Run Report-Dallas White Rock Half Marathon (Long)
Rick Denney
I probably should have posted this on Rec.Running. But I didn't want
to.
I announced to all of you in the flush of excitement following the IMC
race reports (which are still dribbling in--hint, hint) that I was
considering embarking on The Quest. The first step would be a
marathon, in the Spring, to test my mental and physical fortitude.
Since then, I've been consciously building up my long runs from the
ten-mile range to the 15-mile range. After having several 12-mile-plus
runs under my belt, I thought it would be good to enter a race and add
that experience to my training.
So, last Saturday morning found me walking across the field that was
an impromptu parking lot to Winfrey Point at White Rock Lake in
Dallas. (I love it when I see the shoreline features of this lake
referred to with grand geographical terms. Instead of Winfrey Point,
it should be Winfrey Tip. A Point would be bigger than the lake, which
is a mere four miles long. But I digress.) I got in the restroom line
a full hour before the race, which meant that I would need to go again
before the race started. Too late then--I'd just have to hold it.
After wandering around the start-finish area to make sure of where
things were, I tested the air to see if I could tolerate the 50-degree
temps without an extra layer. The sun was bright and warm, but a big
north wind lost its little bit of solar warmth as it crossed the
water, and the breeze chilled the air at the start line. Wonderful. I
tend to have trouble with warm weather (what most of you would call
really hot weather), because I sweat a huge amount and can't seem to
push enough fluids to make up for it, at least without a case of the
cup that runneth over (if you get my drift). I do much better in cold
weather.
Part of the training for me was getting a sense of where to line up.
After my warmup, I wormed my way into the back third of the crowd. I
knew the start would be slow. The crowd arranged itself in a circular
mass that would half to extrude itself through a 30-foot starting
gate. Passing through at last, I punched my watch.
The initial crowds were thick, but I immediately started moving up.
This scared me, because above all I wanted to practice good race
strategy: start slow and finish strong. I was relieved at the first
mile marker: when I hit the lap button, the watch read exactly 10:00.
That's hitting a target pretty close.
Now, you rabbits gotta unnastan' that us'n's is at the slower end of
the line. A ten-minute mile is my
I-have-to-run-for-the-next-four-hours pace. Which reminds me of a
story in Bill Rodger's new running book. He said that a bopper
exclaimed, "I don't know how anyone can run 26.2 miles in a little
over two hours!" His response, "I don't know how anyone can run
continuously for four hours!" Don't you just hate it when these little
skinny biomechanically perfect neutral good economy runners talk about
how hard it is to run slowly? Like skinny psychologists trying to
explain why fat people eat.
Anyway, now I'm thinking that I'm warmed up, and it's time for a
little quicker pace. The second mile rolled by in 8:51. That mile felt
good: hard enough to let me know I was racing, but steady enough to
know I could do it for a while.
By this time, we had rounded the south in of the lake, passed the dam,
and were working our way through some residential neighborhoods on the
west side. The hilly side. Not real hills, mind you, just little ups
and down to give us all a chance to show off our climbing technique.
Watching the other runners on the hills was very instructive. Back
where I was, the steady stream of runners was punctuated by many who
were as inexperienced in long running races as I, but who had not the
experience in endurance sports that has taught me how to listen to
this thick, sluggish body. One college-age woman darted past me,
breathing like a poodle. She got to the top of the hill, and started
walking. I was motoring up the hill in my 90-strides-per-minute pace,
taking the required baby steps to keep me aerobic, and breathing
steadily in for two steps and out for two steps. When I caught up with
her at the top, she was breathing like a beagle. (How is a beagle
different from a poodle? I actually have no idea, it's just that my
mental image of a poodle doesn't involve large quantities of exposed
tongue and the concomitant, ah, oral fluids.) After a while, she
darted past me again. This scenario repeated itself about four times,
and then I passed her for good.
Then there was the guy running about 45 strides per minute. He was
easy to spot. In the continuous ripple of bobbing heads, his body
crashed up and down like a cresting dolphin. When I passed him, I
could feel the vibration of his footfalls through the pavement. And
that's quite a trick, given that little cracks appear in the pavement
around the vicinity of my footfalls when I run.
The hills that spanned the next three miles are visible in my mile
splits. Those three miles went by in the 9:10 range.
The first water stop came and went. It was so crowded that I past it
by. I know, I know. But it was cool, and I was in the groove, and the
crowd at the stop was out of control. Plus, I had a low-level desire
to pee that I didn't want to encourage overmuch this early in the run.
Long about mile five, everyone was getting into a grind. I could see
people all around me start to fade, but I was just getting smoothed
out. I was actually enjoying the hills. Given my general distaste for
vertical displacement, which is closely correlated to the amount in
which I tug on the planet, that I would enjoy running in hills is a
testament to modern self-flagellation. But I can't help it--I like it.
Spirits in the crowd sagged, even as mine were steadying out. Then, a
disturbance in the rumble of two thousand pairs of EVA padding against
the pavement emerged from the crowd behind me. "Woooooo, wooo hoo!"
Multiple strong female voices filled the breeze with calls to the
surrounding runners to start enjoying themselves. I think the race
organizers must have paid them to start at the back of the pack and
work their way up through the crowd to cheer everyone up.
Occasionally, we'd hear a male voice chime in, but always more weakly.
Inexorably, the knot of merriment gained on me, even as I was still
passing those around me. Eventually, the sources of all this noise
caught me up. Three young ladies, happily clad in orange neon and
black, showing off tanned and fit bodies and overall abundant good
health, refused to pass anyone without getting some acknowledgement of
pleasure.
This insistence on silly displays of joy were, of course, not to be
tolerated. Running is serious, dammit, and these girls refused to
proceed with deep quietude and respect befitting the true runner.
Immediate action was demanded from someone who was accustomed to
giving orders and having them obeyed. Despite that requirement, I took
the task on myself. "Alrightly, then, ladies. I'm going to have to ask
you pull over while I cite you for Excessive Display of Vitality."
They laughed as if I was making a joke and woo-hooed their way into
the masses at my front.
We were running along the west side of White Rock Lake, and I noticed
a small, neat sign planted in the grass by the roadside. "We Miss You,
Miji, We Love You," or something to that effect. Miji: Mary Jane
Roech, the unstoppable champion woman cyclist in a 1970's decade
filled with unstoppable champion women. She moved to Dallas something
around the early 80's, and worked her way into many hearts. This was a
year or two after my close involvement with Texas bicycle racing,
including a stint as the USCF District Rep, right before the second
bike boom. She was taken from us in a traffic accident, but she was
still remembered by that freshly painted neat little sign. I don't
know who put it there, or why it would be there for a running race
(assuming it had anything to do with us footpads at all). But I
learned something about running long races: emotions run close to the
surface, and I confess that I choked up remembering names of friends
who have been lost in tangles with traffic. Names like Vicki Johnston
and Chuck Livingston (two Texas cyclists--both good friends--who were
killed in training rides around 1980), and, more recently, Judy
Flannery, to name someone we all knew of and admired. And lots of
names in between. I sent up a little prayer of thanks. Here I was, a
thick-limbed, unbalanced, uncoordinated, and untalented physical
specimen, thumping along happily, gifted with the opportunity to
overcome talent and physique to pursue the good goal. I entered Mile
Six in a humbled state.
Mile Six was the first of a six-mile stretch of pure groove running. I
loved it. The splits went like this: 8:51, 8:51, 8:51, 8:54, 8:50, and
then 9:07 in Mile 11, when I walked through a water stop. If that
isn't in the groove, then the term has no meaning. I'm finally getting
to the point in running that I've always enjoyed in really long bike
rides. That rhythm of steady work output. My mind becomes a separate
entity from my body: still fully integrated, but able to observe the
process of motion and pain externally. It's the opposite of
dissociation--it's super association.
I passed the third water stop in the sixth mile. This stop was managed
by the members of my triathlon club, and they lined up both sides of
the road to high-five every single passing runner. After the
encouragement, they passed out cups of water on the left and Gatorade
on the right, amid calls of "Water!" and "Sugar!" Triathletes
understand what's important. I downed two cups of gatorade without
slowing down.
Throughout this stretch, I tuned into my feelings. How do I feel? What
hurts? I'm in super association. I want to feel that pain that says
I'm pushing the envelope. So, even while I felt like my mind was
following along on the outside of my body, I was specifically aware of
every little discomfort: the soreness in my right hip, the little pain
in my right foot. The rubbing toenail in the left foot. The scratch of
that blasted label tag on the inside of my singlet. It was all part of
the experience. Paradoxically, awareness of physical limitation was
liberating. I felt like I knew exactly how hard I could push, and I
was therefore free to push at will. And push I did.
Two miles left: time to see what I had. I cranked up the pace, and now
I was passing runners in droves. Mile 12: 8:33. Then on the left, I
saw a familiar face. Chris Phelan, resident very fast runner, speed
coach, and Ironman triathlete in Tri-Dallas, was wandering the
opposite way down the road. By that time, he had been finished for
about 22 or 23 minutes, and he was just taking a stroll to cool off
and watch us mere mortals. He's 41, and finished third among the
masters and seventh overall. I hollered "Chris!" and he went into full
encouragement mode. "Go! Go! Pick-em-up-and-put-em-down! You can do
it!" Normally, I'm entirely too worldly and composed to be affected by
such sophomoric cheearleading. But, as I said, long runs bring
emotions close to the surface, and I found that I could indeed stretch
out that stride and pick up that pace. The last full mile went by in
8:06, which is 5K race pace for me, plus another 44 seconds for the
last tenth. Somewhere during that time, I passed the female Happiness
Patrol from earlier, woo-hooing no more. This time, I gave them a
rousing (okay--wheezing) "Woo-Hoo! Near the end now, ladies; go!"
Looking at the others in the finishing chute, I realized that these
were healthy, fit people. Not fast, but not normal, either. We had
done something difficult. We hadn't done it real well, but to do it at
all is a rare enough accomplishment all the same. Yes, much water has
passed the proverbial bridge since I weighed 270 and lost my breath in
the trek down the corridor to the Gent's.
So the final official time, including the minute or two it took to
pass the start line after the gun went off, was a lethargic 1:58:30.
Good enough for 810th place out of 1296 male finishers. A competitive
time in the 65-69 age group (the race winner was in my 35-39 age
group). But I set a plan and followed it, starting slow and finishing
strong. I beat my goal time by ten minutes, and I enjoyed the last
mile more than the first. What a blast!
Rick Denney
Take what you want and leave the rest.
Sea2river
> rde...@mail.viggen.com (Rick Denney) wrote,
>I probably should have posted this on Rec.Running. But I didn't want
>to.
Well ya dun good and told it well. Many thanks. It felt as though I was there
running with you.
------------
Bob Williams
Sea2...@aol.com
David Barclay
Rick Denney (rde...@mail.viggen.com) wrote:
> Good enough for 810th place out of 1296 male finishers. A competitive
> time in the 65-69 age group
Congradulations on your race Rick. In my first marathon (I wasn't
smart enough to start small) I was passed by a rather speedy silver-haired
granny. I would have like to think I could have beaten the 60 yrs. olds,
but race day changed that. :)
Yes Rick, we will be seeing you at Ironman
David Barclay
dbar...@chat.carleton.ca
IMC 1997: 11:55.59
Triathlon: "Swim, Bike, Crawl"
GANelson
Excellent race report snipped
Rick, I always enjoy reading your posts on the technical side of cycling etc.
Now I am also a fan of your race reports. Keep 'em coming!
greg nelson RST-Maryland
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