Chase the Pace 4 Race Report
Show up at the track. Nobody’s running for an hour but there’s already some kind of warm-up exercise going on. It’s too early for that. There’s a beer garden built out of hurdles. That’s cute. Something to remember to be happy about once the stress of the race is over. Find some familiar faces in the bleachers and get myself settled in. “Shit” I came from work wearing penny loafers and don’t have socks to race in. “Fine” I got here early enough to go buy a pair.
On with the flats, split shorts, and singlet: the familiar feeling of speed. Warm-up jog with teammates. Chit chat and lighthearted banter, but no real emotional commitment. Wouldn’t want to spend energy at this point on something like real thoughtfulness, curiosity, or humour. Thanks for asking but I really don’t know how my legs are feeling; we’ll see how it goes out there. My diaphragm is threatening a side-stitch at five-minute pace. Can’t wait to feel the full intensity of that later. “Fine” There’s no longer any decisions or predictions to be made. The story is already written at this point, it just needs to play out.
Stretch, drills, cheer for my teammates in the early heat with the usual enthusiasm of a selfish runner that their own thing going on. Flowy strides, off with the t-shirt, faster strides, check my watch and race is running late so more strides. Was there any other way? Familiar faces all around more chit chat and half-hearted jokes. Anything to get my mind out of the race and keep myself from emotional exhaustion before we even start.
The early heat wraps up, someone yells something, and people start to congregate on the backstretch. The starter tells us to gather around for some final instructions. I’m not really listening but I’m pretty sure he told us to run in circles twelve and a half times when he tells us to. Nobody wants to do it, but at this point at least we can feel like we’re just doing what we’re told. What an agreeable group of people.
Image: Taylor Maxwell
“3, 2, 1, go” No gun, it’s just like another goddamned workout. I slide in behind Rob. “We’re doing 76s, right?” “Closer to 77s,” I tell him. Some Mile2Marathon runner I don’t recognize half a stride ahead of me on the outside of the lane. I take a minute to appreciate the perfect windscreen, but I hope he knows I have no intention of sharing the workload or giving him any space along the rail. I’m vaguely aware of footsteps and breathing behind me. Probably Drew, Ron, Tom, Kevin, Mike, Kyle: the usual suspects. I hope it goes well for them; it’s not like I’m going to turn around and check.
We fly past the starting post and I hear “35, 36….” Oh god, I’m sitting behind the conductor on a one-way train to catastrophe town. Settle down, the first 200 is always like that. Another 200 and the first lap is done as coach John calls out “73, James, slow down!” I’m sure that’s great idea except that I have nowhere to go and I’m sure as Hell not doing this thing alone. There will be no seat changes on today’s train ride. I see Rob realize his pacing error and I feel him readjust.
Second lap. “77, James, much better.” The truth is, I really want to go faster than 16-flat, but I’m not questioning anything right now. I’m just along for the ride. Third lap and instead of a split I get time-elapsed, but I’m beyond doing division in my head at this point. None of the times called out for the rest of the race will mean anything to me. Back to the starting post and somebody smiles and tells me I have nine laps to go. I think it’s supposed to be encouraging but my main emotion at this point is apprehension. I really want the number of laps left to be lower than nine.
There’s that side stitch, right on cue. At least I expected it. Eight laps to go is a good time to rehearse how I’ll explain my poor performance to friends and family. Chronic side stitches, stressful day at the office, no track work lately, too many long runs. Come down the back stretch and there’s a few blue singlets cheering for me. Okay, maybe I can put in another solid lap before I give up on this race.
Seven laps to go and time to start planning my defeat. Do I slow down now and preserve some grace, or do I hang on until the wheels fall off completely? Do I say something to my teammates as they pass me?
Six more laps, just beyond halfway and I would really like to stop now. What a stupid sport. Who would do this to themselves? Why am I doing this to myself? I mean, jogging around the seawall is fun, but this is just suffering and dread. What am I doing out here? Coach John again: “Big exhale, James. Breathe.” What a concept. I breathe, and hear more cheering from the blue corner. I feel like I have some responsibility to these people to justify all the enthusiasm they’re putting into my race.
Five more laps. Rob takes a look over his shoulder to see if I’m hanging on. Despite his nonchalance at the start of the race and his pedigree, I can see that he’s hurting too. Another person I feel some responsibility to. What kind of person puts a pacer through this only to give up on them? Come down the backstretch and “You’re looking great, James! That’s it, nice and relaxed.” I feel like hell, and I’m panicking.
Four to go and the runner on my outside drops out, stumbling into the outside lanes gasping for air. I envy him. I even admire him. That takes real bravery. We go by the clock and the numbers still don’t mean anything to me. Are we on pace? What are my mile splits supposed to be? Four times 77 plus the time on the clock equals I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m following Rob, but it doesn’t look like he’s making informed decisions about pacing, either. We’re both just passengers on this hellbound train now.
Three left and something resembling hope glimmers in the back of my mind. Three quarters of a mile, twelve hundred metres, a bit more than a loop of Beaver Lake. Mental gymnastics looking for some way to frame the remaining distance as anything less than an eternity. I’m lapping runners and the there’s mayhem on the track. Inside shoulder, outside shoulder, what are the rules? “We’ll pass them on the next straight.” We pass them on the turn.
Image: Taylor Maxwell
Two left and ohmygodthiscouldbeapersonalbest. A shot of adrenaline gets me through the next turn, but the fatigue is setting in for real now. The dread is gone, but now there’s real panic about whether my body will be able to keep going. My lungs are searing and my shoulders are aching and John is telling me to relax. I put in an honest effort to do so that lasts a few strides. Around the turn, onto the penultimate homestretch, and the cheering from the crowd is loud and excited. Spectators are in lane four whooping and hollering and I don’t recognize anyone but the energy is contagious and this is definitely some kind of crescendo.
Last one. I still can’t do math but the number on the clock looks pretty low to me. My spirit is high and I want this so bad but I’m a solid block of lactic acid. The twelfth lap is just as pointless as the seventh and even more painful, but at least there’s relief at the end of it. Don’t fuck it up now, you didn’t put yourself through all that just to take it easy with less than 400 to go. I see John for the final time. Did we fly by him, or what it more of a stumble? “Hang in there, James.” The goal is no longer relaxation, composure, or breath, just keeping this runaway train in one piece.
Around the final turn and Rob moves into lane two to let me go by, what a professional. But I’ve already swung out into lane three and it’s all instinct now. Go, go, go. Nothing but fatigue and suffering, but anything can be endured at this point. 50 to go and I’m pretty sure there’s good news on the clock, but my math still can’t be trusted. Push, push, push. Lean through. 15:30-something. Personal best.
Gasp for air and an overwhelming mix of pain and relief.
Eyes closed and it’s a moment of pure solitude and vulnerability.
Then the fog clears, and elation and satisfaction start to fit themselves in. Time for the familiar rituals: handshake, handshake, hug, brofist, “good race” what are we doing with our hands. “Good thanks, how was yours?” It all eventually dies down and then I finally get that realization we’re all chasing. I had done thing a little bit better than I had ever done it in the past. It was right there in black and white. I may have even done it better than any man at the track that day. I don’t even remember who was across the line first.
We laugh and joke and celebrate with beers. Laps six and seven are a distant memory. I’ll do it again soon.