In the end, the ankle endured.
While it was ok, the rest of my body, particularly the legs, compensated for my favoring the ankle and now hurt kinda like the Dickens. That is to say, with equal parts of wonder, poetry, and long-windedness partly ascribable to payment by the word.
I was stubborn Sunday morning and decided to at the very least go to the start line and START the event. Is that a compensation for shortcomings in other aspects of life and personality, perhaps some psychological need to appease the GRIT billboards I would pass on the highway featuring John Wayne?
Or perhaps it’s all an attempt to justify me in general – a misguided belief that if I just keep running maybe I’ll eventually run TO what I’m looking for or AWAY from what I hope to avoid?
That’s all far too introspective but it’s 1:50 AM as I type this, I can’t sleep, and because I have to fast for a lab appointment for a checkup with my GP in the morning, I’m even loopier than normal.
Moments earlier, I had internet access and then, like Keyser Soze, (poof) it was gone. Thankfully I had backed up a copy of this entry and thus I’m trying to finish it offline for later publication. This may make for an even more disjointed ramble than expected, but as I kinda said above, I’m more off kilter than a a lame collegiate comedy improv troupe.
It was windy at the start in downtown Raleigh. I found street parking and thus saved $7 by avoiding the parking garages and their highwaymen (parking-way-men?) special event pricing. The event hotels were steps away from the corrals so runners congregated in the lobbies of either the Marriott or Sheraton, regardless of being a hotel guest or an infidel. The lines for real bathrooms were long albeit not as long as the lines for Starbucks.
I was worried about my ankle. Paranoid even. I found myself constantly running internal diagnostics and mentally assessing fitness to continue, not just before the race but during it as well. As I stood in the supposed 10,000 strong field of runners, I scanned the horizon for the Med Tents, pondering when and if I’d need them in the ensuing 26.2 miles. The race announcers, long-time affiliates and possibly investors in the Competitor Group that puts on these Rock N Roll events, were filling the countdown to the start with stats and words of encouragement. There was an acknowledgment of a 70-year-old young runner celebrating his birthday that day; he’s an iron man competitor and I actually chatted with him earlier as we all huddled in the entryway of the obviously closed on Sunday downtown Chick-Fil-A. I was astonished he was 70; I would’ve guessed 50 at most. I supposed 70 is the new 50, 50 is the new 30, and 40… well, 40 is always gonna be 40.
As the gun sounded and we headed down the road on our journey to the finish line (a journey that I as a wise-ass couldn’t help but notice was a circuitous 26.2 mile detour to get from Point A to Point B when in reality we could’ve just walked a block and a half to the Red Hat Ampitheater in at most a ¾ mile). I didn’t snap a whole lot of pics in the opening miles, much more concerned with weighing the ankle injury and what additional damage I might stubbornly be doing to it as I pounded the pavement.
But spotting a med tent and thinking to myself, “Nope… Systems nominal. So far so good,” I pulled my iPhone and shot a run-by. As with many Rock N Roll races, the route and course doesn’t always take great advantage of the city proper and instead has a tendency to wander through roads that are more easily blocked off, whether it be roads already under construction or farther afield areas away from central business districts. Or such was my impression as the miles wore on.
Running through various Raleigh college campuses was nice – we hit Meredith College, NC State, and at least one other college but I’m blanking on it at the moment. Somewhere around mile 8 or 9 the half marathoners and marathoners split off ; again, as is the case with many events, the majority of services and attention seemed to be lavished on the half-marathoners and the marathoners, while given support along their route, saw a more… shall we say… Spartan and sparse attitude. It got to be lonelier and less spectator oriented as we moved along… though there were some notable exceptions.
I greatly enjoyed running the greenway, and not just because the wooded bike path/jogging path afforded views of the trees and water.
The greenway also gave way to this self willed photo opp: I don’t quite know what they were doing or what it all meant but there were foam characters of a toilet and a fire hydrant. Perhaps it was a “people use this, dogs use this…” bathroom exhibit, or maybe a water conservation thing? But whatever the point, as I rounded a corner and saw them off to the side, I distinctly recall shouting, “Holy crapper! My time’s already in the toilet so I’m definitely stopping for a photo!” The spectators nearby were excited to see me so excited.
Indeed, my time was looking shaky by this point. Running the numbers in my head, it felt like I’d be, much like at Modesto, just over my Boston Qualifying time of 3:15. Mentally and physically the odds seemed stacked against me. I was self-forced limping, trying to keep a ginger attitude and action with regards to my left ankle. And I could tell I had a downright Monty Pythonian silly walk gait going. But it felt like the right thing to do.
Stride by stride, I moved farther and farther along the course, falling further and further behind the BQ goal. Once it was inevitable (I’d say I definitely called it around mile 22) I could tell I started to mail it in.
After all, 3:16 or 3:17 would be just as much a non-BQ time as 3:15:07 or whatever my “best guess” scenario I could calculate as being what I was looking at for the finish time.
Onward and onward I ran as time and my pedometer ticked by.
In the end, I would post a 3:16:47. By the closing finisher chute, I would wave a runner bursting with a kick to pass me. I was almost nonchalant about it. I never have a kick in the end, a runner flaw I’ve mentioned numerous times previously. But I really, REALLY didn’t have one in Raleigh. The clock ticked past my BQ time; I was just looking to finish and was mentally thinking about the long drive back to Florida that shortly awaited me.
I decided not to stick around for the Cracker headliner show scheduled for 11 AM, preferring to get on the road again. As I said, the organization catered to the half marathon crowd, a contingent of which was already seated and waiting for the show to begin, whilst another crowded in line for the post-race goodies. I wasn’t about to wait in line post-26.2, and I found myself wondering if my life was really going to change one way or another if I saw “Low” performed live. I walked to my street parked car and made the drive South.
In the end, I was happy to have seen my beloved UNC friends, even if it was a whirlwind. And I was relieved to get a run in without apparently re-injurying my fragile ankle. Sure, sure. I may have messed up the rest of my body to do so, but so long as it’s a different pain each day that’s probably okay. A moving target gathers no moss… or something to that effect.
Anyhoo – here’s a finisher pic I texted to Harper and my Mom and brother letting them know I had survived. This feels like the right way to end this rambling late-night, early-morn entry.
