Bordentown's St. Patrick's Day 5k in Review
This was not one of my best races. In terms of my training cycle, I am just coming out of my winter hibernation – fattened and slow. February is a tough month to run for maintenance, much less to gain new ground. There was no doubt in my mind that I was coming into this race cold. Jon was registered to run a 5k that morning in his local. I was without my friendly competition.
Take away my training. Take away competition. What’s left? Answer: apparently not much. However, this is a hometown race and tradition takes priority over my shortcomings. The only answer was to make this the best race that it could be, despite these obstacles.
They say that a race is 10% perspiration and 90% inspiration. This certainly proved to be the case back in November, when I shattered my 5k record with a little speed training and the right attitude. Just push past that zone of comfort and go for it. This was a game of the mind. Following the new tradition, I positioned myself toward the front of the line. I was going to pace myself with the front-runners for the first mile, and run with guts through to the finish.
On that bitter March morning, the starting gun crisply ignited, reverberating through the leafless tree-lined city streets. Instinct – I push through the crowd not wanting to get caught up in a snag of runners. Then it all hits me within the first block: my lungs loose wind and right-shoulder cramps. To make matters worse, I get a side stitch within the next block. My running stride turns askew, as I lob side to side trying my best not to agitate my condition.
It is times like this that ditching one goal for another becomes a wise move. I am no longer worried about running for time; rather, this becomes a fight just to stay in the race. There is beauty in pushing yourself beyond the imaginable limits… on a good day. Today I am miserable – cold, in pain, knowing that I haven’t even hit the one mile marker. It takes guts not to quit, not to give up, especially knowing that you are running one of your worst races in recent history.
There isn’t much to say for the run itself. I tried all my running tricks: visualizing, pacing with another runner, breathing techniques, water breaks. Nothing could cure my ailments. I wobbled toward the clock, running with all the courage I could muster inside. I crossed the line at 24:50, clocking about an eight-minute mile.
Take away my training. Take away competition. What’s left? Answer: apparently not much. However, this is a hometown race and tradition takes priority over my shortcomings. The only answer was to make this the best race that it could be, despite these obstacles.
They say that a race is 10% perspiration and 90% inspiration. This certainly proved to be the case back in November, when I shattered my 5k record with a little speed training and the right attitude. Just push past that zone of comfort and go for it. This was a game of the mind. Following the new tradition, I positioned myself toward the front of the line. I was going to pace myself with the front-runners for the first mile, and run with guts through to the finish.
On that bitter March morning, the starting gun crisply ignited, reverberating through the leafless tree-lined city streets. Instinct – I push through the crowd not wanting to get caught up in a snag of runners. Then it all hits me within the first block: my lungs loose wind and right-shoulder cramps. To make matters worse, I get a side stitch within the next block. My running stride turns askew, as I lob side to side trying my best not to agitate my condition.
It is times like this that ditching one goal for another becomes a wise move. I am no longer worried about running for time; rather, this becomes a fight just to stay in the race. There is beauty in pushing yourself beyond the imaginable limits… on a good day. Today I am miserable – cold, in pain, knowing that I haven’t even hit the one mile marker. It takes guts not to quit, not to give up, especially knowing that you are running one of your worst races in recent history.
There isn’t much to say for the run itself. I tried all my running tricks: visualizing, pacing with another runner, breathing techniques, water breaks. Nothing could cure my ailments. I wobbled toward the clock, running with all the courage I could muster inside. I crossed the line at 24:50, clocking about an eight-minute mile.
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