NYC Half 2013 race report

Another runner while waiting for the start joked "Why did we think it was a good idea to stand in the cold?"

"This is my third year in a row," I responded.  "You'd think I'd have learned by now."

It was five minutes yet until the race started but we had been in our corrals for at least 25 minutes.  Sunrise technically happened though offered no radiant heat solution to 30 degree temperatures that supposedly felt like twenty-two.  Shivers ran up and down the masses much like a herd of cattle swatting their tails.  I had, at least, worn two leaf-size plastic bags this year -- one as a sleeveless shirt and one as a skirt that covered my feet.  I was shivering too, but this year I didn't start out with frozen feet.  I also had timed my arrival as perfectly as public transit can allow, seamlessly exiting the train and entering my corral in the nick of time before they closed at 7:00 a.m., minimizing my wait in the cold.  I jumped straight into a bathroom line (a dozen latrines flanked every corral), which gave me a pre-performance-pee at 7:21.  Re-tied my shoes after the national anthem, and ditched the plastic outerwear just as the gun went off before my corral was able to move.

That whole lineup kicked off what I feel was a tactically successful day.  The NYC Half was its own race with the possibility of besting my half marathon time, but it was also my tune-up race for next month's Boston Marathon.  Usually I run for fun in the winter, see where I happen to fall during my first half marathon of the year, and increase from there.   This was the first time I trained with intent for a longer race amid the cold and occasional snow, and with the biggest unknown of how much working full time was going to affect my performance.  There was a lot riding on this race to validate or defunct the last 3 months of training.

The course was the same as last year.  Start on the Central Park loop at west 64th Street, just over one counter clockwise loop, exit the part onto 7th Ave, head south to Times Square, west on 42nd Street, south on the West Side Highway, and a small jaunt around the tip of Battery Park to finish by the South Street Seaport.

About a half hour in, my stomach developed a small, dull ache that could go one of two ways.  It could be muscular and related to a tight hip flexor, in which case it was spreading to my rectus abdominis (which has happened a while back in a few long runs).  It could also be visceral and my actual stomach cramping with associated referred pain much like it did in Virgil Crest.  Either result means having to stop and walk it off for a good while if it becomes full fledged.  Without knowing what would help, I took a salt pill.  Two minutes later it subsided.  I took my other salt pill at 60 minutes, in some ways hoping to dampen my upcoming mega-blast gel meant to speed my finish as well as keep my hamstrings happy (I still take certain precautions since Traprock last year).  Thankfully, no other cramps of any sort in any body part.

It was also the first time I have genuinely performed a negative split, where your pace increases steadily throughout a race and you finish faster than you start.  My pace splits:

   0k-5k:      6:58/mi
   5k-10k:    6:57/mi
   10k-15k:  6:47/mi
   15k-20k:  6:45/mi
   20k-21k:  6:23/mi

By half way I knew I could beat last year's time if I dealt my cards correctly.  It wasn't a desperate attempt to stumble forward with enough momentum, more just keeping the same faster tempo.  It helps when you know the race will be over so much more quickly than your usual weekend long runs.  It was definitely a lot of work -- despite 32 degree temps at the finish I still reduced my clothing to a mere tee shirt with bare arms and gloves, and even then I was still sweating through everything.  But when we crossed the finish like I felt like I could have kept going.  I wasn't seizing in my hips or using a massive arm pump to make up for deficits in fatigue.

I also had a really neat experience this year.  At about six miles in, a guy caught up to me and fall into pace at my side.  Remember all those times I wax poetic about the handful of fellow runners on the Henry Hudson Drive in the Palisades on Sunday mornings?  Raymond is one of them.  We exchanged formal introductions and realized we were striving for the same goal of beating 1:30.  We were together through Times Square, then I let him pull away slightly while cruising through much of the West Side Highway.   He never got more than 30 feet in front.  By the last mile and a half I caught back up, and I managed to surge ahead to the finish -- though this doesn't mean much, because he started in the corral behind me and had an actual finish time 45 seconds faster than mine.  But I got to run more than half the race with one of the people I so enjoy exchanging friendly hellos with each weekend.  When you don't belong to a running club and most of your friends don't run (or they just don't want to run with you for a variety of reasons), that is an incredibly nice feeling.  Who'd have thought?

In the end I managed to best last year's time by about 30 seconds:  1:29:25 (overall average pace: 6:50/mi), 96th female (out of 7,597), 599th overall (out of 14,500).

Now I feel ready for Boston.

NYC Half race report

In the final 1/4 mile.

It always amazes me just how much the acts of sitting or concentrated thinking inevitably take a toll on your body.  For me it came in the physical form of piriformis muscle spasms, a bit of iliotibial band friction, and some refueling of patellofemoral issues that I have not felt since I started running again in January 2010.  As a result I expected a slow race, something around 8 minutes per mile, or a total time of 1hr 37min (whereas my PR was set at this race last year at 1:32:52).  The Old Ladies (my knees) would have full reign to lead the way.

The week break between affiliations and the completion of the paper could not have come soon enough, and while I made sure it was chocked full of rehab-myself-back-to-life kinds of things I figured I could get myself back to feeling normal, even if performing like normal was no longer on the table.  This week included concentrated efforts with a foam roller and a tennis ball, eating real food (veggies!), and mandating improved volume of sleep.  I also used the time off from affils to get in runs that I prefer -- returning to the Long Path for last weekend's long run, and doing big hill repeats on Thursday.  Both those runs felt demonstrably better than the last 8 weeks, though I felt like I was learning how to lift my legs all over again.  Oh, right, THAT's how it's supposed to go...

So Sunday morning I got into the bathroom line in my corral at the race's start, making an effort to look around me.  I figured since The Old Ladies were dictating the day's outcome, and with my mind somewhat cynical as to the result, that I should tune into the observational aspect of it all.  Take it all in.  Actually see what was going on around me since I wasn't going to dash off into a frenzy.  Had some nice chats with fellow runners in my corral.  Everyone was in good spirits despite the cow herd atmosphere from having 15,000 runners squeezed into a half mile stretch of one lane for a half an hour.  Lifted a knee up towards my chest since my hips were feeling a little tight, accidentally bopping a fellow runner in the butt in the process.  "Oops, sorry.  Nice to meet you!"  She just laughed, "Likewise!" 

Apparently The Old Ladies had some cards up their sleeves.  The first mile went fast, which is my normal race start, though sub-7 minutes was a surprise.  Calm down.  Find a cruising speed.  I felt like I relaxed into it, only to pass mile 2 at 13:40.  Oops.  Hmm.  Breathing felt okay, knees felt okay.  Go by effort.  Keep it reasonable.  Still 11 miles left to go.  Miles kept passing at an average 6:50-ish pace. 

Mile 7 took us out of Central Park, heading south on 7th Ave towards Times Square.  When it opens up so wide it easy to feel like you've slowed down just because of the new orientation of passing objects.  Closed my eyes for a few steps to insure myself that I was running my own pace; opened them to see others pulling away ever so slightly.  Good -- don't get swept up into others' over-eagerness.  Hit mile 8, where 42nd St meets the West Side Highway, at 56 minutes.  Just keep cruising.  Just keep cruising.  (Channeling Ellen Degeneres from Nemo?  Hell yes!) 

Things keep trucking along.  I'm surprisingly not dying.  The Old Ladies feel surprisingly good.  Maybe it was the relief from pressure to perform than allowed me to perform better?  Whatever it is, its working.  I'm using every water station, eating my goos on time, staying in my usual race patterns.  I hit mile 10 at ~1hr 10min.  Then it occurs to me.  Just don't f*** it up, and you could break 1:30:00.  N-E-V-E-R in my distance running adulthood did I think I could break 1:30:00.  Pep talk time.

Somewhere around mile 12 the highway dives underground.  And its slightly downhill.  Watch check: holding steady.  I let my stride open up and use the downhill for all its worth.  Zoom!  Passing people.  Hoping to gain as much of a cushion as possible.  Forcing myself to breath in rhythm with a wide open mouth.  Think Olympic cross country skiers trying to get more oxygen so their mouths are agape like they are crying out in pain.  I, as a viewer, am usually distracted from the awkwardness of this by the snot and spit goobers dangling from their mouth and upper lip.  I, as a runner, hope that this is not the case for me....

Then the tunnel ends -- uphill.  Damn.  So logical, yet I hadn't anticipated.  Hoped the hill wouldn't kill my chances.  Pulled back my effort a smidgen in hopes that I don't completely stall at the top.  Finally crest the hill.  Check my watch.  Figure there's 800m left, with just enough time so long as I haul ass like I've never hauled before.  I start my surge.  Round a corner to see the actual "800m to go" sign.  Damn.  Or rather, duh: 13.1 miles, not 13 even.  Check my watch.  Sh*t sh*t sh*t sh*t.  Stop cursing.  Go go go go go.  Everything starts to take forever.  I am acutely aware of the signs demarcating the remaining distance.  400m.  With 1min 30sec and counting.  I can see the finish.  Go go go go.  200m.  My arms are punching forward in ways reminiscent of running track in high school.  (Whoever thinks you don't use your arms when running has never truly run before.  Get a bear to chase you.  You'll be using your arms.  Oh yea.)  F*** f*** f*** GO GO GO....

Running in desperation.  Arms riding high, manic Wallace & Gromit face, shirt and visor dripping with sweat.  How does #2751 look so calm??  No fair.

I'm over the final timing device.  My watch says 1:29:56.  Nathan was waiting just beyond the fence.  I'm heaving, mustering 2-inch steps at maximal effort, eyes wide in manic frenzy.  Seems to take 5 minutes to get over to him.

Me: "MY WATCH SAYS 1:29:56!"

Nathan: "What?"

Me: *gasp*heave*stumble* "I THINK *gasp* I BROKE *heave* 1:30:00!  MY WATCH SAYS 1:29:56!  *gasp* I DIDN'T THINK *gasp* THAT WAS POSSIBLE!"

Nathan was following by text updates to know when I neared the finish.  Two seconds later he got the text saying 1:29:54, an average of 6:51 per mile.  I am too wired to cry, but everyone reads it on my face as I slowly plod down the reception line.  Finisher's medal.  Heat shield.  Sticker to hold on the heat shield.  Finishers' photos.  Medical tent (wrap those Old Ladies with ice!).  Food and water bag.  Everyone sees me smiling.  They all smile back.

Nathan actually guess that I would break 1:30:00.  He is actually quite good at anticipating finishing times for everyone he knows.  Luckily he never tells me his predictions until afterward.  I don't know how he foresaw this.  Maybe he was hopeful for me.  Maybe he saw more relief from the past week than I registered.  Maybe he simultaneously aligns the constellations and makes a deal with whoever/whatever deals out chi. 

Everyone else around me also ran something around 1:30, and many were much faster than my time.  Many consider running sub-1:30:00 to be a normal occurrence.  But to break that barrier for the first time despite all the mega-stress of finishing school and the history of my knees?  I am blatantly, unapologetically, annoyingly satisfied with myself.  I am also much more reassured as to the possible outcome of Bear Mountain in May.  Graduate school did not kill me.  I've come out the other end ahead in terms of my knowledge, my skills, my knowledge of self, my desire for life.  Hazzah!  In yo' face, grad school!

Aaaaaand here's where I start sticking my tongue out at an intangible, invisible entity while dancing around like a crazoid for whom you'd never guess has a BFA in dance.  The irony is not lost on me.