I winced inwardly as I watched a pint-sized girl who looked no more than half my 23 years cruise right past me as we reached the last quarter mile. A minute or so later as I stood keeled over just past the finish line, having just finished my first 5K, the hit to my ego hurt less than the rest of me.
This whole nonsense began a few months ago when I told my good friend, Richard Boga, that I would join him on his quest to finish the New York Marathon in the fall; we had decided to begin by registering for a few smaller races to get us on the right track: a 5K and a 15K in February and March, respectively. We had embarked on this journey-of-sorts as certified non-runners and began by subscribing to Runner’s World to get a handle on the subculture and start to pick up the lingo, but it wasn’t as smooth a transition as I had anticipated. I’d had serious issues with shin splints in the past, so much so that I was sure I’d never run again. I had been in such pain that I had trouble walking and even standing for days on end after a run. After an X-ray and an MRI, both with negative results, my doctors basically gave me a shrug when the pain continued. Frustrated, I swore off running and focused on other things. As an ocean lifeguard, I turned to swimming, paddling, rowing, etc. and resigned myself to resting and strengthening my shins on my own and keeping most of my running on the beach to avoid the shock of concrete. The aforementioned 5K was sponsored by The Wishing Well Pub to raise money for a local soldier who had lost his legs in Iraq; proceeds would go to purchase him a “Segway” scooter. I showed up bleary-eyed at 7:30 a.m. (Richard was lured away by the prospect of selling a house), which gave me a half hour until the start and I figured that was plenty of time since I’d preregistered. Yet, at 7:30, the start line was crowded with runners already wearing their numbers and timing chips, marching or walking or running in place, stretching and going through their various pre-race rituals. Clearly, I was out of the loop.
I placed first in my age group, a fact I should’ve been proud of, but it meant nothing; I had gotten smoked by a twelve-year-old, after all. Still, it was my first road race ever and I had completed it successfully; the real issue was whether I’d be able to run three times that distance in just under a month.
And somehow, here we were: March 8, 2008, the day of the 31st Annual Gate River Run, the largest 15K in the United States. My training since the 5K had consisted of a five-mile run the following week which went relatively well, but was followed with some shin pain. Terrified of an encore of the agonizing shin splints of yore, I decided the best thing to do was rest them to ensure they wouldn’t bother me during the big event. I had returned to my cross-training routine; in other words, I hadn’t gone for a run in three weeks prior to the race. Richard’s longest run to date was a little over six miles, and had also taken place weeks ago. By Runner’s World standards, we were nuts.
That morning brought clouds, but the weather report promised no rain. Instead, we could expect wind, fierce, gusty wind. Starting at a respectable 10 mph, it was projected to increase throughout the morning and we could expect gusts up to 45 mph, making the otherwise tolerable temperature of 55 degrees seem far colder. I looked out the window of our 12th-floor hotel room and contemplated my fate.
My brain had hitherto refused to accept that I would be dragging my perfectly untrained body through 15 kilometers of torment. Neither of us could say for certain how we would feel after this race, or even if we’d be able to finish it. It was as if Richard and I were characters in an as-yet-unfinished novel, at the mercy of a fickle author.
We walked the mile-and-a-half from our hotel to the start line in an advanced stage of uncertainty and took our place in the crowd of almost 15,000 runners. The guns were deafening when they went off at precisely 8:30, indisputably signaling the start of the race. “Chariots of Fire” echoed through the speakers and everyone cheered. The energy was electric. I just hoped it would last.
We got a good pace going – dodging around those runners who were worse off than we were, and I began to feel more confident. In fact, I felt great. My breakfast of instant oatmeal, Gatorade and green tea had given me just the right mix of hydration and energy I needed. I felt energetic and happy. I took in the sights of the city as we ran through the streets.
Up ahead, I saw a race volunteer holding a sign. I squinted to read it as we approached. It read…”1.” Wait a second. Mile one?! That can’t be right! How could we possibly have run only ONE mile? Surely, this was a joke. But no one was laughing. At that point, the fleeting confidence I had felt was replaced by a mixture of anticipation and dread. I kept running.
Shortly thereafter, I managed to lose Richard in the crowd. I was sure he was right behind me but when I turned around, the man in the green shirt I had been sure was him, wasn’t. I slowed briefly but resigned myself to the fact that picking him out in that mass of humanity was nearly hopeless – I had failed to take into consideration how many people would be wearing green – so I headed off alone.
The rest of the race went by in a blur. I kept expecting to hit “the wall” – the place athletes speak of with nothing but unadulterated dread, the place from which moving forward is either completely impossible or just absurdly painful – but it seemed that every time my energy level began to wane, I was greeted with something to keep me going.
Just before the first 5K, the street turned and I was greeted with an incredible view of, as a result of the wind, a very tumultuous St. Johns River. The waves crashed against the sea wall sending a salty spray all over the road, but as most runners veered away, I felt drawn to it. The energy of what looked like an incensed ocean got me pumped and carried me through to the next portion of the race, which took us through charming residential areas of Jacksonville.
I was pleasantly surprised to find entire families standing out on their lawns cheering on runners as we passed by. Little kids in their parents’ arms stretched their hands out over the road for a motivational “tag.” As I continued on, I was delighted to find that some families were not only supportive but generous; one woman offered a dish of succulent strawberries, another family lined up along the street, holding out orange slices and further on down the road, just when I needed it most, a little boy offered me a cherry popsicle which I graciously accepted. The River Run is certainly unique: in addition to sustenance offered by friendly locals, there were a multitude of water stations and, my favorite feature, a live band every mile. And although some offered less-than-award-winning performances, those that offered less in the way of aural delight at least provided a distraction from the pain involved in the task at hand. Speaking of pain, I have to say there was far less of it than I had anticipated. I had made it safely past mile seven with very little to speak of…
“Get some water now; you’re going to need it! The bridge is coming up!” I heard a race volunteer call out the warning as I approached the next water station. The bridge. I had spoken too soon. The pain was yet to come. I had been warned of this bridge innumerable times by friends and acquaintances who knew about this run, even told that some unlucky runners had perished attempting to cross it, assuring me that it wasn’t for the faint of heart. I’m forced to believe that it was by some sadistic urge of a River Run race organizer during the race’s inception that the Hart Bridge was placed at the very end of the course.
Strategically positioned at the base of the bridge was a band of drummers who looked like a sideshow at Woodstock. But despite their appearance and a strong whiff of hemp that wafted off them, drums never fail to get me pumped, and these were no exception; I clapped for them as I ran by to show my appreciation, took a deep breath and made my way up.
Any momentum I had gained in the miles up to that point evaporated as I began the climb. Not only was the bridge far steeper than I’d imagined, the fierce wind that had been blowing us around all along was really making its presence known now. Suspended hundreds of feet over the St. Johns River, I was sure the gusts surpassed the projected 45 mph they were expected to reach. Every step I took required careful precision. Not only was it painful to lift my leg with every step, but every time I did, the wind caught my foot and slapped it into my other leg. It was not a scenario conducive for maintaining balance.
Finally, I made it to the top and I knew the worst was behind me. It was (quite literally) downhill from here. I let gravity carry me down into the Jacksonville Municipal Stadium and, once inside, used the very last few ounces of energy I had to sprint the last few hundred yards to the finish line. And I was finished. I, runner number 9159, had successfully completed 9.41 miles (this course was slightly longer than the 9.3-mile 15K) in 1 hour, 23 minutes and 6 seconds. I was elated.
By some divine intervention, I managed to find Richard, who finished not far behind me and, together, we tottered over to the beer tent. Ah yes, free beer. The race organizers certainly knew what they were doing when they integrated that element: all participants get free beer upon finishing the race. So simple, yet genius.
After running 9.41 miles (and averaging 8:48-minute miles), I waited in line thinking about that beer like a lost traveler in an unforgiving desert might regard a jug of ice water (something I’m fairly certain is more along the lines of what Runner’s World would recommend I consider at this point). It was the most delicious beer I had ever tasted.
Somehow, as I savored the delightful beverage, I found my mind drifting back to the little girl who’d smoked me at the 5K last month. Slowly, a diabolical smile made its way across my face as I realized that even if she had come up to Jacksonville and run this race, even if she had crushed me, she couldn’t enjoy a beer when she was finished. This one’s for you, babe…
9159 3341 104 Adiel Suarez-Murias, 23*, Boca Raton, FL 28:28 55:40 1:23:06
