Waking up on St. Patrick's Day

            I get passed by a pack of runners—a half-dozen in stride—drafting one another like a peloton in a cycling race. I try to grab on their tail end, to use their tightly assembled bodies to block the wind. They leave me in their dust.

            I get passed by Tom and Paul, the two most optimistic runners on Earth. Though I’ve never met them before, I know their names because I can hear their encouraging voices as they breeze by me:

            “Good luck Tom!”

            “Good luck Paul!”

            “Great job Tom!

            “Great job Paul!”

            Screw you Tom. Screw you Paul.

            I get passed by a little kid. Not “little”-little, but little enough to make me feel slow.

            I get passed by a large man. Not “large”-large, but large enough to make me feel even slower.

            I get passed by an old lady. Not “old”-old, but old enough to make me wonder what the hell I’m even doing in this stupid race.

            I pass mile-marker four and the devastation really settles in—I’m not even half-way done.

            I’m running in the 36^th edition of the Shamrock Run in Portland, Oregon. With over 35,000 participants, it is the second largest running event on the west coast. Runners get to choose between three distances—5k, 8k, and 15k. While most runners choose to wear green, many participants go a step further, dressing in flamboyant St. Patrick’s Day attire—kilts, funny hats, suspenders, costumes, etc. Those people don’t typically sign up for the 15k race. To run that far, that early in the morning, it usually takes a particular kind of person who is reasonably dedicated to their athletic endeavors. At this moment, I really, really wish that I wasn’t that kind of person. At this moment, I wish I was trotting along in the 5k, dressed up like a pot of gold.

            My race started off fast—too fast. My pre-race strategy was to take off with the front of the pack, with the real runners—the guys who are going for the win, the guys who earn money racing. It was a simple strategy—follow the lead pack as long as I could, and when I couldn’t keep up any longer, just settle into my pace. In theory, the beginning of my race would be so fast that even if I slowed down every subsequent mile, I’d still beat my time from last year, which was my goal before the race started. A rather straightforward goal, I thought—simply finish with a better time than I did last year. After all, I am a year older; shouldn’t I be a year faster? (Whatever that means.)

            Strategy can be a powerful asset to any athlete, but when it backfires, it can also be very detrimental. I don’t know why I thought I could keep up with the lead runners, but from the initial whistle, it was quite obvious that I was in over my head. I couldn’t even keep up with them for the first 200 yards—their pace was my sprint. In my dream, I was racing against leprechauns and their short legs couldn’t keep up with my long stride. In reality, I was racing against professionals, and completely outclassed. The good news was that I ran a six-minute mile, a pace that would destroy my time from last year. The bad news was that there were already about 50 runners ahead of me, and I was fading fast.

            I followed up with a 6:20 mile, then a 6:40, and then a 7:00. At this rate of deceleration, it would take me well over eight minutes to run my last mile—what I would normally consider a leisurely jogging pace. And the worst part wasn’t even the falloff of my times. The worst part was the hordes of people that were passing me. There are very few things that can make a runner feel worse than constantly getting passed. And I sure was getting passed.

             As I go by mile-marker five, my mind begins to fill with excuses—I ate too much oatmeal before the race; I didn’t warm up properly; I’m coming off the worst cold I’ve had in years; I went on a four-hour mountain bike ride yesterday; I haven’t been training appropriately; I haven’t been getting enough sleep; I’m ten pounds over my ideal race-weight.

            Excuses can be a powerful asset to any coward who’s in a funk, but when deep down you know they’re all bullshit, they can also be very useless. None of mine hold water—this isn’t my first race, and I knew far in advance that it was happening today. And on top of that, I have nobody to use them on anyhow. I’m the only one who even knows about my goal, and I’m certainly not the kind of guy who’s going to buy into any of that garbage. So, just quit being a little chicken-shit and run!

            We hit the Terwilliger hills and I suddenly find a second wind. While most runners find inclines quite daunting, I on the other hand, seem to excel up them. I decide that nobody else is going to pass me. I decide that if my mile times can get longer throughout a race, they can certainly get shorter. I decide that I can still accomplish my goal.

            By the time I reach mile-marker six, not only has nobody else passed me, but I’m now passing others. And as I overtake mile-marker seven, I kick it up a notch, knowing that it’s all downhill from here. I’m already feeling rejuvenated and then the greatest rock song of all time—Meatloaf’s Bat out of Hell (music and lyrics by Jim Steinman)—randomly comes on my iPod shuffle. Out of the 144 songs I have programmed on it, what are the chances that this exact song would play at this exact moment? Actually, it’s 1 in 144, but anyway, math aside, I see it as a sign, and like a bat out of hell, I hit the pavement hard. I begin picking people off, counting them as I go—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven…

But then something happens. The numbers start going backwards—six, five, four…I’ve lost my kick. The other runners are crushing the downhill too. And they seem to be doing it faster than me. I’m running as hard as I can, but it’s not hard enough. I have little left in my tank.

But wait! What’s this? There’s a group of people off to the side of the road handing out bacon and beer to the runners. Maybe that’s exactly what I need—a cup of beer. Yes! Perhaps that will get me back in the race.

Beer can be a powerful asset when you’re lacking courage, but when you’re running as hard as you can, it can also be quite unsettling. I chug the beer and immediately begin to burp. My mouth fills with the flavor of oatmeal mixed with Pabst Blue Ribbon—not the greatest blend in the world. And as I finally have the finish line in my sights, I’m trying hard not to puke in my mouth.

As I cross the line, I stop my watch—1:02:43—four minutes slower than last year. My pace went from a 6:18/mile to 6:43/mile. Though many people would be very pleased with these times, I am disappointed. I shouldn’t be getting slower. I should be getting faster. But I can’t change the results; I can only learn from them. I always try to take something away from every race, no matter the outcome. I may not have accomplished what I set out to accomplish, but there is definitely something to be learned here—if you’re going to have a goal, and if you’re going to set that bar high, then you damn well better prepare for it. Just because you did something once, doesn’t mean that you’re going to do it again, especially if you don’t properly train for it. I will use this race as a wake-up call, a lesson for what I need to do next year, as I try once again to run a personal best on St. Patrick’s Day. Hell, maybe I’ll do it dressed as a pot of gold…but probably not.