The gap doesn’t close, though. As the cacophony of the Wellesley girls fades, I notice another creeping silence: the other competitors aren’t making as much noise. Not because they’re backing off the pace -- they’re not -- but because there’s just the slightest separation between myself and that lead pack of a dozen runners.
When you’re in a race -- I mean really in it, jostling for position in the pack -- it can be surprisingly noisy. You might not hear many (or any) spectators, but you’ll definitely hear your competitors. That guy off your shoulder has a very heavy, slappy stride. Every time his foot hits the ground, his shoes make a little slap. The guy in front of you? Pay attention to his breathing. How labored is it?
You can use these sounds as feedback to judge your competitors. If you can’t hear them breathing, you know they’re relaxed and not really pushing it. The louder their breaths, the harder they’re working. And if you start to see their head tilt or their shoulders roll or their knees knock, then you know it’s time to make your move and bury them.
And if you can’t hear them? Then you know you’re screwed. In a distance race, there’s nowhere worse to find yourself than no-man’s-land.
It’s no wonder we refer to racing solo like the horrors of trench warfare in World War I; both are frightening, dangerous places to be. An athlete in no-man’s-land is subject to all manner of unspeakable physical and psychological horrors. Your competitors ahead of you slowly slip from grasp, tantalizingly close but increasingly unreachable. And you don’t dare look behind you -- that’s the universal signal for “I’m dying,” and nothing motivates a quickly charging runner better.
But if I just take a glance, you tell yourself, I’ll know how much I have to dig into the tank.
Knowing. There’s no greater fear than the unknown, and if you just take a peek over your shoulder your chasers won’t be unknown anymore. But you don’t dare turn because the second you do, the bullseye’s on your back and they’re taking aim.
But at least I’ll be able to react if they try to pass me.
You’re rationalizing now. You won’t be able to react; you’ve never been able to successfully do so and you know it.
No, what you’re really reaching for when you look back is a way out. You just want to end the suffering. If you can ease off the gas just a little bit and they still won’t catch you, then you’ve just found your way out. You’ll save your body and your pride.
Of course, like any good war analogy, looking back is a Catch-22: if you look back you’ll know how much leeway you have, but then you’ll also provide motivation for those guys chasing you, helping them close the gap quicker. But if you don’t look back, then your lead over them will remain unknown, and you’ll have to keep pressing and suffering.
So what do you do? Give in to calm your mind, or embrace the Suck and press on?
Climbing out of Wellesely, approaching the half marathon, I find myself giving in to my fears. I mean, less than a year ago I averaged 4:55 pace for a half marathon and was totally spent. I just now blasted a 4:59 mile in the literal middle of a marathon! Not only that, but in doing so I was desperately hanging on to the back of the pack. Some of those pros must have run in the 4:40s for that mile, looking relaxed the whole way!
I just don’t know how I can sustain this for another 13 miles.
At this point, I don’t know if I can sustain anything for another 13 miles. Crushing self-doubt is starting to creep in.
But if you just take a glance over your shoulder, you’ll see if there are some slower runners you can settling in with.
I shouldn’t though. I think I can get back into contact with the lead pack, I just need a couple seconds surge…
This is a way out, though. Ease the suffering and settle back where you belong.
I shouldn’t, I know. I’ve looked back in races before and it has never ended well.
I look back anyway.
A dip in my left shoulder, a hitch in my stride, and a peek out the corner of my eye.
No one. Not a single competitor. Fuck. I’m all on my own out here.
As I turn back, my gaze lingers on the double yellow line. Come on, Dorothy. Just follow your --
Shit! The lead pack is in chaos! Two of the Americans separate off to the right side of the road, ditching their water bottles as they saw it before I did.
Someone -- I can’t tell who, I’m too far off the back -- must have just blasted off the front. Just like that, the cautious collaboration that existed among the leaders is shattered. What was once a semi-organized peloton that largely covered the width of the two-lane state route is now a near-single file string stretching 10, 15, maybe 20 meters long.
This must be a serious player, too, since everyone else reacted suddenly and severely. The last place you want to be in this situation is caught unaware off the back of the pack.
I have no idea what my split is for this mile; I forgot to check my watch. Besides, time is irrelevant right now.
The race is on.
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