The Halloween Half-Marathon

Following my San Diego half marathon, I needed about a week’s worth of physical recovery. The few jogs I did were light, easy, and brief. My legs were sore.

I couldn’t rest for too long though, because I signed up to run the Saint Louis GO! Halloween half-marathon just three weeks after San Diego. Running two half-marathons in three weeks is asking a lot from a body that has never run an event at that distance before.

So I took an easy week, followed it with a more traditional training week, and then followed that with a “taper” week.

I don’t consider taper to be recovery, though there is some recovery involved. It is a reduction in training volume, but the training conducted still has a focus on race-specific movement. Taper is the final tuning of the instrument before the symphony. The musician has already rehearsed and the dexterity has already been earned through hours of practice; there are just a few necessary tweaks needed to deliver a rousing melody at the right pitch.

As running is somewhat new to me, I had no idea if my plan would work, or if it was feasible to run a second decent half marathon within weeks of the first one.

Physically, I felt sluggish and lethargic until about three days before the Halloween half-marathon. I had about three days of decent sleep leading into the event and ate mostly natural foods between my events, however. It wasn’t until two days before the Halloween half that I believed it could be a pretty good run; I woke up one morning and suddenly felt like my usual self.

The hours leading to the start were a blur. I arrived at the race with my girlfriend (who ran it with me), stretched, had an energy gel, and lined up near the start line. I felt loose and relaxed. I promised myself that I would not take this race out too fast (I was out way, way too fast on the previous one).

The challenge with this event was that it mixed 5k, 10k, and half marathon participants in the same racing pool. So as bodies propelled forward at the start, I had no idea who was running what.

Another challenge was that this event featured much more elevation than the San Diego event via some brutally steep hills. Whereas my San Diego race had about 80 feet total of elevation gain, this was estimated to have 500 feet of elevation gain.

I felt the elevation during the first mile, which was up a steep incline. Runners shot forward at fast cadences.

Hold back, I told myself. Just hold back.

As my calves tightened and the hill ahead of me steepened, I slowed my cadence. People flew past me. This was alarming. The race was just starting, and I was falling behind. I decided I’d let them take the lead here. This later proved to be the right move. It was only one mile of more than thirteen, and were plenty more hills to challenge me.

I passed my first mile marker at 6:26. This was about 20 seconds slower than my first mile in San Diego. I felt fresh, though, in spite of the early hill. I had 12 miles to make up ground.

I accelerated downhill, letting my longer stride give an advantage as I loped downward, and passed a few runners.

Mile three saw another hill, this one longer and equally as steep. My lungs heaved more than I wanted them to. I knew that I was still off of my San Diego pace, but still, I had to let myself slow a little. So I did. Then, like after the first mile, I accelerated downhill.

Mile four, mile five, mile six. I made no moves. I didn’t accelerate, or really do anything interesting. I just sort of plodded forward. But my pace was pretty good, and that was enough.

At one point near mile five, my pace faltered and several runners passed me. I felt my legs tighten and my hear pump louder. Then I arrived at an aid station and grabbed some water. I recognized one of the volunteers at the station from my running group.

“Let’s go Matt, you’re doing great!” He shouted. Suddenly my pain evaporated and I accelerated forward. I was back on pace.

I am Virgo, so I studied the course before the event. I knew that the hills only encompassed the first six miles of the race. The next seven miles would be relatively flat. A successful race, I decided, would be dependent on feeling fresh for the final seven miles.

Mile six proved to be devastating. It was the steepest hill yet. Winding and twisting along streets that cut through a rural Missouri landscape, it stretched brutally upward and seemed to have no end. Was this a hill or a mountain? My pace slowed and alarmingly so. My legs grew heavy and suddenly it was like one of those bad dreams where you’re running from a threat, but standing in place. For a brief moment in time I was a full two minutes slower than my goal pace. A runner passed me. Still, the fatigue was mounting. I knew I had to risk a bad time and slow down.

Then we reached the hill’s apex, and I realized that I was quickly recovering, and before I knew it I wasn’t hurting all that bad. I accelerated downhill again and found myself running shoulder-to-shoulder with the runner who had just passed me.

“How you doing?” He said. I was out of breath and managed to say, “Not bad.” I’m sure my face said otherwise. That hill hurt. I felt confident that I had enough energy to finish the race, but damn… it hurt.

I regained the lead over him, determined not to let up my quickening tempo, but heard his feet padding the earth close behind me. We passed mile seven. Six miles to go. Now the race begins.

I checked my watch. I was now even with my San Diego running pace. In that event, my pace had slowed down by mile four. I was relatively steady today and making ground on that race. This meant I had a shot at a best time.

Mile 8, mile 9, mile 10. Flat earth ahead of me, edged by trees and walls of their yellow and orange foliage. Every mile looks like the one before. My legs steadily tightening. My cadence steadily slowing. What was effortless thirty minutes ago was suddenly a struggle. Suddenly the aches in my calves from the earlier hills are in pain. My breathing is heavier. Here we go. Just focus on getting through this mile.

Mile 11. I’m still in this. I no longer have an acceleration in me; the fatigue is too much. It’s a matter of maintaining pace now. I hear the familiar runner behind me speaking to me.

“Thanks,” he says. “Your pace is bringing out the best in me.” He’s hurting too.

“Likewise,” I reply. There are no losers here. I love the camaraderie. We want each other to succeed. “We’ll get to the finish and hug,” I say. And so we run on.

Mile 12. Where is my mind? It’s on my legs. I’m tightening too much. The pain is getting intense in my calves, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I try to change my running form a little so that I land on my heels, not my forefeet. Anything to keep the pain at bay. But that doesn’t work either, so I stick with what’s natural for me.

I’m forcing myself to keep pace, but my pace is still slowing. However, it’s not slowing as much as it did in San Diego.

The last mile. My running rival passes me. I have to let him go. I’m taxed. To try and stay ahead risks injury. Better to just chug along. Besides, if I leave a little reserve in the tank, I’ll have enough for another best time on the next run. But damn it hurts. My mind starts screaming, “Just walk it in!” But I know I can’t do that. I’m so close to making it. I won’t let it count for myself if I walk.

Suddenly a left turn and I see the inflatable arch at the finish. I’m right there. One more runner passes me, and I notice it’s someone in my running group. He’s a great guy, and I’m glad he makes it. I spring to life and pick up my cadence. I run through the finish line, then hunch over. I’m in serious pain; the final mile was a blur. Everything hurts. I can’t pinpoint any exact source of agony. I high five my running group partner. I exchange a hug with the other runner who passed me on that final mile.

“This is your first year running?” He says. “Damn, you’re a natural at these things.”

My final time was more than a minute faster than it was in San Diego. And in spite of a slowdown over the final mile, I paced this one better. It was a best time. More of a struggle, but a best time.

I finished second overall in my age group. Not bad for a swimmer! And there were over 800 participants.

I got a pumpkin pie as a prize. I then ate some donuts and had a latte. I made it. The season is over. The journey is complete.

My running quest ended with the fastest run of my life. I’m triumphant, or that’s how it feels. But what did I win? What happens after the curtains are drawn? Where to next? What’s the aftermath? What is the grand life epiphany? Have I solved some deeper existential crisis?

I have some water and note only my own worn body and a free pumpkin pie. But the fall air braces me and the smiles at the finish are contagious.

I wanted to prove that I could bounce back, that the car hit last year wouldn’t take me down, that I was still alive, and frankly, that I still had life inside of me. I wanted to prove that I’d return, and run farther and faster than I ever had in my life. This was a personal battle. I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about it. It’s a good thing I don’t, because running at these lengths is very, very personal.

My previously injured foot feels good. I feel good. I’ll take a few weeks off of running before prepping for the full marathon though.

Until next time!

Story of a Half Marathon

My first half marathon event is over.

I signed up for the Pacific Beach half marathon early this year. My brother and I signed up together; it was supposed to be our “misogi,” which is best described as a challenge that has at least a 50% chance of failure. I try to complete a misogi every year if I can. Why do a misogi? I believe that most of us are too comfortable. As we settle into adulthood, most of us make the pursuit of comfort a pursuit when in fact it should be the opposite.

I had never run more than 3 straight miles before this year and spent most of last year rehabilitating some torn ligaments in my right foot. So, I figured there would be a chance that this event would end with the dreaded “DNF” (did not finish). It seemed like a fitting misogi.

My running improved faster than expected this year, and by June I realized that completing the event would not be an issue. The event transformed from a misogi into a stepping stone for something else. I decided I wanted to run longer and give myself time goals. I wanted to run a marathon. Better yet, I wanted to run a marathon at a good clip.

Still, I needed to complete this half marathon first. This was an important marker for me. That’s why I logged as many running miles each week as I could muster and spent the week before the event mostly resting.

My brother and I arrived at sunny San Diego, California, on Thursday at dusk. The sunset was a beautiful strip of glowing ember, even at the airport, and a gentle breeze soothed me even though the prevalent stench of pollution and car fumes was far from balmy.

My clumsiest move of the weekend happened outside the airport. My water bottle fell out of my backpack as I exited the shuttle for the rental car agency. My foot then his the water bottle, rolled, and I fell back, flat on my ass. It was like something out of a bad comedy film. I was fine, so I had to laugh at myself.

We ate Thai food that night (I had a tofu bowl because I have been mostly eating vegetarian for the past few months) and stayed at an AirBnB located just one block from the beach. The sound of nearby ocean waves and the crisp coastal air prevented any anxiety about the half marathon.

The next day was spent relaxing and enjoying San Diego city. We started the day eating açaí bowls at a local coffee shop, slurping lattes, and having cold water baths in the ocean (the Pacific water is freezing).

I had a warmup jog along a trail on the beach that gave an excellent view of the sparkling light blue water and a nearby marina. In the distance I could see the rolling San Diego hills, which are dotted with homes and trees.

The jog was a “shakeout” run (just allowing for some bloodflow after a day in an airplane). I did feel my right hip after my clumsy fall the day before, but the pain wasn’t serious.

Later that day we visited San Diego zoo, where I finally saw some koalas in person. Koalas are animals I admire more than almost anything except for the almighty sloths for their calm demeanor and smart priorities (eating and sleeping). As a light sleeper, I find it to be a lifelong goal to sleep more like a koala.

The half marathon arrived before I wanted it to. We woke up early, around 4:30 am, to prepare for it (it was slated to begin at 6:30 am). I ate some granola and drank some electrolytes, along with a cup of coffee, and did about ten minutes of foam rolling. This was the day I had prepared all year for: my misogi.

I didn’t know how many people were participating in this event. I guessed beforehand that it would be about 200 or so, but this was a wild guess. How many people would actually sign up to run for more than 13 miles (21 km) early on a Saturday morning?

The route for the event went along Pacific beach in San Diego. That’s why I chose the event over any other (no offense to Saint Louis, but if you’re gonna be in pain, you should be in pain on a beach!).

My brother and I arrived at the start line; it was packed. There were easily over a thousand people (we later found out there were about 1,500 participants). Whoa. This was going to be bigger than I thought.

My race plan was to begin the first three minutes at a fast pace, much faster than my targeted average race pace, while my legs were fresh. After three minutes I would dramatically slow down to a more comfortable pace, and then slowly build back up again over the next 90 minutes of running.

I told most people that I didn’t have a time goal, but admittedly I wanted to break 1 hour and 30 minutes. This was a significant marker in my mind because it was the pace required to break 3 hours in the marathon. It would require running faster than 7 minutes per mile on average, which I figured would be a formidable challenge for someone’s first half marathon.

A surge of adrenaline poured through me as the event started. I found myself near the front as the race began. More than a thousand runners were behind me. My cadence was fast, much faster than I intended. I checked my watch: I was faster than 6 minute per mile. That’s way too fast, I thought. I tried to slow down a little, but the excitement was overwhelming.

The first mile was over and I was still near the front. My GPS watch beeped: 6:12 for the first mile. Crap, I thought. That’s way too fast. I didn’t slow down enough.

Maybe you can maintain, I thought to myself. I kept the pace steady. The race led me up and down some winding hills, the ocean edging the path to my right and a beautiful park to my left. The final mile of the race was on the beach itself and required running on sand. It would finish in the sand. I would collapse, having completed my 13.1 mile run, facing the ocean, and I would raise my fists towards the heavens in triumph.

Another mile ended. 6:13 for the second mile. I was still too fast: way, way too fast. My heart rate had elevated near it’s maximum capacity. That’s not a good sign, I thought. And still, the legs felt pretty fresh. But I knew that I needed to slow down. My mind knew that my body would shut down before the end if I kept it going. Collapsing was now a bigger risk than running a slow time.

I slowed my pace down about 30 seconds per mile and a few runners passed me. Still, I felt more comfortable. My breathing steadied. My eyes focused directly in front of me. I kept telling myself to run my own race. It means nothing if you don’t finish.

I crossed mile 3. 6:30 for the third mile. A little slower, but still not slow enough. I decelerated further. At mile four, another runner passed me. Then another. I stayed steady. The other 1,470 runners or so were still behind me. And I was on pace to break 1 hour and 30 minutes.

I refueled near mile five. Shortly before an aid station I reached for a gel packet that was stuffed in my shorts and managed to swallow its contents while running. The taste was bitter. I coughed; my throat itched from the flavor. I had never eaten a gel while running at this intensity. That lack of practice with fueling, I realized, was my first rookie mistake.

A few minutes later I started to cramp in my right side. I tried to stretch it out with my hand, while continuing to run, and took some especially deep breaths. Another runner passed me. He was younger than me and looked impervious to fatigue. We ran alongside each other for a few minutes. He could somehow tell that I was cramping.

“Are you okay?” He asked. My face was grimaced but the cramp was subsiding. “Yeah,” I managed to grunt. He nodded and continue on. So did I. I was fine. I’ve had worse cramps.

Just ahead I heard him cheering for some other runners. “You all look great, keep it up!” He said. That’s one thing I love about the camaraderie of these distance events. It isn’t so much a competition between people as it is a competition among people. And in that competition, everyone has only one opponent: themselves. It’s for that reason that strangers in the same race are willing to cheer for each other and lift each other’s spirits up.

I crossed 7 miles, past halfway, and my legs still felt pretty good. I swallowed my second of three gels in spite of my stomach telling me not to. Then I took a cup of water from one of the volunteers and swallowed what I could. I coughed a little out. “You look great!” A volunteer shouted. I wanted to shout, “Hell yeah!” But I was too occupied with coughing to speak.

Keep the rhythm, I kept telling myself. You trained to finish this. You trained to break one hour and thirty minutes, and you’re on track.

At mile 9, I had to cross over an arched bridge. It was the steepest incline of the race, and as I fought upward with my tired legs, I realized that my pace was slowing. I checked my watch at the top of the bridge. I had slowed to 7 minutes per mile in the upward trudge.

I tried to race downhill to gain back some speed, and felt myself accelerate a little. But the watch said I only accelerated to 6:40 per mile, and that felt like a sprint. The fatigue was officially settling in. Pain becomes a frequent visitor in the world of endurance running. You might as well consider it a guest resident.

Four miles left. You’ve run four miles so many times. I fought to keep my feet kicking up, and focused on just one mile, my sole focus on keeping its time faster than 7 minutes. I crossed mile ten: 6 minutes and 47 seconds. Success! But it required everything I had. It was a sprint, and it nearly depleted me. How was I going to do it again?

I needed to swallow my final gel, but I didn’t want to. My stomach felt bloated. Still, I knew that I needed fuel. I forced the final gel down my throat, a little worried that I might puke it back out. I didn’t puke it out, but my stomach was telling me, “absolutely no more gels!”

Time itself, as well as my pace, was slowing down. Mile eleven felt as long as the first five miles combined. The legs were now refusing to keep up the fast cadence I had established over the past hour. You’re so close, damnit, I thought. Just a few measly miles. You can’t collapse now.

The race rounded a bend in another park and on the other side was the final stretch of pacific beach. The next mile was on a walkway beside the beach and the final mile was on the beach itself.

Another two runners passed me, and I felt as though I was in a bad dream where you’re running through quicksand, or where you’re sprinting but barely moving.

“You’re doing great! You look great!” Volunteers kept saying. That had to be a lie. But, I was still maintaining, still holding on. I suddenly wanted to finish more than anything on earth. Still, I shuddered at the thought of seeing myself on video at this point.

I completed mile eleven and the time was 7 minutes exactly. I slowed a little, but not as severely as I feared. In fact, I was doing fine. And I knew that as long as I didn’t collapse, I would beat my goal time.

Where I once galloped, I was now shuffling. But I knew I had to keep going.

I passed the mile 12 marker and followed the race path as it crossed onto the vast sandy beach. The finish was in sight, just a few minutes ahead. Waves lapped the shore to my left. Spectators cheered to my right. From somewhere beyond the finish line, pop music blared and people were celebrating.

In my fatigue, my feet slipped and skidded over the sand. It was like a movie where the protagonist takes his last agonizing strides as he escapes a brutal desert.

My eyes locked on every step in front of me. I maneuvered toward the wet sand that lined the ocean because it was firmer and more packed. I skipped over seaweed and seashells. I thought of that game you play when you’re a kid, when you run along a sidewalk while trying to avoid the cracks.

What a fitting end to a half marathon, I thought. The run ends where life itself began: at the sea.

With just one minute of running left, another racer passed me. I was close enough to the end, though, that it was okay. Let’s just end this thing.

And then I crossed the finish line and heard my name announced. I raised a fist and smiled. Volunteers rushed to me and gave me water and a banana. I bent over, resting my palms on my knees. I wanted to go to sleep in the sand, right there, on the spot.

The final runner that passed me gave me a fist bump. Another of the runners approached me and gave me a hug.

“You had a hell of a run,” he said. “Taking it out so fast and somehow maintaining and finishing well. That’s impressive.”

And suddenly I wanted to cry. Instead I limped around and absorbed the moment. I made it. 13.1 miles. I ate a banana and waited for my brother.

My final time was 1 hour and 28 minutes. I was two minutes faster than my goal time. I placed 5th in my age group, which for a non-runner in his first half marathon, and in a field of 1,500 people, I figured was pretty damn good. I’ll take it.

And so, a new journey begins. I hope that race was the first of many. I finished a half marathon. A foot that a year ago seemed like it might never heal, held strong. I felt good. I felt happy.

My brother crossed the finish line having ran the entire event as well. It was the first time he had ever run that far.

We celebrated with Mexican food and a San Diego Chargers baseball game. The 2022 misogi is complete.

I have a full marathon next year. That will be quite a journey.