2009 Rochester Half Marathon

Ryan Pauling, Trisha Byler, and I are standing in line for the port-a-johns before the start of the Rochester Half Marathon. Trisha mentions something about not having much time left. "Aren't you worried about the time?"

"Nah, I shouldn't be worried," I say as I raise up my watch. According to my watch, however, we should all be worried, but, well, the full marathon started five minutes late and I've been waiting in this line far too long to abandon it now. Also, I'm Neal Holtschulte and I'm standing with Ryan Pauling and Trisha Byler. Come on. Ryan and I hold the top two ranks in the men's Rochester Runner of the Year series and Trisha is ranked second for the women's. The race wouldn't start without us, right?

I use the bathroom, step out. In the distance I hear race start instructions being called out over the amplifier. I spin around to look for Ryan or Trisha, the reality of the situation still failing to drive the truth through my thick skull. I figure they would have the good sense not to wait on me, so I don't wait on them.

I set off at a jog towards the Fleet Feet van that is collecting bags of race line clothes and other items to ferry these to the finish line. I'm still wearing warm up tops and bottoms. That's when the horn sounds for the start of the race. My jogging pace increases considerably. I yank my top off, pull my pants off inside out over my shoes. I ball them up together and fling them at Mark Andrews (Fleet Feet) with an apology. Then I turn to the sight of eighteen hundred backsides ahead of me.

Turmoil is the only word for my state at this point. My race might be over already. There might be no chance. I should accept it and have a nice relaxing run: a run, not a race. But no! I can't even think this thought. I've got to get to the front as fast as possible, but not too fast. If I run too fast now I'll be in no shape to race the leaders. So go fast, but not too fast.

I cut straight for the sidewalk where the crowd is thinnest. I weave between a few spectators. I blow past a cop in an intersection and am left with the distressing sense that he should stop me. It's because running on the sidewalk feels like cheating. I slide back into the street and am immediately blocked by joggers. "Excuse me" I call out, "I need to pass." People move out of the way surprisingly quickly. Perhaps it's the desperation in my voice.

Finally I move past the thickest crowds. Up ahead I can make out the police motorcycles that, I assume, are with the leaders. Near me are a lot of the top women and second tier men. I don't seem to be passing them nearly fast enough, but it's just my impatience. In retrospect I calculate that I was traveling about eleven miles per hour and they were traveling at about nine miles per hour, but at the time I urged myself faster because they weren't being thrown into a spin by my wake as I flashed by.

I had had a race plan: run 5:30 for the first few miles, as long as I felt I needed to, then drop the pace down to average something like 5:25. I come through the first mile and someone calls out 6:06, which might not have worried me if I had started properly and simply relaxed a bit too much. In that case, 6:06 would have meant I'm that much more rested to make up lost ground. Instead I learn that I'm at least thirty-six seconds off my intended mile time and I have no idea how much effort has been expended.

I'm advancing on the leaders by mile two. They include Dave Bradshaw, Chad Byler, and some guy in green. They don't seem to be hammering the pace. That or I am burning rubber to catch them. I'm praying that I'm not going to pay for this later. This is only my second half marathon ever, the longest distance I have ever raced.

I relax as I ease up next to Chad and Dave. I don't say anything, but they know I'm there. I feel compelled to ask if Ryan Pauling is ahead of us. We have just turned off of South Winton and entered quieter roads with more turns. It's possible that Ryan is around one of those turns. He had threatened to take the pace out at 5:10 or lower and my sarcasm detector has long been broken.

"No," I'm told. "He isn't."

Mile three comes and goes then Ryan slides up next to us. We exchange a glance. All I can think to say is, "man", attempting to imbue the word with incredulity, sympathy, and regret all through tone. He just shakes his head a little.

The two late comers, he and I, sit in drafting position for only a short time. Ryan takes the lead down a hill. Later he tells me he wanted to lead at least once in case the race went to shit for him. I draft a bit more, then run beside him, then take the lead breifly. I do this so as not to act like a total parasite, drafting the whole race. (In other situations (such as college), such behavior is fine. It's not personal, it's business. This is business too, but still, these are people I train with.)

I hit my watch at each mile mark, but the splits aren't adding up. In hindsight, this may not be my fault, but mismeasurement of the race course. I clock our pack of five at 5:39 for the fifth mile and 5:14 for the sixth. Byler agreed. That didn't seem right even accounting for up hills and downs.

Cruising through mile six, I can't help but think that this is nearly halfway and I feel good. Dangerous sentiments. Seven miles to go.

The race started at 7:45 am. The temperature was in the low 60's and dropped noticeably when the sun drifted behind clouds. Mostly the sun waited until after our race to hide. The wind was only noticeable breifly on the race course, about midway when it buffetted us in the face. I tucked in and drafted, as did the others, and we narrowed down to single file.

After that we veer off the main road to the paved canal path trail. Mile seven: 5:24. The wind is still in our face here, but the trees break it so it's hardly noticeable. The police motorcycles puffing exhaust into our faces are much more annoying. Can anyone explain to me what is wrong with man-powered bikes? Or why two police are needed to lead this race? I try not to think about what I'm taking into my body with each deep race breath.

The canal path snakes left and right like a slalom course in some parts. Without much forethought I surge into the lead so I can cut the tangents as sharp as possible without rubbing shoulders with anyone or getting tripped up around turns.

Mile eight: 5:22. Now we're cooking and I still feel good. The mental battle begins. The time for drafting and letting others dictate the pace has ended. Only if they want to significantly accelerate will I allow them to lead.

Wired magazine just ran a jaw-slappingly fascinating article about the placebo effect. It's fresh in mind so I'm all about rewiring my body to be strong, fast, healthy. The landscape hurtles past and I can think of nothing more beneficial than enjoying it.

Mile nine: 5:17. I glance over my shoulder. Ryan is the only one there and I am grateful. Somehow it is easier to mentally overcome only one competitor even though it all comes down to speed in the end. I maintain the lead as we cruise through the Genesee Valley Park. Only once in this race do I grab water from a volunteer. The water geysers up when I grab the cup, yet the cup somehow remains full so I dump a bit out. I don't want to drench myself. The air is beautifully cool, nearly cold. I choke a bit of water down between breaths.

Mile ten: 5:10. Quite a fast one there, but I don't fully trust these measurements. Nothing is wrong with my body at this point. My left hip has been hurting since almost mile two, but it seemed to whine and pout itself out, and since then has decided to function fine with only a little sulking to remind me of its displeasure. It's been pulling this act for weeks. I give it some extra stretching attention and it forgives me for what I ask of it.

Mile eleven: 5:12. My mind begins to wander. Any thought that is not hear and now is slower than hear and now, but hmmm, I'll start composing my race write up as I'm running, no! Bad Neal. I wonder how many days it will take to recover? Hopefully not too many. I'd like to run well in Providence next weekend. I hope we can all fit in one car to save gas. Should I volunteer my car?

No! Breath. Concrete. Trees. Exhaust. Flickers of light through branches. The burning sensation on the balls of my feet. The feel of speed lifting my spine. Legs turning over effortlessly. Hold this pace and the race is yours. Just hold. Keep your mind here.

I don't look at my watch at mile twelve. It's too late to matter. Ryan hasn't been on my shoulder for over a mile. I have not looked back to see where he is. If I hold pace, I'm fine. Suddenly my legs send a signal of weakness, like a desperate message from Scotty in the engine room. The sensation passes through me like a sound wave, a minor chord, barely perceptible, vaguely unsettling. I send back a message, "It's too late to quit."

I redouble my concentration, crack the whip louder to spur my legs onward. If they sense weakness, they could rise up against me. The path curves and rises, corscrewing off the river path near the University of Rochester. My legs take me over the bridge to the blessed downhill.

I have a policy about looking back in races: Don't do it. Ever. Speed up instead. After all, if I'm looking back, I'm doing so with the hope that what I see will reassure me that I don't have to speed up. Therefore I can speed up. Therefore I should.

But I look back now. Relief. I don't have to speed up. I ease off just a little. When I turn the corner and see the finish chute I give a surge for the crowd, but just a little one. I'm ready to be done. I lift my arms at the tape, but it's not to be arrogant. It just seems like the proper thing to do. Not doing so would seem haughty, like this race is beneath me.

Not that I don't have a big head. After all I write race write ups and publish them on my own blog, so yeah, but this was a friendly race. Everyone knows Ryan and I wouldn't engineer this sort of spectacle. I hope I go a long time without drama like the start of this race.

I finished in 1:10:09 (gun time) and 1:09:15 (chip time), suggesting that I was actually 54 seconds late for the race. Ryan Pauling ended up finishing second in 1:10:43 (gun time) and 1:09:51 (chip time), so he was presumably 52 seconds late. This doesn't quite make sense unless Ryan actually got to the starting line faster than I did and then got caught in more traffic. By his account, he started the race in the middle-rear of the pack and did get stuck people-dodging, whereas I navigated around the edge.

Bradshaw finished, third, in 1:11:39. Byler, fourth, in 1:13:36. I don't think it's a stretch to say that everything ended as we might have predicted, without race start shenanigans. I'm glad we were spread out enough such that the gun time rankings matched the chip time rankings. Hopefully I have learned my lesson and give myself a bigger time buffer in the future.

Next weekend I'm off with five other GVH runners to Providence, Rhode Island for the USA 5K Championships.

Post script: Trisha finished seventh, in 1:26:02, forced to run in trainers and sprint to the front, but not quite as late as Ryan or I. Vanessa Martel won the women's half marathon in 1:21:30. Derek Jones decided relatively recently to switch from the half to the full marathon. He won in 2:38:31. The women's marathon winner was Erica Tedford, in 3:11:16.

Links

DNC Marathon article

DNC half marathon article

Map of the half

Roch marathon home page

Half marathon overall results

The only photos I found were proprietary, so I can't put them on my website, but you can view my photos here.

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