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Race Result
Race Report:
(Goal 3:20/Actual 3:33-ish)
Debi Bernardes is evil. How evil, you ask? So evil that she put my ragged ash on the bike the morning after the Reston Triathlon. So evil that, when confronted with evidence of her evil-tude, she just laughs. Laughs!
How to get even with an evil coach? One way is to enter a half-marathon for which she is the race director. Okay, seriously, I already had entered the race before her evilness showed its pony-tailed head. I figured that it would be a good tune-up for the Marine Corps Marathon. After my “performance” at Reston, I was questioning my ability to complete the marathon in the allotted 6:30. I certainly knew that I would not be able to complete the half-marathon in the allotted three hours (as if I could string together 14-minute miles for a coupla hours - riiiiight). But – maybe Debi wasn’t so evil after all. She encouraged me to come on down and give it a shot. After all, the finishers would receive pajama bottoms. Cool swag. What’s not to like?
Only problem was, these fall events were colliding with the Gator football season. The Gators were playing Tennessee (BIG GAME) the night before the race. If we won, I’d be too keyed up to get much more than three hours’ sleep. If we lost, I’d be depressed. I wasn’t really affected before Reston, since we had played a gimme game against La. Tech the night before (no offense to any La. Tech grads out there). But there were two other conflicts out there – the Alabama game the night before the upcoming Army Ten-Miler, and Georgia (aka “The World’s Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party”) before the Marine Corps Marathon. Oh well. I laid out my transition area, and now I was going to have to lie in it.
Fortunately the Mighty Gators beat Tennessee in a hard-fought defensive game. With a melatonin helper, I got four hours of happy sleep and awoke ready for the drive to Fredericksburg.
The next morning, hoping to avoid the difficulties of the previous weekend, I managed to choke down a PowerBar with a great big Diet Coke. Then I had one for the road.With Heather snoring in the passenger seat, I had just one WaWa pit stop before arriving at the state park, where I made another pit stop, checked in, said hello to Debi, and put on the Mobile Mini Mart a/k/a Fuel Belt. Saw a guy with a Carolina shirt who gave me a hearty “Go Gators!”, which earned him a “Go Heels!”
The race began well – my inner band geek especially enjoyed the high school drum line entertaining us at the start. Problem was, only a few minutes into it, my bladder made itself known. I mean KNOWN. Dammit, I had gone just moments before, so I wondered if it was just early-race nerves. But no, Miss Bladder said that she was SERIOUS this time, so I obeyed the call, not wishing to face the consequences, at least not this early in the race. I faintly recalled someone saying that Diet Coke was a diuretic, but I pushed the thought aside, knowing that I never would have made the drive without it.
But then, there I was again, way in the back. Only this time, with my pit stop factored in, I was last. Way last. Really far last. And this was just the beginning of the race. Screw it, I told myself. This’ll just be a training run. A well-supported training run.
Early miles started to click by as I ran past fields. I thought about my ancestors (eight of them) who had been lost in the War of Northern Aggression and wondered if they’d fought near here. I was crossing a bridge in my own little happy endorphin-fueled world, when a car honked and startled me. Three women in the car laughed at my startle reaction as they went by and yelled “FAT ASS!” After I gave them the single-digit salute, I smiled, knowing that I was getting a great workout, while they (all fatter than me, I might add) were likely pointing their Bondo-mobile to the nearest Thickburger. Fat ass, indeed.
Miles Four and Five were happy enough, until I realized that the friendly guy in the nearby pickup truck was the sag wagon. F*ck. Barely a third of the way into the race, and I was being tracked. *Sigh.* I remembered my vow not to leave the course unless physically removed and trudged on, judiciously swilling eGels and water to avoid the bonk. Sag folk traded off until I was joined by a friendly bike rider. I apologized for being unable to talk to her, but by Mile Nine, I had to start walking. I was just tired. We chatted for a while, and I realized that it was just as well that I walked, since I wasn’t “running” much faster. By Mile Ten, I was told that the course was closing, that I would not be receiving an official time, and that I’d have to ride in a car between Miles 11 and 12, since that part of the route was now open and had no sidewalk. Heather found me and put a grape Gatorade in my sweaty paw. I crossed the bridge, fell in a sweaty heap into the waiting car, and rode to Mile 12, where I hopped out to trudge-shuffle the last mile-point-one.
Just as in Reston, I didn’t expect anything at the end, having missed the cutoff. But there was Debi at the finish line, waiting to greet me with my jammies and – a finisher’s medal! I protested that I had not run the entire course and wasn’t going to be able do so, but Debi gave me the medal all the same. “A” for effort, I suppose. We walked back to the parking lot, talked about training, and generally caught up. That’s when I thought, “It’s good to know the race director.”
Conclusion: I’m pretty sure that I won’t make the cutoff for the marathon. Debi advised me to bring along a Metro pass and consider it to be my own personal half-marathon, and just duck out when I’m done. Sounds good, but we’ll see. In the meantime, she’s going to have me on the bike the following day. And I need to lay off the Diet Coke.
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