Chris Thater Memorial 5k

The starting line is as jam packed as it ever gets and is it just my imagination or does it smell a bit like that Ethiopian cafe on Monroe Ave? Moments ago, the elite athletes were running strides and stretching in front of the starting line while photographers snapped their pictures. Meanwhile, slower runners had crowded the line, waiting for the race to begin. An authority with a bull horn had asked everyone to get behind the line so Boyce, myself, and the elite runners shoved our way behind the starting line, into the already close crowd like bullets being pushed down against the spring into a clip of ammo. Here we wait, ready to be fired into the race. Instead of the sound of the gun, the race organizers take the opportunity to make announcements to their captive, and now less distracted, audience. We listen, remain silent for the requested moments, loosen up with little shakes of the legs, and rub elbows with everyone around us.

The smell of sweat thickens in the air. I detect an African flavor, or maybe I sense this because I expect to.

The gun goes off and we are already ascending. The start is positioned on an incline, but it crests shortly and then descends for a preview of the final 200 as the race course slides through its own finish line and out the other side. I'm moving very fast. In less than 400 meters I have passed the last woman and the last white person that I will see before the end of the race. At that point the lead pack of about 25 guys is already five seconds ahead of me and moving away.

The day is a weatherman's wet dream, which means it's too hot for distance races. There is not a cloud in the sky. The race wheels on to main street and the sun is beaming in our faces. It's 9:33 am.

There's no sense running alone ten meters behind somebody running the same pace as I am, but I'm already moving aggressively and my pace just happens to put me in no man's land, behind the lead pack, ahead of the chase pack. Four guys drift back towards me from the cluster cruising towards a 4:30 or faster first mile, but these four are surging to get back into the mix. I know because my own little surges bring me no closer to them.

By myself I'm chasing 25 guys down the hot asphalt of Binghamton, New York's main street. Running is about tradeoffs, so there is good and bad in this situation. I'm not drafting, but I'm getting a little bit more cool air this way. I went out fast, but it's only a 5k. Mile one goes down in 4:43.

Four times 3 miles plus 43 times 3... no, I should round, to 45? to 40? to 30? I decide that knowing the result of this pace is less important than the calories my brain is going to consume solving the problem. I charge onward at speed, feeling good, not worrying too much. It's only a 5k. I'm nearly one third done.

I pass two guys before the sharp right hand turn that brings me parallel to the start/finish. I've been watching the Olympics alot. It is extra exciting to pass Kenyans and Ethiopians in a race. These two give in without resistance. I blow by without lingering in their shadows. On a gentle downhill near the halfway mark, I try to pass another and he puts up a fight. Side by side we scorch past the water station, no time to snatch a drink. He surges again and again, but I'm not playing mind games. This is the pace I have been running and want to continue. He succumbs and I roll up on another guy as we put the sun at our back on the third turn. He isn't concerned about me, just about who might be behind me. When I'm next to him, he turns to look at who else might be with me, but there is no one. I pass him and I am grateful to see the two mile mark. The clock greets me at 9:33. 4:50 for the second mile is not a surprise. I feel well enough to run the last mile faster.

The last mile passes quickly, marked by flitting shadows instead of the harsh glare of the sun. My elongated shadow swims between the feet of a few more racers. I pass them before the final turn up the hill where the race started. Any fool can sprint on a downhill, so I make sure to put a confident air in my stride as I ascend with woodpecker-rapid steps. Over the top and I've got enough gas in the tank to slather a kick on top of the downhill's assistance.

Two more racers are falling back to me, but as I enter their peripheral vision they realize that they can go faster and float out beyond my reach. The finishing clock has me breaking the tape at 14:41, official time: 14:45. It's my fastest 5k in some time, perhaps my fastest ever road 5k and I finished a shocking 17th place. First place was almost a minute ahead of me in 13:51. *Shrugs* Anybody who is winning all the time, isn't going to the right races.

Hey Maurice Greene, Usain Bolt called. He wants his tatoo back. And Usain, act like you earned it, please. Nothing lasts forever.

Special thanks to Eric Boyce for informing me of the Chris Thater 5k's existence and driving us out to it. Thanks to the race organizers for free entry and hotel stay.

Article about the race. Mostly about women's winner, Molly Huddle.

Note: the picture above is not from this race. It's from the 10 ugly men 5k. I couldn't find any Thater images. Below is another ten ugly men picture. This one seems to be begging for a caption or three. I would be delighted to see what you can come up with.

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