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.
