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Beat the Heat 5k results (first puke!)

Time: 19:55ish 19:53
Overall: 77th out of 649
Men under 40: 40th out of 198 (I think)
35-39 AG: 5th out of ?

“So what does he look like?” Iris asked. We were waiting around near the registration table for ac. “He’s got short, light colored hair, muscle-y legs, and a mischievous glint in his eye. He’s probably wearing way-too-short-shorts.”

We were also keeping an eye out for fellow local barefooter Allan. I wasn’t sure how I was going to run; Allan is pretty new to the whole barefoot thing and wasn’t going for a fast time. Anthony is speedy. Do I hang with Allan, or try to keep up with ac? The decision was made for me, as I couldn’t find Allan, but saw ac across the parking lot.

“Long lost brother!” I yelled as we dashed towards each other and embraced like we were European. He registered, we warmed up. “So are you going to lead me to a PR?” I asked. I really had no idea what I had in me. I ran about eight miles last week, recovering from Grandfather. Plus I had some upper-respiratory congestion.

We were ahead of the starting line running around when the anthem started up. Unsure of proper protocol, we trotted, hand on heart, to a spot closer to the front than I had ever been before. “Oh man,” I said, voice cracking a bit in fear. This was a big race. Lots of very fast people were present. The top three finished under 15 minutes. What was I doing?

Bang! Normally congested traffic forces me to start at an easier pace. Still, ac looks at his fancy watch and said “we’re going to have to pick it up a bit if you’re going to PR.” We had run for only 30 seconds. “What’s our pace?” I huffed. I was breathing hard already. “6:30.” That sounded fast enough to me, but we picked it up.

Mile one ended at the top of a small hill. The clock said 5:54. That was my time for the 5th Ave mile in NYC, nine years ago. That mile race was all downhill.

I had to let ac go. He was obviously feeling good, and I couldn’t keep up. You know when you’re running downhill a little too fast, but you can’t slow down? In fact, you keep accelerating? That’s what happened to me, except the other way around. I kept slowing down, but I felt like I was accelerating. “Does that hurt your feet?” asked some dude who easily breezed by. “Feet… fine… lungs… not so much…”

Mile 2: 12:38. That was rough. At that point I was playing defense – just doing my best to not let anyone else pass me. Every time I hear stomping and gasping behind me, I would push just a little bit harder. The last 3/10 or so was a straight shot to the finish, with a slight downhill grade. I just let it rip, apologizing to my lungs. My stomach started feeling strange.

When I was finally able to see the clock, it read 19:38. I passed a few more people, all the while having an out-of-body experience. The line was too far away for me to PR, but if I pushed just a little more, I’d still have a sub-20. So I pushed some more.

I staggered through the chute. “Nice job!” said the tag guy as he removed the bottom part of my number. “Thankhmmmugh.” I said. Anthony comes running up to me. “Did you get in under twenty?” He asked, all chipper and rested-like. “Yeah, justhmmmmmgergh barely. Uhuhmmmgha. I think you’re about to blergh witness my first post-race hmmmghapukeergh.” “Keep moving,” said ac, waving me to follow him. Instead, I stumbled drunkenly to a tree. Cover your mouth with your left hand, so your right will be clean if people want to shake it, I thought to myself. I then emptied the contents of my guts, which fortunately wasn’t much.

Feeling better, I turned around to see a couple of dudes with the “I’m going to ask about your feet” look on their faces. I guess they didn’t see me puking. Or they did and were like, puke shmuke, let’s talk feet. So I delivered my usual spiel, but had to excuse myself as the pizza tent was frantically calling my name. Puke smuke, I needed to eat.

There was also beer, but of the light variety. Anthony was gratefully gulping from a can, but I think I’m becoming a beer specialist. The only beer I want is IPA. But truth be told, I’m not sure the tum could handle carbonated alcohol at that point in time.

I then made my way back to the finish line, hoping to catch Iris coming in with MadMayoite Lori. I waited and waited, getting worried. At 38 minutes, I thought maybe I missed them. So I headed back to the food crowd, scanning for the tell-tale stylish red MadMayo shirt. Sure enough, there they were stuffing their faces.

“I almost puked!” Iris crowed. “I did!” I said, one-upping her. “Seriously?” High fives all around. Turns out I didn’t get to the finish line fast enough – Iris smashed her PR by a minute. Lori (who ran the Blue Ridge half marathon last April) apparently coached and bullied and cheered the wife to run faster than she ever had before. Her first mile was under ten minutes. As a point of reference, Iris started running a year ago, with an 18 minute mile. She’s almost twice as fast now. That’s just cool as all get-out.

I finally found Barefoot Allan, who had a good clump with a visiting friend. The two of us were the only barefooters, but there were quite a few vffs-clad feet. Like three sets or so. Everyone looked unhurt and happy. Speaking of looks, here are the pics:

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