I have not been able to stop smiling since Sunday.
The race at Myrtle Beach on October 23, 2011 will forever stay with me. Perhaps that is a redundant statement, as all of my races stay with me in one way or another.
But, as the previously posted collage of pictures posted suggests, Myrtle Beach was a unique combination of elements that makes it memorable for all of the right reasons.
What makes it all the more fantatsic is that, in retrospect, this race had the potential to go really, really wrong. All because of a Port-A-John line.
After waking pre-dawn, downing the requisite cup of black coffee, and force-swallowing a bagel (will food at 5:30 am ever be appetizing?), I dressed and headed to the race site with James, David, and Glenna.
We half-listened to some tunes, all while lost in our own thoughts. Myrtle Beach was Glenna's first, David's third, James's eighth, and my seventh half marathon. We had spent Friday night until that pre-dawn darkness enjoying each other's company and trying to relax and refuel before finding ourselves toeing the line in anticipation.
Since the race started at Grande Circle Mall (a mammoth sized version of the typical shopping plaza), finding parking was not an issue. We parked and hopped out, heading straight for a last minute pit stop.
The lines were, as they usually are, long and full of excited chatter. While in line, we hooked up with Glenna's trainer Malou and her husband, and the six of us contributed our own bits to the banter.
It was just before the predicted 7 am start-time when we finally were at the front of the line. We were calmed by the fact that we hadn't heard the National Athem or heard the five minute warning. We regrouped and headed towards the corral.
As I helped David fill his Camel-Bak water pack, I looked up at the start line and saw the start clock glowing a with a red "2" before the colon and realized that not only had the race already started, but we were over two minutes into it.
James and I immediately started jogging and David fell into step beside me asking, "Are we running for real? Has the race really started?"
Yes, my friend, while we were pissing, the race gun went off. It is the first race in which I ran that I was not waiting, hopping from foot to foot, in the start corral.
Strangely, this marked difference didn't really faze me; nevertheless the question floated up, "What pace group is this?" and I immediately started picking around the slower runners next to me. Briefly, I worried about if I would lose too much time finding my way back to my needed pace group of 9:10/mile. James shouted an "I love you" as he ran past and David melted into the crowd; just like that, we were in the thick of it.
Then I heard a cow-bell.
Just before heading to bed the night before, Glenna and I had given our friend Renee a cow-bell and two tamborines to make noise at the finish line. She, Glenna's daughter Alex and twin sister Jennifer insisted, however, on being there at the start as well. In the midst of the Port-A-John screw up, I had completely forgotten.
But there they were, hollering and waving.
The first few miles are a bit of a blur. I spent most of them dodging newbie runners and walkers (! really? in the first miles?) and trying to normalize my pace. After the Nike+ Sportwatch debacle, I've been relying on my regular Timex. Passing the first mile marker, I saw my pace was right on track. I spent the next few miles calculating where I needed to be. 18:20, 27:30, 36:50, 45:50.
Right smack in the middle my calculating, the cow-bell rang again.
Afterwards, Renee told me that they had run red lights, sped 80 mph in 45 mph zones, and sneaked around road-blocks. All to make sure they were at the next stop to wave their "Go, Glenna!" sign, clang their cow-bell, and take pictures.
I tell you, cheerleaders like them are not easy to come by.
Six miles in, I was still running under my needed pace and I was feeling strong. The sun hadn't quite crested the buildings and my sunglasses stayed on my head. I continued to jog through the waterstations, I downed my second vanilla Gu and I rounded into mile 8.
I heard the cow-bell yet again and laughed with joy. There was the cheerleading triad again. I shouted, "I think I got this one!" and, after looking at her watch, Renee affirmed the statement. One downside to the Myrtle Beach half is that the race is a point-to-point, and the course itself is pretty spread out. I did see a couple of husbands toting children in stollers to cheer on their mommies and some modest gatherings of supporters at big intersections, but on the whole, Myrtle Beach runners didn't get the benefit of spectator-lined streets like in Richmond or St. Louis.
The support those three women gave to me, David, James, Glenna, and Malou is signficant; the support they gave to countless other runners is untold.
Heading in to mile 10, I needed to be at 1:31:30; when I looked at the watch and saw just under 1:30, I briefly flirted with the idea of not just breaking two hours but actually smashing it. Running down 28th avenue towards the ocean as the sun crested the building and the ferris wheel loomed into site, I felt a surge of energy unlike anything I've ever felt in a race before.
It was still chilly and my muscles were numb; I was still a 5K from the finish, but I had every confidence that I would finish under two hours.
The Ocean Boulevard stretch was exhilirating and frightening at the same time. I continued to hit my mile marks under my time budget; but it was a straight stretch and I kept wondering when the final turn onto the boardwalk would come.
Finally, I saw runners turning left. I kept moving my feet, drilling for consistency. I didn't want to let this victory slip from my fingers. I could hear the announcer at the finish, but as I rounded the corner, my eyes - I thought - deceived me.
We were running along a curved sidewalk, weaving like a sinusoidal wave in dizzying frequency. I could feel my legs losing momentum. I did not know how much further I had to fun. I frantically checked my watch, weighed my odds -
if I step on the gas now, I might burn out; if I don't, I might not break the two hour mark.
Then, as if heaven sent, a fellow runner breathed, "I see IT."
It. The finish-line.
At 1:58 and some change, I threw on my full-burners.
Rounding the final turn of the sidewalk, I saw I had maybe 50 yards. I sprinted like I hadn't ever before.
And as I crossed the line, I looked at my watch.
I pressed stop at 1:59:18.
And for the first time, I burst into tears of nothing but joy. I yelled. I threw my hand in the air. I stumbled over to the volunteers handing out medals and took it in my hand.
I did it.
Miles 490-502: Lucky seven came through.
