Johnny's Runnin' of the Green

The summer racing season and, to many Rochesterians, summer itself, begins with Johnny's Runnin' of the Green five miler.

It has been a quarter year since I ran a race. I hate that such a large period of time can pass so easily in my life.

It was a rough time for running, not just because of the winter. My knee was not well when I ran at Club Nationals in December and the rest that I allowed it afterward did not heal it fully. I could still run on it, but that was beside the point. There was no time when I could not run on it.

That is almost always the question: To run or not to run. To suffer the vague pain of repetitive use injuries and, in doing so, perhaps over come them, but perhaps not, perhaps make them far worse and ruin one's body for nothing.

After a short break I ran and I kept running, though the knee hurt. I went to a physical therapist who wanted to experiment on me. I was delighted to oblige. This is how I think, scientifically. We have to make it hurt to determine the cause of the hurt. Experiment with what does and does not make it hurt, and then we must keep it hurting in order to determine what makes the hurt go away. It was like a very low-stakes episode of House.

In the end I added another silly stretch to my repertoire and I do the stretch every morning and evening to this day and perhaps every day from now until forever, but my knee works, and that's worth it.

Oh how my knee works! I did track workouts, fast and long, with Fontana Fluke. This gave me the edge that I had lacked for so long. Still, I was unsure where my training was at on St. Patrick's Day. Even though I had a title to defend, the Running of the Green would still be an assessment for me.

I arrived early wearing layered clothes though the forecast called for an exuberant high of 50. I did strip down to singlet and shorts on the starting line, but the clock / temperature on the bank display flickered between freezing and one above. The buildings cast long cold shadows, but jumping into the sun was like teleporting 500 miles south. The sky was blue from horizon to horizon.

GVH sported a strong crowd. The elite alone included: Pauling, Bradshaw, Strelick, Hine, Fluke, and myself. Then there was the wildcard. I learned the day of the race that Jeff Eggleston of Syracuse (not a GVHer) would be running. Jeff runs professionally for Hansons-Brooks distance project. I've only raced him once before. He beat me.

The gun or air horn or... did they merely yell "go"? begins the race. I take four strides without pumping my arms because there is simply no space. I'm in the open in short order with a cold breeze in my face. There is one other person in my field of vision and I naturally drift into his shadow. This must be Eggleston.

He is moving fast, but it feels comfortable to me and I can already feel us gapping the field. The headwind is strong so my choice is clear. There is no way I'm abandoning my draft, even at this speed, this early.

Jeff runs like a machine; every step a promise that the next will be just as clean. He seems strong, but I'm not worried. It is early. We rock the first mile in 4:46. Then I worry a bit.

At the mile mark Jeff checks the clock time against his own watch and then noticeably surges as if 4:46 is a great disappointment. I feel like this is all a production directed at me. Head games. The exaggerated look at the watch. The none-too-subtle surge immediately after. You have no chance, Neal. This is just a time trial for me. I could throw down harder if I had to.

Or perhaps I'm just self-centered and eager to read too much into everything. In any case, I felt no need to cover the surge after a 4:46 mile. I let the leash out. A few meters open between us. We're still moving fast, but I'm comfortable. It's a bit irksome when Jeff slows back down to my pace far enough ahead that I'm not drafting at all. The headwind is still substantial.

He splits the second mile in 4:44. I am a few seconds behind. After that he accelerates some, or I slow. The gap widens. I even spare a thought to my pursuers, but I try to banish this thought from my mind. Backwards thinking doesn't move me forwards. Eyes up.

The course is out and back. Gradual up hill to start, gradual down hill finish. Hairpin turn midway through. There is some confusion at the hairpin. No one is standing at the turn-around when Jeff gets there. I, assuming someone would be standing there, thought we had further to go, but I turned where Jeff turned. Later, the runners behind me would tell me that we ran at least far enough, if not too far. After the race we ran back to the hairpin and found a paint mark on the ground that looked at least a year old. The paint marked where Jeff and I turned, but who knows if it was right.

This hiccup threw me off a bit. I turned where Jeff turned, spotted a race official and threw my hands in the air. I forget what I yelled, "where?" or "what happened?" or something. He responded with words I can't recall and vague pointing, and I ran on.

Mostly I was frustrated that this glitch would render my time inaccurate. I also feared that Jeff and I would be disqualified. In the end nothing came of any of it and we probably did actually run the correct course. Race goes on.

Halfway through. Jeff's lead grows by tiny increments. The bulk of the racers pass on the other side of the street and I'm bolstered by a quarter mile or more of cheering from them. Some know my name, others encourage me to "go get him," others read my bib number and cheer for "number one". Eventually they peter out and I'm back to silence and a clear line of sight to Eggleston. He doesn't seem to be out distancing me.

Mental toughness time. I accelerate, knowing that now is the time. The downhill has not yet begun, but the race is winding down. The wind is somehow still in my face. It is quiet. I have to accelerate now when it is most difficult, later it will be easier, for both of us. It's like Pete told us at Nationals my sophomore year. "It will be quiet in mile four. Those who went out too fast will be tired. Everyone will be having trouble keeping their focus. Everyone but Williams. Eat them alive." Ok, maybe he didn't say, "eat them alive", but I like to remember it that way.

I accelerate, and slow, and refocus and accelerate again. We cross the bridge. The slight uphill I had forgotten body slams me, but the thought of approaching mile four eases the pain. I tap my wrist to get a time and hear 19:27. I haven't given up, but I know that a good time is far more likely than catching Eggleston. He doesn't seem to be accelerating, but he hasn't given any ground either.

The gradual downhill begins and I try to inject extra speed into it. The last mile is deceptively long. All the memorable landmarks are clustered into the bottom quarter. The other three quarters are interminable.

Nothing changes. I see Jeff break the tape about twenty seconds ahead of me. I give a compulsory kick and come through the line feeling not bad.

Next comes many GVH runners and some Geneseo students. Times are fast all around. My own time, for what it's worth, was 24:12, a personal best if I can count it.

I grouped up with the GVHers. I got a little too fired up when someone mentioned the hairpin turn. As I said before, nothing came of it. Most people reassured me that we turned at the right spot.

Judy Johnson won big in the women's race. She cooled down with a bunch of the guys even when Bradshaw convinced us to re-run the course for a five mile cooldown. She's an animal and Bradshaw is a nut and my legs hurt, but nothing out of the ordinary.

I never caught up with Eggleston (literally or figuratively), but he strikes me as the type that prefers to be left alone, so maybe that's best. Supposedly he ran again later that day. I guess that's what the professionals do. I went home and ate a big bowl of yogurt, cereal, and chocolate syrup with pineapple on top, then I put my legs up and wondered if I'd be able to stay awake to go out for St. Patty's day. I managed it.

Image gallery which I pilfered liberally

Post race article

Pre race article

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