 bounces on the jersey in front of me. Number 71 is a few strides further ahead. How appropriate, but not quite accurate, yet.

5K, halfway, passes without compassion. At some point other runners drift away from me. The whole world feels like it's drifting away from me. I'm no longer certain of my pace. I'm still subtracting laps with hopeful math and encouraging myself to hold on.

A dark place draws me in. My eyes start to close, settling. I snap out of it, blink it away. I wasn't going to pass out, but the feeling is the same as fighting to stay awake. I'm fighting to stay in control. My head wants to tilt back. The muscles behind my shoulders want to let go and send my shoulders up towards my ears like released balloons. My eyes want to close. It's quite possible to run with your eyes closed on a track. My legs are on autopilot, but that's not good enough. I whip them back up to speed.

There are people calling out times on my left and people screaming names on my right. All I can hear is a voice in my head saying, "concentrate" over and over again. Keep your spine straight, eyes up, eyes ahead.

Don't look down. The ground looks so fast, a blur of motion. It lies. It lulls you into a false sense of speed. Don't look at your competitors. That jersey is bouncing rhythmically, hypnotically, neither coming nor going. It will dull your mind. Look at the rail. It curls as you approach the turns, straightens out twice per lap. It moves towards you, but not so fast that you get complacent. You know your competitors when you look away from then. Your peripheral vision is excellent at detecting movement. Suddenly you know which of your competitors you are gaining on and which are leaving you behind.

The menu has concentration and pep talks from here on in and no one can hear the voice in my head, so it pulls out all the stops. I'm back at Paavo camp digging up key experiences and being a Spartan before 300 made it cool.

Come back with your shield, or come back on it. In other words, hold on to your honor, let go of your fear. Disgrace is finishing with the knowledge you could have gone faster. Hitting the wall, or passing out, this is the greatest honor you can achieve.

I'm going to hold pace, come what may. Only I don't. I get passed, then again.

Someone on the infield knows me. Tells me to go with this guy as another passes. His shadow is a morphing aster-shape under the many lights. I put myself in it. I hold his pace for a while, till my eyes are rolling under lids again. I snap out again, but the dark waves keep breaking over me. I push the pace again, and I keep pushing. I'm not speeding up. It's the Red Queen Effect. You must run as fast as you can just to stay where you are.

Fatigue smothers my legs. In any other race I'd have slowed down. I keep pushing and keep getting passed. It's not disheartening. Racing isn't zero-sum when you are against the clock, ah but the clock, now that's disheartening.

1000 meters to go and I've been passed again. The mystery friend on the infield tells me to go with the guy that just passed. I obey, and try not to admit I wouldn't have without the command. The pace is significantly quicker, but it wakes a desire in me and moments later I'm surprised to find the pace too slow. I pass the guy and I'm gaining on another. The time goal is long gone. The clock says 28 minutes flat with another two laps to go, but the other runners are suddenly more than scenery. They are worthy of beating. I pass two more.

Last lap: a coach yells to his athlete, not me, "Up on your toes now, and stay up." There's 300 meters to go. Seems so far, but I obey. I sprint the last 300 and pass 2 more runners before the end.

I look over at the clock after I finish and want to cry like a baby. It says 29:16. This cannot be my time. I must have stopped early. I must have another lap to go. My mind splits. Half yells, RUN! The weaker half advises, think. I look around. Everyone else is stopping. I start to ask, "Do I have another lap?" So stupid, the words don't get out (thankfully). I look back at the clock. It still says 29:16. They freeze the winner's time on the clock when he finishes. goddamnit.

Having transcended that catastrophe without running another lap I go hang on the wall beneath the stands, where I started the race. I just hang there with my forehead on the cool concrete. I feel awful, physically. Emotionally, I'm intact. I ran honorably. Maybe I'd be happy if my body weren't so miserable.

It's a long night. The cool down is a lesser of two evils. Tired impatient officials corral people out of the stadium. I've misplaced my sympathy for them. There's a tightness throughout my chest where the pollen in the air makes itself known. I eat and drink in the car on the way home. Grape juice tastes too good to be legal. I force my dad to pull over before we make it to the hotel so I can use a bathroom. Back in the hotel I halfheartedly sit in ice water deep enough to reach only half my legs in the bathtub. I'm freezing and lack the will power to make the water deeper. In bed I let my guard down and sleep finds me quickly, moves in for the kill.

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My time was 30:26.60. (Last year I ran 30:26.33. I wish I could say I did that on purpose.) I finished third in the Olympic Development field (results here) and eighteenth in the overall field which includes the college athletes (college results). The finish was relatively close in my vicinity with one runner 4 seconds ahead of me and runners one, two, four, and six seconds behind me.

Macharia Yuot ran the 5K this year. I had just enough time before my warm up to watch. He ran a gutsy race, tiring himself out chasing the leader and eventual winner before reluctantly letting the guy go. The effort cost him and he was out kicked by two other guys at the end. Nonetheless he ran a blistering 14:05.

My weekend was made more enjoyable and significantly easier by Brian Lombardo and my dad. I hitched a ride to and from the meet with Brian and members of the Canisius High School track team who he coaches. My dad and I hung out, foiled the devious Philly public transit system, and watched the meet on Friday, not necessarily in that order.

Though I never figured out who was giving me advice and encouragement from the infield, some of my fans in the crowd turned out to be the parents of another D3 runner, Nathan Krah of Bowdoin (30:45, 17th college finisher). His mom approximated the tone and volume of my own mother, which is no mean feat. I ran a brief second cool down with Nate and enjoyed talking with him.

Pictures

Pretty sporty - has 10 K pics. A good comprehensive pic list.

Image of sport - a very artistic photo gallery. This is worth checking out. Day 1 has the most creative photographs. I wasn't able to copy any of these photos to my site. They are somehow blocking "right-click, save-as", so all I can say is view this site! You won't be disappointed, unless you are looking only for distance race pics. Then you will be disappointed.

Flickr - more pics. I found these somewhat dull.

Track shark - Photos mostly of relays, with an emphasis on the buff elite runners.

Elite Running - more pics. Yawn.