For all of you avid runners out there, I recently completed my first 15K and placed second in my age group. I never thought it was possible with my amount of preperation and training but I pulled it off anyway. It is for this reason that I recently composed a feature story, detailing my experience on the course, and the lessons I learned. Excuse the length, but it was a very long 9.1 miles.........
THERE ARE THOSE WHO RUN, AND THOSE WHO RACE
-By Jonathan Meyer
In the sport of endurance running, there are two types of participants that make their way to the finish line of any given event: the runners and the competitors.
The two groups may differ in running style, speed and attitude, but to gather together on a sub-30 degree morning to fight the sea spray and 20 mph winds, both runners and competitors shared one very important trait in the 2007 Birch Bay Road Race: passion.
On March 31 I gathered with about 250 people on the frigid starting line of the 3rd annual event, benefiting Girls on the Run, a Whatcom County-based program to encourage active lives through running. Though I had packed shorts and a tank top for the occasion, my first 15K, the early 7 a.m. start time combined with the violent seaside conditions proved that they would be out of the question. Had I researched the course like the rest of the runners, I would’ve known that last year the starting line temperature was a frosty 22 degrees.
From the pre-race conversation, I could already separate the true competitors, those who come out to race for the trophy and glory, from the running enthusiasts. A group gathered at the small alcove of portable toilets discussed the winner the year prior, and what they had done in training to improve their chances.
“I’ve been running hill sprints into my regular program,” one of the men, probably in his early thirties, said. “I run the same route but sprint all the hills; hopefully it’ll help me in the end.”
Although rather ignorant of the course, even I knew he was speaking of the treacherously steep hill that loomed less than 100 yards from the finish line, which for competitors in the 15 or 30 kilometer distances, usually makes hearts drop and legs cramp.
The enthusiasts, those here for the fun and accomplishment of completing a 9.1 or 18.2 mile race and not for the pressure of an all-out battle, well they were acting somewhat differently. While the “racers” were slowly stretching and contemplating strategy in small groups, the casual runners were congregating in a large mass around the water dispenser, telling exciting stories, sharing tips and lowering the tension of the looming departure.
In a last minute effort to avoid the weather, all of the runners, in the 5, 15 and 30K alike, were called to the finish line simultaneously, and all of a sudden, the mood grew somber. Conversations ceased, breathing slowed and vision narrowed. On this day we all set out to complete our respective race, and accomplish our own goals, and for the last seconds before the starting bell chimed, that’s all any of us were focused on.
As the bell rang out it again became instantly obvious who the competitors were. While the runners out to set a personal best or finish their first races hung back and started slow, a small group broke out quickly, taking off like horses at the track. As they moved away, the enthusiasts among us gradually settled into our chosen pace, waved them off with a dismissive sigh and prepared for a beating at the hands of mother nature.
As we ran our way along the coastline of the resort town of Birch Bay, population 6,000, the first few miles of my 15K hurt like nothing else I have experienced. Although I had run two half-marathons in the past (13.1 miles as opposed to this, which measured out to only 9.2) my training regimen had faltered, I had fell ill before the race, and my athletic condition had suffered greatly. Essentially the only way I would finish this race I realized, with the combined difficulty of freezing water blowing off the ocean and rain beginning to fall, was on guts alone. Herein lies another key difference between myself and the competitors; they know they can complete the race and want to set a record, win or place at the very least, whereas I would have been perfectly happy to survive to see the finish line.
Luckily the wind and water cut down immensely as we entered the forest of Birch Bay National Park and wove our way through the evergreen-rich wilderness. My legs began to feel confident and my heart giddy as I thought to myself, “maybe you can do this.”
The pack had thinned out. A few yards in front of me ran two high-school age girls, chatting idly and running smoothly, apparently not concerned as I was, about the prospect of being carried across the finish line. Behind me were a mother and her young daughter, who to my dismay appeared to be running quite ably at the age of 12. We didn’t attempt to pass or budge one another for rank and were happy at the current speed, because as we all knew, the course would dead end and turn around soon, putting us right back out at the mercy of the sea.
We were not disappointed to say the least, the rain and wind continued, with a wicked twist: it was now blowing directly in our faces, like a hand, sternly pushing back on us as we fought to keep moving forward. As I gazed blindly down the shorefront, my eyes wet with tears of pain, I could make out the finish line, impossibly distant, sitting on the top of a hill, four-and-a-half miles away. People had actually begun to pass me now, my well-practiced stride falling into a clumsy plod down the asphalt as my calves swelled with lactic acid, the cause of cramping and a runners’ worst enemy.
THERE ARE THOSE WHO RUN, AND THOSE WHO RACE
-By Jonathan Meyer
In the sport of endurance running, there are two types of participants that make their way to the finish line of any given event: the runners and the competitors.
The two groups may differ in running style, speed and attitude, but to gather together on a sub-30 degree morning to fight the sea spray and 20 mph winds, both runners and competitors shared one very important trait in the 2007 Birch Bay Road Race: passion.
On March 31 I gathered with about 250 people on the frigid starting line of the 3rd annual event, benefiting Girls on the Run, a Whatcom County-based program to encourage active lives through running. Though I had packed shorts and a tank top for the occasion, my first 15K, the early 7 a.m. start time combined with the violent seaside conditions proved that they would be out of the question. Had I researched the course like the rest of the runners, I would’ve known that last year the starting line temperature was a frosty 22 degrees.
From the pre-race conversation, I could already separate the true competitors, those who come out to race for the trophy and glory, from the running enthusiasts. A group gathered at the small alcove of portable toilets discussed the winner the year prior, and what they had done in training to improve their chances.
“I’ve been running hill sprints into my regular program,” one of the men, probably in his early thirties, said. “I run the same route but sprint all the hills; hopefully it’ll help me in the end.”
Although rather ignorant of the course, even I knew he was speaking of the treacherously steep hill that loomed less than 100 yards from the finish line, which for competitors in the 15 or 30 kilometer distances, usually makes hearts drop and legs cramp.
The enthusiasts, those here for the fun and accomplishment of completing a 9.1 or 18.2 mile race and not for the pressure of an all-out battle, well they were acting somewhat differently. While the “racers” were slowly stretching and contemplating strategy in small groups, the casual runners were congregating in a large mass around the water dispenser, telling exciting stories, sharing tips and lowering the tension of the looming departure.
In a last minute effort to avoid the weather, all of the runners, in the 5, 15 and 30K alike, were called to the finish line simultaneously, and all of a sudden, the mood grew somber. Conversations ceased, breathing slowed and vision narrowed. On this day we all set out to complete our respective race, and accomplish our own goals, and for the last seconds before the starting bell chimed, that’s all any of us were focused on.
As the bell rang out it again became instantly obvious who the competitors were. While the runners out to set a personal best or finish their first races hung back and started slow, a small group broke out quickly, taking off like horses at the track. As they moved away, the enthusiasts among us gradually settled into our chosen pace, waved them off with a dismissive sigh and prepared for a beating at the hands of mother nature.
As we ran our way along the coastline of the resort town of Birch Bay, population 6,000, the first few miles of my 15K hurt like nothing else I have experienced. Although I had run two half-marathons in the past (13.1 miles as opposed to this, which measured out to only 9.2) my training regimen had faltered, I had fell ill before the race, and my athletic condition had suffered greatly. Essentially the only way I would finish this race I realized, with the combined difficulty of freezing water blowing off the ocean and rain beginning to fall, was on guts alone. Herein lies another key difference between myself and the competitors; they know they can complete the race and want to set a record, win or place at the very least, whereas I would have been perfectly happy to survive to see the finish line.
Luckily the wind and water cut down immensely as we entered the forest of Birch Bay National Park and wove our way through the evergreen-rich wilderness. My legs began to feel confident and my heart giddy as I thought to myself, “maybe you can do this.”
The pack had thinned out. A few yards in front of me ran two high-school age girls, chatting idly and running smoothly, apparently not concerned as I was, about the prospect of being carried across the finish line. Behind me were a mother and her young daughter, who to my dismay appeared to be running quite ably at the age of 12. We didn’t attempt to pass or budge one another for rank and were happy at the current speed, because as we all knew, the course would dead end and turn around soon, putting us right back out at the mercy of the sea.
We were not disappointed to say the least, the rain and wind continued, with a wicked twist: it was now blowing directly in our faces, like a hand, sternly pushing back on us as we fought to keep moving forward. As I gazed blindly down the shorefront, my eyes wet with tears of pain, I could make out the finish line, impossibly distant, sitting on the top of a hill, four-and-a-half miles away. People had actually begun to pass me now, my well-practiced stride falling into a clumsy plod down the asphalt as my calves swelled with lactic acid, the cause of cramping and a runners’ worst enemy.
I ran past many quaint little restaurants and bakeries, their smells taunting my hunger-stricken body and I realized that I could be thankful that none of the horrible stomach afflictions, including violent diarrhea and vomiting, which sometimes plague distance runners, had chosen to show their nasty faces this morning. As I passed the two-mile-to-go marker, I was dying; each step made every muscle in my legs scream in protest as I no longer picked up the logs attached to my waist, but swung them around rather, to complete what was barely discernable as a step. I passed the point where the 15K single loop ended, but the 30K loop continued down the shore, and my heart went out to the people crazy enough to endure an added 9 miles of pain.
I turned and ran up what has been not-so-cleverly labeled “Heartbreak Hill” (every distance race has at least one hill carrying this name) as I remembered the group of thirty-something’s by the toilets earlier. With a crazy idea in my head and pain in my heart, I increased my speed to sprint the final climb. I drew many dirty looks as I passed several runners on my way, and stumbled out my last steps to the finish line. I picked my head up from a collapsed gasp just long enough to hear the announcer wrongly pronounce my name and time; I had made it. I had accomplished what I had set out to do.
Like most of the people in the race that day, though I showed some playful competitive spirit at the end, I came with no illusions of glory or grandeur, just a goal, and a passion strong enough to achieve it. People continued to trickle in, each one congratulated by ecstatic fellow runners and presented with their finisher’s medal, the only piece of recognition many of us would get.
It seemed to go unnoticed by most when Nik Southwell, of Victoria B.C. won the 30K five minutes later, efficiently decimating the rest of the long-distance crowd with a blistering 5:30 per-mile average pace, and embarrassing me by finishing double what I had, in nearly the same time.But, as I looked around, I realized there was no reason to care; I hadn’t been there for that, I was there for the experience.
The experience had been challenging, beautiful and most of all enlightening. It is the ecstasy that surrounds us when we do something that we never thought possible, the happiness of achieving a long-term goal and the camaraderie gained through friendly competition that makes runners for life out of many race participants. This was the first race that I’d ever placed in (second in my age group) and I’ve only competed three times to date, but I’m an addict already, a passionate running junkie, one whose now determined to run the oldest and most prestigious race in running lore, the Boston Marathon in 2009- and I’m not running it to win.
Like most of the people in the race that day, though I showed some playful competitive spirit at the end, I came with no illusions of glory or grandeur, just a goal, and a passion strong enough to achieve it. People continued to trickle in, each one congratulated by ecstatic fellow runners and presented with their finisher’s medal, the only piece of recognition many of us would get.
It seemed to go unnoticed by most when Nik Southwell, of Victoria B.C. won the 30K five minutes later, efficiently decimating the rest of the long-distance crowd with a blistering 5:30 per-mile average pace, and embarrassing me by finishing double what I had, in nearly the same time.But, as I looked around, I realized there was no reason to care; I hadn’t been there for that, I was there for the experience.
The experience had been challenging, beautiful and most of all enlightening. It is the ecstasy that surrounds us when we do something that we never thought possible, the happiness of achieving a long-term goal and the camaraderie gained through friendly competition that makes runners for life out of many race participants. This was the first race that I’d ever placed in (second in my age group) and I’ve only competed three times to date, but I’m an addict already, a passionate running junkie, one whose now determined to run the oldest and most prestigious race in running lore, the Boston Marathon in 2009- and I’m not running it to win.
