Eatin' up the miles

Twenty minutes to race time and the uneasiness of the pre-race anxiety fades and is replaced by a calm, almost meditative, state. My mind is blank as the brain keeps the autonomic functions working. I am no longer worried about how I will do; I am inexplicably confident, even though this is my first race longer than 10K. Few thoughts wriggle through to my conscious mind. I jog a little to warm up and stretch lightly.
It's a chilly morning, but I don't notice the sting of the cold, now. I line up behind the 8-9 minute/mile pace sign with only a couple minutes until the start. Waiting for the runners in front of me to start moving, I glance up at the sun just as it ducks behind one of several clouds in the sky. People are moving now, bouncing and jostling, waiting for the crowd to spread out so each can find a pace. All that is left to do now is keep the feet moving, enjoy the scenery, and watch the miles drift by...
Mile 1: People are starting to spread out now. I settle into a pace and conciously hold it back so that I can keep it up.
Mile 2: Wow, already over 1/7 done. Someone with a stopwatch says "sixteen twenty-five" as I run past. Work it out and it's 47.5 seconds/mile faster than my goal pace of 9 minutes/mile. Slow it down just a touch.
Mile 3: The people around me begin to fade away; not only are their numbers thinning, but as I settle into stride, I am becoming less aware of the other racers and more aware of the beautiful seaside forest through which I am passing and also the mile markers, which appear to me as billboards.
Mile 4: Past the first hill and still feeling pretty good.
Mile 5: I think that I'll not skip the next aid station as I did the first two.
Mile 6: Almost 1/2 way done. I slow at the aid station for some water. Now I'm thinking about consuming some of that energy gel; it might help later.
Mile 7: I eat the gel. Another hill passed. Still holding pace and feeling fine.
Mile 8: All downhill now.
Mile 9: I seem to be tiring. I think my pace may be slipping a bit.
Mile 10: I definitely feel like my pace is slowing. I hit a wall and my legs feel heavier. The course is along the waterfront from here to the end.
Mile 11: It's taking quite a lot on concentration to keep my legs moving at a decent pace. Now I realize the importance of the long runs that I didn't do.
Mile 12: Almost done. I've got goosebumps and my skin tingles a little. I know I'm not at my goal pace; I can't be. I tell myself that I just need to finish. The two hour limit I set as a goal seems lost.
Mile 13: The end is verynear. I run to it.

One of the volunteers takes my arm just past the finish line. He hands me a sports drink and I fumble with the cap. He aids me as I stumble over to turn in my timing chip. The brief stop to remove the chip is enough to give my legs the consistency of Jell-O and I struggle a little in forcing them to do my bidding. I realize that I didn't hear the time announced as I crossed the line, but I'm not worried about that right now. I need to stretch and eat. More volunteers have a stand set up with bananas, oranges, bread, muffins, pretzels, yoghurt, water, and a few other items. I choose a banana and some bread as I pick out a spot to stretch. I spot an unoccupied picnic table close to the water and I occupy it.
Stretch and eat, walk around some more, eat some yoghurt, drink some water. Oh yes, my time. I hear someone say that the results are posted and I wander over to see how I did. Wriggling to the front, I find my name and read: 1:58:03. About three tenths of a slower that my target pace (9 min/mile) but still under my goal time of two hours. I set a goal and I achieved it. AMAZING! That's how I feel. A shudder runs up my spine and I'm elated. I can't help but smile with joy as I go in search of the bus that will take me back to my car.

But you don't have to take my word for it...

Scroll down and see the 10-year-old girl who ran it in 2:11:40 (Bib #2520 placed 386 overall). Incredible.

*Added 6/22/2005 - Something that I didn't realize before, I actually placed 3rd in my age group, due not to my actual performance, but the lack of men in my age group; there were only six. Still, I got a friggin plaque.