So I just finished the Country Road Run 5M in Olney. It counts as my Saturday long run this week, and it gives me a little more race experience (there's one more before Pike's Peak). I managed to inch my way up to the top 50th percentile and, thanks to Tom and to Mary (the main Reds coach), I shaved a couple of minutes of my last 5M time. Actually, I'm fairly certain my improved time had more to do with the $500 I dropped at REI yesterday, but I can't prove it.
I was in NYC for work this week, so I missed the Tuesday track workout, which is no big deal since the remedial group is still doing easy runs on Tuesdays. I made up 3.5 miles on Wednesday, and followed up Thursday and Friday (usually a rest day) with the 3M and 4M runs. With the race, that puts me at 15.5 miles this week, like a good girl, just in time to crank it up to 18 next week.
The 5-mile course in Olney was gorgeous, replete with golf course, B&B, thoroughbreds, rolling hills, McMansions and—per the race name—one beautiful country road. M- got up with me at 6:30 and came along, and I have to admit, having someone there waiting for you makes you run a better race. But that's not to say my own competetive spirit isn't kicking in. By about half a mile, strictly from appearances, I had picked out who I thought I should pass, be they older, doughier, shorter or even just mean looking. But runners are an odd lot, and you can't tell from looking who's going to clean the sidewalk with you. I always get it wrong.
By mile 2, I was excited by my own split times, and started to fantasize about a 40-minute race time. By mile 3, I was Million Dollar Baby (pre-paralysis), high off my own hard work paying off and planning on a marathon. By mile 4, I remembered the element of luck that put a stool in the wrong place and rendered Swank a suicidal bed sore (albeit still force of nature). And then I started to flag, looking for the last bend, watching the strong finishers go by, and congratulating myself just for being there.
Still, knowing M- was there made me excited to get to the finish line. And that's even before I knew he would be snapping pics, shouting Go, baby, go! There were some true athletes there, busting ass and making some amazing times, and when M- took my gloves and handed me my Accelerade, for a minute I felt like one of them. 6.2 miles is more than 5—24% more to be exact—but I'm not as afraid of it as I was a week ago.
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