Tom King 1/2 Marathon

Tom King Half Marathon
March 13, 2010

It hasn’t been that long since Wisconsin, but it certainly feels as if it has. A Middle Tennessee spring is in the air, with a threat of rain all week and the severe likelihood of it on race day. After the worst, whitest, coldest winters I can ever remember in my conscious life, I was extremely happy to see the mercury creep over 50 degrees and be in some semblance of shape.

Scratch that, I’m always too hard on myself. Tom King is the first race of the year; the first via point on a carefully crafted Ironman training plan, culminating in Ironman Louisville at the end of August. It was my first chance to put 3 months of training to the test, and I was extremely eager to find out what fruit I would sow.

I felt confident on race morning in both my training and my nutrition. I followed Ben Greenfield’s Holistic Fueling for Ironman Triathletes almost completely to a T (one “approved dessert” on Thursday night ruined my perfect record), and I was interested in how my body would respond to the stress when properly fueled. Even more than that, I couldn’t wait until this experiment was over and I could go back to using Mr. Greenfield’s advice as guidelines more so than actual rules.

Pre-race entertainment was watching Marian finish her 2nd 5k and snapping her time by over 2 minutes. Shortly thereafter, I went to do some strides and warm-up before my race got started. Not without monkey wrenches in my plan’s gear work, I tried to put my mind at ease; tried to convince myself that it would be okay, that it wasn’t going to slow me down any. But my mind couldn’t stop going back to the day before, when I woke up from a mid-morning nap to discover my sister’s dog had turned my Garmin 305 into a chew toy. After over a year of having my pace, distance and heart rate at but a glance, I’d have to do this one by feel. A fraternity brother let me borrow his HRM, but the thing could not be counted on, as it was reading my heart rate during warm-ups in the upper 220s. After sipping my energy drink, finishing my stride work and stopping for one last bathroom stop, I headed towards the start line wanting nothing more than today to be indicative of my fitness, so as to plan my future training accordingly.

The first 3 miles flew by way too fast. I found myself, surrounded by a thousand of my closest friends, chewing up what was left of Davidson Rd. and entering Shelby Bottom’s park. Grabbing some water, taking a generous shot of my EFS Liquid Energy shot and waving at Tiago, I hopped on the greenway and continued to plod along at what was my best estimate of my Lactate Threshold; 183, according to my late Garmin. My current monitor kept registering me in the mid to upper 180s, which may or may not be accurate. I was experiencing the tempest that is typical of endurance races: feeling way too good for the first half or so and protesting your mind that you can and should pick it up some. I fought it off, inviting those thoughts back into my head at mile 10, and concentrated on my breathing; keeping it rhythmic and powerful.

I was hoping to extend myself a little bit before I saw the frontrunners this time around. The course is out and back, so it’s a necessity that 90% of runners will be privy to a few seconds of the race at the front unfolding. I made it to a bit past mile 5 before I saw the lead cyclist coercing everyone to the right hand side so the leaders might have room. Seeing my buddies Tim, John and Jonathan motoring past 2 miles ahead was enjoyable, but short lived. As if it wasn’t hard enough to keep things in check, it was around mile 5.5 that a familiar little short-haired blur whizzed past me. To my equal parts dismay and excitement, I called out to my friend Peppy who’s preparing for the Country Music Marathon. We exchange words for a while before she continues on her personal pace, unfortunately a tad faster than what I’m comfortable with before the halfway point. I can’t help but feel like $#!+ after getting chicked by a friend of mine, whom I’ve never even seen in the “runner” frame of mind. The turnaround point is less than a mile up, so I just tell myself that she’ll come back to me on the back end.

I reach the turnaround roughly at the 10k mark and see the clock reads 52:30. After some fumbling computations, I notice that that’s halfway through a 1:45 half marathon. 1:45 is my goal and I hope to negative split the race, but I know that this point is not the halfway mark. I know deep down that there’s about no way I’m going to be able to pick it up that much on the way home, but I can’t help but hope. I can more or less ignore my heart rate and go by feel now, so we’ll have to just see how many pennies of my energy I have left to spend.

The strong feelings of the first 5 miles began an easy descent over the next 3. I could really feel the wheels start to fall off around mile 8. As my effort kicked up a couple notches, my heart rate and (probably) pace plateaued; there was an uneasy equilibrium for the next few miles, but there was just no speeding up. Continuing my breathing and popping my 3rd gel shot at mile 7.5, I thought of nothing other than getting to the aid station at mile 10. Numerous rewards to be had at mile 10: my last gel (which I always celebrate), the last uphill of the day, a change of scenery and an opportunity to start headhunting all the hammerheads that have gradually trickled by. Low levels of pain and high levels of motivation to continue accelerating gradually changed hands and I tried to keep everything in control as “things fall apart; the center cannot hold.” Other than a runner 5 feet from me taking a hard fall on a wet bridge, there weren’t too many distractions from the burn in my lungs over the next 2.5 miles. I like the race, but hate the course. It’s a very mental run.

Eventually, as all things both evil and altruistic, the road ended and spilled out into the mile 10 aid station. I finished off my nutrition and handed my empty flask to Paula. Luckily, she was willing to take it and save me the increasingly difficult task of holding it. Having seen the last 5k enough times the day before to be sure there were no surprises, I started to pick it up a tad and look hungrily for Peppy and several other marked men. The effort was there but the legs, just as the economy, became wise to my previous frugal spending and started to demand more for its work. While it didn’t really dawn on me until well after the race, I’m as dehydrated as I’ve been in a calendar year. With only 4 aid stations, I probably took in between 8-12 oz of water over the course of two really intense hours. You never think about these things when it’s in the high 40s and misting, but my cells are beginning to see a lack of symmetry between water coming in and water going out; unfortunately, with only one way to tell me.

The cramps came in isolated bouts and did little more than freak me out. Mostly located in the right calf, there was nothing to be done about them with no aid stations and less than two miles left in the race. Just keep running and give up any hopes of a finish line kick. As I near the stadium, within a mile from the finish line, I can see enough of the Titan Tron that I’m not going to make my goal time anyway, so I’m content to just trot it in. No faster, no slower. Trying to keep my legs from locking up as they tend to do, I entered the stadium with a fair amount of cumulative pain and ready to finish up. A spasm seizes me just yards in front of the finish line and draws out a grimace just in time for my finish line photo.

After the finish, I take a moment to catch my breath and stretch my calf. I can’t really say that I’m bummed with my time; it’s squarely within what I should have expected going into the race. More importantly, I have a wonderful testament to my current fitness upon which I have the next 5 months to build. And it seems like these days, any race where I don’t cry at the end is a good thing. I’m such a girly man.

Primary Goal: 1:45

Secondary Goal: 1:49:23

Actual Time: 1:53:23