Colin Powell Elementary School 5K Redux

The gang post-race.

“So, um, where is the start?” I asked, while surveying the rapidly filling parking lot. Our eyes followed the outstretched arm of our friend who pointed to a folding table and chairs just off the sidewalk.

About two months ago, this same friend handed Mrs. OTBR and I registration forms to sign up for his school’s annual 5K fundraiser. Not ones to turn down a race – and honestly a chance to go out to breakfast – we promptly handed them back to him, check paperclipped to the top.

There was something refreshing about a true, small, local 5K (no more than 125 registrants), that didn’t come with the pressures of packet pickup logistics, starting corrals, timing chips, and that general D.C.-type A aggravation.

Our group of nine shifted from foot to foot as we cracked jokes in between our friend spotting one of his students and moving off to chat with them. I shook my arms and legs in random intervals, hoping to shed the logy-ness that weighed me down on my warm up loop. I surveyed the runners around us and quickly realized the absurdity of sizing up the dads and siblings for an elementary school 5K and allowed myself the chance to go “run for fun” rather than to compete.

A woman with a bullhorn emerged from the throng of elementary school kids and their parents, who wandered around us. “Let’s get moving to the start line!” she called, and we herded toward the folding table and chairs. But before we lined up, the bullhorn summoned us toward the school’s sign to snap a group picture.

Moments later, we shuffled into position. A little girl next to me looked up at her dad, motioned for him to lean in, and whispered too loudly, "Help me win!" Adorable.

The woman with the bullhorn yelled, “GO!” and in a few loping strides out of the parking lot, I shot to the front of the pack, err, horde of children. The course circled the school and surrounding neighborhood twice, and runners were instructed to run on the sidewalk, following the well-placed directional signs.

I slipped into an easy rhythm and – after a short and steep uphill – tried to push the pace toward a PR on the long stretch of downhill on the backside of the school. Then, I gave a quick glance over my left shoulder and startled to see a kid dressed in all white not too far behind.

“Not again,” I thought, having settled in to the idea of a pretty comfortable run alone. Then came the spark of adrenaline, and thus, the competitive fuse lit.

I dropped a 5:15 first mile and chuffed a little harder through the first loop checkpoint than I anticipated. Kids waved bright orange and yellow flags and there was a smattering of applause as the bullhorn squawked, “Here comes our first runner!” I managed a smile then went about tackling that short, steep hill again.

While I shortened my stride, I listened behind me for the announcement of the all-white runner and it came a little too soon for my liking. When I hit the top of the hill, I thought, “Run through it,” and though I breathed hard, I let my feet continue to turn over on that long downhill while my breath caught up.

I started to come up on the parents and their kids still completing the first loop and heard “Wows!” go up behind me. A father tried to stay with me for a short time before abandoning the idea. I kept my eyes up, looking for the street light that would signal the final left turn to the finish.

Finally it appeared, marking a half mile to go, and I allowed myself a quick glance at my watch: 5:25 pace; and another over my shoulder: all-white was nowhere to be found. A potential PR hung in the pre-thunderstorm humidity on that final straightaway and I threw in whatever kick those marathon legs could muster.

I ran by the cone marking the finish line and clicked my watch, sucking in a cool lungful of air. I looked at my wrist and saw: 15:45 and my eyes nearly bugged out of my head. Then I looked up further on the watch and saw 2.86mi. Ah-ha. That explained it.

I stuck by the finish line to cheer in and high five the kids and our friends. We tried our hand at the raffle and then collected our age-group prizes. Our friend had essentially brought in the ringers as we captured every one of them from 21-49.

And of course, then we went to breakfast.

Ashburn Village 10K Redux

#winning

“What are you lookin’ to do today?” The voice came from behind me. I’d taken my place at the front of the pack as we inched up toward the starting line. The weather gave us a brief window where no rain fell. A chilling breeze pushed the grey clouds across the sky.

“Oh, it’d be nice to run 6’s today,” I lied. “You know, if everything comes together.” He plucked an ear bud out and snickered.

“I won’t be up with you, then,” he said. “I just don’t like having to wade through the crowd at the start.” We exchanged a few more words about marathons past, when I realized that all eyes fixated on me. I had finally become “that guy.” I looked around and noticed I was the only one in split short and a singlet, and one of the few without headphones.

“You running the 5 or the 10?” another guy in a green shirt asked.

“The 10,” I said. “You?”
“Same.”

I remained friendly and upbeat. I asked him about the course and had he run it before. We shook hands, offered each other luck, and turned our attention to the starter.

A sudden calm settled over me, the one I’d been trying to instill all week leading up to this past Sunday. The doubts vanished. I replayed this race in my head for weeks as the lactic acid bound my legs on the track or I faced another hill somewhere in the middle of a two-mile interval. Just seconds away from the start, I knew I had nothing left to do…but race.

At the gun, green shirt bolted from the start and made the first right turn onto the main road. I drove the course the day before, so I knew that we would run the first two miles along this stretch before weaving our way through the local neighborhoods. I held back knowing that I had another 6.1 miles to catch him and whomever else went with us. But after 200m, I’d pulled even. And then away.

I didn’t bother to look back but rather focused on my form, keeping my legs churning, and not overstriding. The Sunoco station appeared on the right and I knew I had about a quarter mile to go before the first mile marker. My legs felt strong and I felt light. I glanced down at my watch hoping to see 5:30, knowing that was 15 seconds too fast, but burning some of that adrenaline off. When I saw 5:06, I hit the brakes. Whoa! Let’s everybody relax! I thought. If green shirt could hang, good for him, he could have it.

I rode the hills and came to the 5K turnaround. “Right turn,” one of the volunteers yelled to me.

“10. K.” I breathed.

“Oh. OH! Right on, dude!”

I smiled and surged on.

The two mile marker appeared at the bottom of the next hill. I made the turn and glanced over my shoulder. Green shirt was way back but still visible. Having driven the course the day before, I knew I faced a serious climb here, but, tapping into my trail racing knowledge, I thought, He’s got to climb too and he’s doing the chasing so he’s working even harder.

I settled in and found myself dropping the pace as I crested the hill. I waved off the water station volunteers and circled back to the main road. When I got ready to disappear into the next neighborhood, I glanced back again and saw that I ran alone.

I tried to shut my mind off here at 5K and just ride. The pace had started to get to me but I didn’t want to falter so I continued to press. The neighborhood streets were empty save for a few cars backing out of their driveways. I tossed a “thank you” wave if they stopped to let me by. For all they knew, I could have been out for a Sunday morning run. The houses and street reminded me of my old neighborhood where we used to ride our bikes to the pool and where, these days, I run through on one of my 12 mile routes. Some of those early memories distracted me from the work for a bit until the main road appeared again.

In the final neighborhood, I had just under two miles remaining. I started to catch some of the 5Kers who urged me on. The course double-backed on itself with a mile to go and I got to see just how big my lead had grown. Green shirt was nowhere to be found.

With a quarter mile left, I threw down one last kick and heard my friends calling out my name. The announcer picked me up but not in enough time for them to get the tape out for me to break.

I finished in 36:43, a PR, and course record. Green shirt finished 2:17 after me.

I put my hands on my head and walked over to meet my friends. “Nice job, man. This probably isn’t the best place to puke, though,” he said as I let the wave of nausea recede.

We stayed for the awards and watched my friend, Karen, also capture first place in her age group. While we walked back to the car, the rain began to fall. I stepped into the car, letting the relief wash over me. This one was important to me and had been for many weeks. It’s nice when the hard work turns into hardware at the finish.