I still remember my first 5k. I remember all my races, actually -- must be something about the physical or psychological trauma that imprints the memory on the brain -- but I distinctly remember the very first.
The funny thing is, I don’t specifically remember how old I was. I know I was young enough that the gym-class-mile was still a long distance and I hadn’t started running track yet. Some time around sixth grade, probably? Maybe 11 years old?
Every spring -- Memorial Day weekend -- there was a small local 5k whose course ran a block from my house. I used to walk to school in these days, so I knew those streets well. Every year my dad ran it, and every year my mom and siblings would get up early (remember when 9:00 am was early?) to watch him run. We’d see the runners about a half mile after the start, everyone spry and in good spirits, celebrating the holiday; then we’d wait a while and see them again a half mile from the finish, strung out and haggard, pushing through various levels of pain. They tended to look worse farther back in the back.
My dad was a regular runner -- he had competed collegiately and still got up very early most days of the week to pound out a few miles -- though he rarely raced. I suppose this must have been the one day a year he could recapture the feeling of the glory days, because in a small, local charity race he could finish near the front, and do so before a crowd of people who knew him.
He regularly tried to get me to run with him, but usually I preferred Saturday morning cartoons. I don’t know what made this particular day any different, but I was already dressed when he came into my room to wake me up.
The youthful exuberance, the excitement of the starting line, the bib number as big as my torso...this was my scene. I lined up next to my dad and immediately dusted him off the starting line. It’s fun to run fast; no more so than when you’re oblivious to your limits.
It was less than a minute before my dad caught back up to me, and then less than another minute before I was starting to hurt. Only three more miles to go.
Mercifully, in a small race the field thins out pretty quick, so I wasn’t swallowed up by too many other runners as I posted what must have been horrific positive splits. My final mile was slower than my second mile, which was in turn slower than my first mile. Significantly. But even up ahead of me, the whole race, most of the other competitors didn’t grow too much of a gap. They still ran with the inexperience of a child.
My dad ran every step of the race with me, even though he must have been trotting painfully slow. I never did see the look of abject pity my mom gave him as we ran by with a half mile to go. All I remember is the determination to crest the final hill, sprinting onto the track into the finish chute. And damn it, to not stop running.
It took everything I had that day, but I ran a 22:36. My dad even eased off at the end and let me have my moment of glory in the final tenth of a mile.
I spent the rest of the day on the couch, too tired to move. Or too proud. That’s the day I became a runner. Flash forward over a decade, and I can now run a 5k in 14 minutes and four seconds. Little
me is pretty proud of that one, too.
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As the third mile progresses, the starting wave continues to thin out as the pretenders come to their senses. There are still 23 miles to go, so maybe it’s a little ambitious to be running faster than your half marathon pace this far into a full marathon. I think I count three more people that I passed this mile, but I’m not sure what place that puts me in.
The professional pack, however, is slowly starting to coalesce in front of me. It’s not exactly within reach yet, but at least they aren’t moving away. The third mile passes in 5:03, for a 15:04 cumulative time. A few strides later, a clock at the 5k mark ticks past 15:40.
Only about two hours of this pace left...if it’s a good day.
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