100 Words Per Mile: An Old Sense of Accomplishment, A New Sense of Fear
With only a couple weeks to go in my wife's pregnancy, I raced again, but I also started to feel something new.
October 2, 2021
6.2 miles
45:24
This morning, Bill and I ran a 10k. It was my first race since the surgery and despite the rust, I managed to finish second! The competition wasn’t all that stiff, but Bill is in great running shape and I managed to stick to him right until the last half mile or so. Then he pulled away and finished about seventeen seconds ahead of me.
As I expected, my competitive nature got the best of me. The plan was to run an eight minute pace, maybe even eight and a half to be safe—I ended up running closer to 7:20 per mile. Part of the reason was I didn’t want to lose Bill just yet. I was excited about the prospect of running a race together, but that wouldn’t mean much if he took off and I didn’t see him until he passed me on the way back. The other reason was something much more chemical that I couldn’t diagnose. Adrenaline? Confidence? I don’t know. Once the race began, I just took off.
I’m glad I jumped to a 10k for my first race back. Not that 5k’s aren’t rewarding but getting back into the trenches per se (this race was held at an old World War II bunker that was now a museum), I wanted the money and time spent to be worth it. It took me forty-five minutes to finish the race. Additionally, three miles has become somewhat customary for me lately. A 5k wouldn’t have felt like much of a challenge.
Prior to the run, the host informed us that we would be running through some woods and that wild animals frequented the paths. Throughout the run I was prepared for boars or coyotes or snakes—something—but nothing showed itself. It was a little underwhelming, but probably for the best in the long run (no pun intended).
Reflecting on the run now, I’m a little disappointed I didn’t beat Bill. I didn’t think for a moment that I stood a chance prior to the race, but seventeen seconds is nothing if I’d just pushed myself a little hard. If I were seventeen again, there’s no way I lose that race. Now, in my thirties, I’m a little too practical. The math can overcome my will. I hate it.
