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Race Result

Racer: Jamie Roberson
Race: Army 10 Miler
Date: Sunday, October 2, 2005
Location: Washington DC, DC
Race Type: Run - 10 mile
Age Group: Female 40 - 44
Time: 2:45:00
Comment: Lil’ Chocolate Donuts/Never EVER Give Up



Race Report:



Goal 2:30/Actual 2:45

Running along in the boredom that is the far-flung back-of-the-back-of-the-pack, I started to compose my race report. At first I thought that I’d call it “Lil’ Chocolate Donuts.” Anyone remember a parody commercial on “Saturday Night Live” that featured John Belushi as an obese hurdler who, while smoking cigarettes and swilling coffee, attributed his success to “lil’ chocolate donuts” – you know, the nasty waxy ones that comes in a sleeve? That taste like drywall?

Well, I don’t smoke, I prefer Diet Coke to coffee, and as you might guess, I hate those lil’ chocolate donuts, but all the same, my training has been crap. And I knew that, since my coach reads these reports, I was going to have to be honest about my lack of discipline and face the consequences.

It’s not like I’ve been sitting on the couch eating lil’ chocolate donuts – or the white variety that taste like asbestos, either. I’ve had a lot of distractions, like reactivating my law license, painting the bathroom, taking the dogs to the dog park… I trained a bit after the half-marathon, but I just felt sluggish. I realized – with some satisfaction – that a run under an hour just doesn’t seem to be worth the time. It’s only at about an hour that I really start loosening up and enjoying myself. But then, I never could find time for it.

The following Friday, when I was supposed to do a long run, I felt a deep pain in my left hip, so I decided to postpone the run. Then the weekend came, and – yep – a Gator game, and the painting project took longer when I decided to install a chair rail, and there I was, the day before the Army Ten-Miler and I had not trained in over a week. Even worse, my Gators were being obliterated by a superior Alabama team. After the second quarter, my friend Michelle announced that alcohol consumption was necessary, prompting me to finish off a bottle of chardonnay. We eventually lost 31-3, in a game that made the Sports Illustrated cover, I was told. I was too bummed out to verify it.

Let’s see, (1) hadn’t trained in a week – check, (2) depressed after shocking loss – check, (3) ate crappy food – check, and (4) consumed mass quantities of alcohol – check. Yep, I’d say that I was on the way to my own SNL commercial.

Returning to the football-affects-triathlete issue, I like to do long runs in a blue Dri-Fit shirt (with a Gator head on it, natch), but on the morning of the Ten-Miler, I had second thoughts. With my horrid preparation, the last thing I need was some Bama fan to remind me of that “game” on race-day morning. In the end, though, I wore the shirt. It was, after all, comfortable and practical. Turned out to be a good thing: while standing in the porta-potty line, I saw several runners in Gator attire. We all exchanged some “Go Gators” in an “I feel your pain” style, and my spirits were buoyed.

But dammit if, after my wave started, my bladder demanded immediate attention. Hey, I needed Diet Coke that morning to counter the effects of ill-advised chardonnay consumption. I silently resented the male runners who scooted off into the Pentagon bushes until I saw some female runners doing the same. Well, if they can, so can I…

Properly unloaded, the first few miles felt loose and good. I especially enjoyed the Army Band brass quintets, so much so that I turned off my iPod (which I only use in one ear anyway) and enjoyed the entertainment. Passing one group, I said, “Hey, I’m a tuba player, too!” which prompted their tuba player to lift his horn in greeting. Big smiles.

I also enjoyed a new product in my Mobile Mini-Mart, a/k/a Fuel Belt: Clif Shot Bloks. They are squares of about ¾”, softer than gummi bears, and less sweet than gels. Best of all, for a heavy (26 oz. per hour), salty sweater like myself, they contain sodium and potassium. Three bloks = one gel. I’ll use them again.

Anyhow around Mile Five… ugh. My splits were way off. I remembered what Debi had said about giving myself permission to duck into Metro and call it a day, and seriously considered doing so. I was pretty sure that I’d be hauled in by the sag bus, and thought that it might be more dignified just to quit on my own. But then I thought about how ridiculous the Lil’ Chocolate Donut race report would look with a “DNF” (as if it’s not ridiculous enough already). And I remembered what Nancy Toby says about not leaving a course unless told to do so. And then…a runner on the return route who looked a lot like Debbie Margraff yelled “Hey Jamie!”

Debbie, I don’t know if that was you, but if it was, you sealed it for me. No way was I gonna quit. I dug a little deeper, swigged some water, picked it up, and passed Mile Six. Thank you.

But then, soldiers were diverting runners around a barricade at this point. I figured that it was because we were the back-of-the-back-of-the-back-of-the-pack. So we caught up to Mile Seven, clipping off about ¾ mile, by my best estimate. Cool! I knew that it would result in my not having an “official” score, but just the same…there were now many more runners behind me and I was taking motivation where I could get it.

I stopped looking at my watch for the splits, which was just as well, since, upon reflection, I never saw mile markers for miles Eight or Nine. And then…they routed us out, up, and around onto the Memorial Bridge. “You’ve got to be KIDDING me!” I said out loud.

But on we trudged, like sheep at this point. I turned off the iPod. I wasn’t listening anyway, just forging along at a gait somewhere between a walk and a run. Maybe the Army would call it a forced march. I called it “The Determined Penguin.”

Back along the highway toward the Pentagon, a soldier leaped out and said “Congratulations! You’ve just finished the Army 11-and-a-Half-Miler!!!!” I smiled wanly and figured that it was a lame attempt at gallows humor until the same message was repeated by other soldiers, and civilian volunteers, too. I pointed ahead and asked a nearby soldier, “Is that the finish line?” to which he responded with gusto, “Yes ma’am, it is.” I then pulled the lead out and chugged to the end. Done. Watch time: 2:45.

Conclusion: While the preparation for this race was similar to John Belushi’s Lil’ Chocolate Donuts, that wasn’t the story of my race at all. I was so disheartened by my early splits that I wanted to quit. However, my splits ended up being the best of the year. What is the lesson? Never, EVER quit. You don’t know what’s ahead of you. Who knows, the course could be altered due to some a-h’s decision to plant a suspicious package on a bridge. The point is not to stop. Ever.

Stats: The “official” race distance (even though it was not an “official” race) was 11.2 miles. Deduct .75 miles for the detour, and that results in 15:48 per mile, a big improvement over the 17:40 that I clocked at the half-marathon (which was really only about a mile and a half longer than the ATM). Average heart rate showed the increased effort, too, with AHR of 160 at the ATM, as opposed to 149 at the half.

Okay, so I can sustain over-LT effort for 2.75 hours. But can I do it for up to 6.5 hours at the marathon? I suppose we’ll see. One thing’s for sure: no lil’ chocolate donuts. Even if the Gators (please, no, God) lose to Georgia the night before. No Diet Coke, either. The MP’s might be watching the bushes next time.