Long Branch Half Marathon - April 28, 2014

I ran my third half marathon in Long Branch, NJ, three weeks ago.

The bare-bones details: I finished in 1:44:04, a Personal Record (PR).  That time put me in the top 10 percent of the whole field as well as my age group (55-59), in which I finished 8th of 79.  Among men overall, I was in the top 20 percent.  I'm happy with all of those numbers.  I ran my first half just last June and can still count on two hands the total number of times, including in training, that I've run the distance.

The race itself wasn't terribly eventful, and I was somewhat distracted by other things.  My wife -- who's more of a natural distance runner -- had trained rigorously to run the full marathon at the same venue, but her status was iffy.  A few days before the race, she experienced severe pain in her left foot; trips to various health pros yielded no definitive diagnosis, only suspicion of a metatarsal stress fracture.  After much deliberating, she decided to try the race despite some pain.  After this decision, I originally opted to cancel my own run, thinking I'd want to keep an eye on her progress, but after hearing that some supportive South Mountain (SOM) runners (the collective we train with) were going to come down to lend support for her and others, so I opted to go ahead and race.

Early on race day, it was chilly with a gorgeous sunrise as I waited in Corral B.  Compared to Philly, which I ran in November, the corrals were small.  One of the more competitive SOM runners was positioned in Corral A, close to the start line.  I was bundled in layers of tear-away clothes to stay loose and comfortable during the wait.  Shortly before the gun, I stripped to shorts and the sleeveless SOM jersey -- not too comfortable at 48 degrees, but I opted to underdress, hoping the emerging sun would keep me warm enough.  

I'd had chronic bronchitis for much of the winter and was only 8 weeks back on the roads, so I had no firm goal for the race other than "see where I'm at."  That said, I had a rough plan: Run the first 5 miles in 8:10s, the second 5 in 8:00s, then finish more aggressively and see if I could achieve a 1:45:00.  And I didn't have a strong feeling one way or another if I could do this.

After the gun, although I felt fine running the initial circuits near the racetrack, I had no sense of pace.  I don't wear a Garmin, only a no-frills Timex, so I monitor only the overall time and track mile splits in my head.  Normally, I pace myself pretty well by feel, but in the bigger races I get distracted by the other runners and unfamiliar terrain, so I'm less certain.  I'm also prone to missing mile markers (my peripheral vision isn't great), and I managed to pass Mile 1 without noting my time, although I heard someone say, "That's a seven-[something]."  That made me a little concerned that I went out too fast.

I did see the Mile 2 marker, and although I don't remember the time, it indicated a slightly sub-8 pace.  I made a mental note to slow slightly.  But I was noticing about this time that I was alongside the 1:45 pace group, and its leader was chatty and charming.  "I just ran Boston!" he said, referring to the marathon just six days earlier (!).  "And my quads are killing me, but don't worry, I'll finish this!"  He chuckled, adding, "I better finish -- I promised I would!"  He ran bolt upright while carrying the 1:45 flag.  I decided to forget about my 8:10s plan and stay close to this group -- his banter was fun and diverting.

At Mile 4, one of the pace group runners asked the leader what the mile pace was, and he said, "Gosh, I don't know.  Maybe 7:57?"  I looked at my watch, and it's the only split mark I remember.  "That's 31:48 at Mile 4," I said.  "Exactly 7:57."  He smiled back.  "Well, there you go!" he said, pleased at nailing the pace without a Garmin.  He was awesome.

Around then I realized my decision to dress light was good, because in the rising sun I was comfortable and had even begun to sweat.  The forehead sweat was a bit of a problem -- I typically wipe off perspiration with a flick of my shirt front or sleeve, but with the bib stiffening the front and no sleeves on the jersey, a continuous trickle of salty sweat combined with sunblock (I have to protect my bald pate) was stinging my eyes.  I ran most of the race squinting like Popeye.  (Note to self: get a sweatband.)

At Mile 5 I was fading back of the pace group, and I decided not to struggle to keep up -- it was too early in the race to get tired.  But just as I eased back, the leader said to his throng that they'd run the last mile a bit fast and he was going to ease a bit.  So as they eased I gradually passed them.  I was glad, actually, to get a bit ahead of that dense cluster.  I believe I stayed in front of them for the rest of the race.

The only mid-race tape was at the 10K, and I noted a 49-something, which is actually a PR for that distance for me.  But I've run only one other 10K race, and I don't choose to designate PRs for other than the actual race distance, so that's just trivia.  Besides, I don't even remember the precise time.

During Mile 7, I was feeling strong.  Aware of my better-than-planned pace, I started thinking about a finish in the 1:42s.  That thought was short-lived.  At Mile 8 I took a Gu with some water, and that's when the race started to get a little harder.

I need to improve my technique for taking Gus.  I tried to rip it open with my teeth, like John Wayne biting his hand grenade pin, but couldn't get the thing open more than a tiny notch, so after trying to squeeze the Gu out through that notch (and failing), I spent way too much time and energy trying to rip the Gu fully open with my sweaty and slippery hands.  So forget John Wayne -- think Spongebob.  I finally ingested the Gu, then grabbed a water and splashed most of it around the general vicinity of my mouth, but not actually in it.

Almost immediately, I got a stomach cramp.  I got one at Philly too, but at that race it didn't start until between Mile 11 and 12, so I wasn't terribly worried about running another 10 or 12 minutes.  But at Long Branch I'd just passed Mile 8, so I was a bit concerned.  Soon, though, I found that I was able to roughly maintain pace, albeit with some discomfort.

The stomach cramp persisted, but I cruised steadily to Mile 10 or so.  I was losing my ability to remember and calculate splits on the fly but knew I was still at a sub-8 pace.  The 1:45 group was far enough back that I could no longer hear the leader, but could tell they were there by the crowds: "Hey, here comes 1:45!  Go, 1:45s!!"  Wonderful crowds throughout.  

With 5K remaining, I was tired.  This was the reverse of Philly, where I started conservatively and had gas in the tank for the last stretch.  Now, time was slowing down.  Earlier in the race, I'd look at my watch and be pleasantly surprised that six or seven minutes had passed since the last marker.  Now, I'd look down and be dismayed that only three or four minutes had passed.  No Einstein brain required to understand relativity.  

Dreams of the 1:42 were long gone; now I just hoped I could stay with the pace and finish below 1:45.  I wondered: Possible to break 1:44?  I didn't think so, and part of the reason was that I was also losing my desire, which is critical for making goals.  My mind was messing with me: "You don't need to prove anything here.  Weren't you just going to see 'where you're at'?"  That's what my mind does, and I was buying it.  

A great crowd of encouraging spectators at Mile 11, but I was struggling to keep pace.  I still a cramp; now add fatigue.

Hit the boardwalk before Mile 12, with a mile and change to go.  So beautiful along the shore -- bright sun, ocean redolence, cool breeze.  (Thank you, whoever's out there.)  I don't remember the Mile 12 time, but whatever it was, I surmised that a sub-1:45 was likely and a sub-1:44 was going to be really tough.  I leaned in and tried for a steady, relaxed finish.  Very little energy left.  Then, a few wind gusts.  Ever the amateur meteorologist (yes), I'd been checking my Accuweather droid app for days, interested especially in the winds on the shore.  The forecast was for firm winds out of the northwest, increasing during the race.  (This would affect the full-marathoners much more than those running the half; for the latter, the boardwalk leg was just a mile and a half, while the marathoners had miles and miles against the headwind.)  Once there, I didn't think it was all that bad, although a few gusts kept me on a virtually treadmill for a few seconds.

With the finish line in view, I had a 1:43:30 on my watch.  With a little energy, I could have burst that distance and crossed before 1:44, but when I hit the accelerator, I got only vapor lock.  (Plus, that annoying voice of mediocrity: "Don't hurt yourself!  Remember, you have nothing to prove!")  Jabbed my watch at 1:44:04, which was confirmed later by the official time.

So that's were I'm at.  All good.

I walked the two miles or so to our hotel, enjoying the sun and glad I wasn't in the traffic jam going the other way.  "Where's the finish line?" motorists kept asking, looking stressed in the stalled traffic.  "Where's parking?"  I was in a good mood and tried to help them best I could.  I quickly consumed the banana and bar from the post-race bag, so stopped at a 7-Eleven for a monster coffee and more carbs.

My wife's race and injured foot were on my mind now, and I wondered how she was doing.  By this time, the full marathon was well under way.  At the hotel room, there were no messages on my cell phone.  Good!  She should be nearing the halfway mark... But then the phone rang and the caller ID was her own cell.  Crap.  She ran for 8 miles but had to drop.  Excruciating pain.

Quick drive on less-trafficked roads, then parked as close as I could to the finish line.  Found my wife at the family pickup area and got her situated on a warm bench while I retrieved the car to pick her up.  When I came back, she was there with the SOM coach, who somehow ran into her.  He was one of the angels who came down to be supportive, and he'd had to scratch the marathon for himself -- another injury.  "Let's just forget this day ever happened," he said to my wife.  "It was a lousy day for everyone."  He glanced my way.  "Except you!"  (I was already feeling some survivor's guilt.)

Postscript #1: An MRI has confirmed that my wife has a stress fracture in the third metatarsal of her left foot.  She's been wearing a boot since the day after the race and has a few more weeks in it before she can start testing it.  She'll be back.  It's hard not to look at the what-ifs: She was leading her age group and on pace to win among all Master's women when she dropped -- all this while running with a fracture!

Postscript #2: Prior to this race, I'd had a notion that I might attempt a marathon myself later this year, maybe at friendly Philly in November.  I'd still like to do that someday, but I've postponed it for this year.  I've been paying close attention to the collective experiences of the SOM runners who attempted Boston and New Jersey at Long Branch, and I'm more convinced than ever that the marathon is not something to take lightly, and that's putting in mildly.  It's been stated in various ways that a marathon is more than twice a half marathon -- it's a whole other thing.  As our coach puts it: The halfway mark of the marathon is 20 miles.  (I've been thinking of more frivolous analogies -- and since I've never run a full, these are all conjectural, e.g., "A Half Marathon is like having gas pains.  A Marathon is like having kidney stones.")  

Next: I'm going to stick to my usual running routines of slow explorations, easy mid-distance runs, and a little speed work.  Practice taking Gus, experiment with sweat management.  I'd like to do a few shorter-distance races (5Ks and 10Ks) and maybe add another half marathon or two before year-end.  The mind and spirit love this idea; I'm hoping the body is aligned.