Belated Race Report

It's been almost a month to the day since my last race, and when I signed in to my blog I realized that I had neglected to post the results of the Flying Pirate Half Marathon on April 19, much to the dismay of my many followers who have awaited it breathlessly, no doubt.

From my Writing Journal (which I meant to copy to my blog):  

19 April 2015

Foggy, 53 degrees, calm wind – a strange morning as we awoke at 4:00 a.m. and I looked out at thick, eerie fog diffused in the dune-top deck lights two houses down.  We left the house on time, parked at Walmart, and walked to the Start, arriving only a minute before 7:00.  The first few miles seemed easy; after a fast 9:35 first mile I settled into my planned 10-minute-mile pace and maintained that for five or six miles, but then I began to slow a little more each mile as my right knee and hamstring started to tighten – my old adversaries!  But the crowds were encouraging, gathered in little knots at intersections along the way, and the scenery along the sound was beautiful, thick fog burning off completely, then returning with what felt like a light shower at one point before dissolving into bright sunshine.  I prayed as I usually do, thankful for strong legs and deep breath and a heart of courage and sweet, sweet sight.  And I had my usual fun along the way, laughing and talking to fellow runners and people gathered to watch and cheer.  “Is that my skim-milk latte I called in?” I would ask someone with a cup of coffee.  Or as pretty women called out, “Looking good!” I’d say, “You’re looking pretty good yourself!”  Running a distance race is not the time for drooping spirits.  And I thought about Martha, too, especially at mile 10 when the pavement ended and the uneven terrain of Old Nags Head Woods Road began – late in a half-marathon is not the time for sand, gravel, and potholes – and as we turned at Mile 12.5 and started up the steep single-track path over the dunes, pine needles and leaves . . . and then, surprisingly, there was Martha in front of me!  “What are you doing here?” I asked.  “I slipped by you.  Go on ahead.”  So I passed her on the narrow path and continued up and down over the sand dunes, glancing back over my shoulder once or twice – if she had been gaining, I would have waited so that we could finish that last plummet to the finish line together, but she did not appear, and after the final steep hill at mile 13, we could see the finish line, way down at the bottom of a long mulch-covered sand slope.  My watch at the line said 2:20:13 (final finish time 2:20:05, I discovered later); Martha came across at exactly 2:21:00 – but, of course, she had started in Corral C and I had started in Corral B, so her gun did not go off until two minutes after I had started.  Her final time was 2:18:50, a difference of a minute and 15 seconds.  This was the same outcome three years ago when we ran in the rain and I found she had beaten me by 20 seconds or so, although she had crossed the line behind me.  Except this time she had slipped past me at Mile 8, while I was stopping to get a packet of Gu, and I had not even been aware that she had.  But how good it was to see her charging across that final stretch of sand!  Her face is always bright, bright red, but it holds that same triumphant smile of exhausted exhilaration that we all have:  we have conquered another one!

In a little while, we met up with Katy and David, who had agreed to come to the “Pirate Jamboree” (“Arrr, Matey!) to listen to a great R & B band (all black musicians, including two women with wonderful Aretha Franklin-like voices) and drink some well-deserved beer.  9:45 a.m. is a little earlier than I customarily drink beer – most of our friends were in Sunday School, after all – but who can pass up Shocktop Belgian White after a half-marathon?  While my hamstrings were as tight as piano strings and my quads were shredded, Martha had a very sore toe that sent me in search of a band-aid back at the medical tent.

As for the rest of the day, we made our way back, showered, took naps, and (in my case) shook off the final effects of the marginal food poisoning from the day before.  And I pondered once again on being beaten in a race – it is a race, after all – by Martha.  I know that I will not hear the end of it from one or two members in our running club.  And I could toss out any number of excuses for not running as well as I had hoped:  inadequate training, bad food, pollen so thick that the puddles along the way were ringed in bright yellow.  But there are no excuses; we ran on a level playing field, and the fact of the matter was that these tired old legs just began to give out in the last miles, and Martha’s younger and faster legs did not.  My self-esteem is not in question.  On the contrary, I am proud of her for running such a good race.

And now:  it is a time for celebration.  Dinner at the Red Sky Café, good Pinot Grigio to drink, and the rest of our vacation stretching out before us.