Running, or Racing?

20 May 2007

I’ve been trying to learn how to race my races lately, as opposed to running them with my own watch as a challenger. When I first started racing in 2000, the big thrill was setting new PR’s, which as a newbie, I did on a regular basis for the first 3 or 4 years. Now, I’m trying to learn how to race other people, regardless of their age or gender. It sounds so basic and so fundamental, but as I’ve discovered, I’m an inexperienced racer.

Most of my races have been against myself. That is, I set out to better a previous time on the same course, or run a PR for a specific distance. But actually, some of my best races have been when I was truly motivated to catch someone, or stay ahead of someone. My first taste of the thrill of competition was after I’d been racing about a year and a half. I had just run a significant marathon PR a month earlier, and I was feeling strong. Towards the end of a 15K, I managed to catch and pass someone I never thought I’d come close to, and the feeling was intoxicating. I crossed the finish line well ahead of her, and was amazed at how galvanized I was during the last part of that race. I never looked back to see where she was, and there were no turnarounds, so for all I knew, she was right on my tail. So I ran for all I was worth, stoked by fear and some lizard-brain doggedness. For the first time in a race, my watch meant nothing. Prior to that day, I had never thought of myself as a competitive person. Hmmm. 

After that, sometimes I raced, but it was usually by accident. One memorable time was during a Euro-style cross-country 6 mile race in Ventura. We had to run three 2-mile loops of a messy, muddy, hairy and rough course. On the last leg, with half a mile to go, I saw Kevin Young ahead. I had unfinished business with Kev, because he had unceremoniously passed me with 2 seconds to go in our last race together, the Orchard to Ocean 10K. He sat on me for miles, and made his move when we were practically in the chute. Arrgghh! So I HAD to get him. And I did. It was one of my most satisfying racing moments. 

More recently, I learned the price of not racing in an important race. I had trained for months for the Carlsbad 5000, and had my heart set on a PR. The race is an amazing event, organized in waves by age group, and chip timed. I lined up with over 600 masters women, and the feeling was awesome. I secretly hoped I would place 3rd in my new age group, 50-55. I went out just as planned, hitting the first mile in 6:31. The second mile was slower, as I knew it would be, at 6:44. The last mile was the hilliest, but I expected a faster split because, well…it was the last mile! On the final uphill, I passed a strong looking woman. About 30 seconds later, she caught and passed me. I didn’t go with her. I let her go, calculating she must be younger than me. It didn’t matter, I said to myself. An excuse not to push.As it turned out, it did matter. She was 50, and she took the third-place award. She beat me by 3 seconds, 20:41 to my 20:44. My husband, a fencer, gave me some sage advice after that race, passed on to him many years ago by his coach: “Don’t look behind the mask.” In other words, don’t try to figure out the age or ability of your opponent. Just race. 

I took the memory of the Carlsbad disappointment with me into the 10-miler last month. And when I was passed on the final hill, the one by Ty Warner’s palace-to-be, by a woman I estimated to be about 35, I used it for fuel. I hunkered down and caught her. I never looked back, and next set my sites on a group well ahead of me, two women and a man. At mile 8, they probably had about 2 minutes on me. I focused on them, and never let that focus go. I caught Bobby with about a quarter of a mile left, by Los Banos. He rallied, and sprinted ahead. I was bearing down on the two women in the last 200 when one of them looked back, saw me, and nudged her partner. They took off. I was seconds behind them, but I was happy. I was a contender. I really, really raced. 

Jeff, my husband, took pictures of the home stretch at Carlsbad, and I look nothing like the women who finished ahead of me. They were grimacing, hurting. I want to look like that when I’m done with a race. I want my arms to be numb, or my legs on fire with burning lactic acid, or feel like I’m in a tunnel, or feel like I’m going to hurl. Everyone I know who is a good or great runner reports feeling that way. I never feel that way. But I’m learning. 

So if you see me bent over double at the finish line of the next race, looking awful, don’t be alarmed. Congratulate me.