Going All the Way to Scotland (Run 10K) To See How Far I've Come

Every now and then I like to look back at my old blogs.   Sometimes I’m writing an update from a previous blog so I need to look back.  Other times I just need a laugh and like to read my own descriptions of my own trials and tribulations.  And on rare occasion I re-read a blog to inspire myself and see how far I’ve come.

Just now I re-read a blog I wrote exactly a year ago.  In that blog, I described one of the many battles between “Fit Girl” and “Fat Girl” as I plowed through the Scotland Run 10K in Central Park and finished with my second best pace for a 10K.  In it I described how Fat Girl tried to haul me off to a breakfast buffet while I, as Fit Girl, ate up the terrain and hills of Central Park. 

As I re-read my own blog, I giggled a bit to myself, partly because my writing is extremely witty and humorous, but partly because I was just in such a good place at that time.  And here I am, one year later, writing about the exact same race that was nothing like its 2011 version.

First, I’m still coming off a bruised ego of learning about the turncoat ways of not only my former health coach, but one of his lemmings –er, other employees – who seems to think it’s still cool to act like we’re in high school though we’re well into our 40s and enjoys making fun of me behind my back (and Elizabeth Koenig, if you’re reading this, please grow a pair and put me down directly to my face, thanks very much).

Second, I’m just starting back from what is now a 2 month old injury that has kept me from running a single step since February.  In fact, this 10K is the very first run I am doing in months.  To those novices reading this, no, one should not START with a 10K race.  I signed up for this race before I got hurt, and I’m tired of making donations to NY Road Runners by paying for races I can’t do, so I decided to at least try.

My original plan was to lightly jog the first 2 miles, and then take stock in my own body and adjust accordingly, though I assumed that I'd either walk the last 4.2 miles, or do a run/walk combo of running 4 minutes, walking 1 minute, running 4, etc, as taught to me by my running buddy Karen who is a hell of a runner and athlete, though she’s too humble to tell you so herself (but the girl has 2 full marathons behind her and is about to crush a half marathon next week.  ‘Nuff said).

As I get to Central Park, I’m nervous and excited.  I’ve run enough races that the race itself doesn’t scare me too much.  But I haven’t felt the energy of a race in quite a while, and it’s refreshing and frightening at the same time.  My friend, Ian, is part of the pre-race entertainment, and I chat with him for a bit before I line up in my corral, which helps to keep me calm.  I promise him that I will be careful, and I go off to my corral with that thought in my mind.

As the race starts, I begin my light jog.  I’d love to say that the first mile was sheer bliss, and I was elated to be back running again.  But, that would be a bold faced lie.  That first mile was by far the hardest mile I’ve ever run (and remember, I’ve run miles over 5 hours into a marathon.  Even those were better).  My pace was off, I had trouble breathing.  I felt like a complete newbie.  But then I giggled a little.  No, I wasn’t reading one of my witty blogs. I remembered that I ALWAYS hate the first mile of my runs.  Always.  I’m not warmed up, I’m not in a rhythm, I’m 43 freakin’ years old and my body is just pissed off.  As soon as I remember that, I smile and start to enjoy my race.  I take in the sights of spring blooming in Central Park, listen to other runners chatting with each other, enjoy the feeling of actually moving my body again. 

At the 1 mile mark, I check my pace.  I’m doing an 11 minute mile, which is ridiculously slow, but probably exactly what I should be doing (given that I’m not really supposed to be running at all just yet).  When the run started it was pretty chilly for an early April morning, but now I’m warming up so I strip off my jacket and tie it around my waist.  Endorphins start to kick in, and I’m just happy to be back in my park, running with thousands of total strangers.

The mile 2 marker appears, and I check my pace again.  I’m still doing exactly 11 minute miles.  Slow and steady, just what I wanted.  Right after the 2 mile marker, though, we hit the dreaded Harlem Hills.  As I start my ascent, I feel the lack of running training.  Yes, I’ve done about 3 million deep water runs over the last two months, but there aren’t a whole lot of hills to tackle in a swimming pool.  Grateful, though, that I’m not immersed in chlorine, I lean into the hill a bit and make my way up.

Now, they’re called the “Harlem HillS” because there’s more than one of them.  The first is steep but pretty short.  The second one is similar to a do-it-yourself home improvement project: it looks like it might be a little tough but will be pretty doable and won’t really take too long until you actually get into it and realized that you signed up for way more than you anticipated.  But before I got injured I ran in Central Park once per week.  I know that hill is tough, and I’m ready for it.  I keep putting one foot in front of the next, and saying things to myself like “You’ve got this”, and “Almost there”, until I’m up at the top and I want to plant a flag as if I’ve just summited Mount Everest.  I also realize I’m at mile 3, and have run an entire mile further than I expected.

I quickly check in with my Achilles Tendon, and it’s not bothering me at all, so I keep running.  I check my pace again, and I’ve slowed a little, but only a few seconds.  I’m beginning to feel sore in other body parts, but I know it’s just cranky muscles that aren’t done hibernating just yet. 

By mile 4, though, I can feel my right calf muscle start to tighten.  I know the next problem will be my Achilles, so I slow down to a walk. I walk for about a minute, and then realize I have a huge problem.  That calf muscle is starting to cramp up.  I should stop, but I’ve just done 2/3 of this race, and if I don’t finish I won’t get credit for the race, and I need it to qualify for the 2013 marathon. 

I think for a second about what to do, and I find the answer by thinking about myself.  I’m a fighter.  I’ve worked ridiculously hard to get where I am, and I think my calf is telling me in the only way it can to not give up now.  So, I don’t.  I start to run again, but slow my pace down. I want to finish, but not get hurt.  I giggle again, because I realize I’m on the part of the course where the last 2 miles of the marathon takes place.   I ran in this same spot back in November, and I think I was in as much pain and shuffling along just as slowly.  And that was 24 miles into a race, not 4.  But that race was as important to me then as this one is to me now, so it all feels kind of appropriate.

I hit the 5 mile marker, and know I’ll finish.  The crowd of runners has definitely thinned out, as most folks have run a lot faster and are done by now (and probably home, showered, and moving on with the rest of their weekends).  But I am so happy to be back in my element that I don’t even care if I finish dead f***ing last.

I round a corner, and start up what I know is the last hill of the course.  I see the 6 mile marker, and know I have a mere 0.2 to go.  This is normally when I would take off at a sprint as I love to finish strong.  But, I know it’s better to finish smart, so I keep my nice little shuffle going and cross the finish line with my slowest time ever and a huge smile on my face.

As I’m writing this blog, I’m standing at my desk with all my weight on my left foot.  My right leg is still pretty unhappy and is about to be wrapped in an ice pack until numbness replaces pain.  And I look forward to next year when I read this blog over again and see how far I’ve come.  Again.