Those measly nine seconds
SUNDAY, AUGUST 27, 2017
Nine seconds. In swimming, track and auto racing, nine seconds are a lifetime. In a 5K, nine seconds often are the separation between the podium and not medaling. Even in marathoning and Ironman racing, nine seconds can be the difference between qualifying for the Boston Marathon or Ironman Hawaii and going home disappointed.
In a hometown 10 mile race such as the Annapolis 10 Mile, which I ran this on this beautiful, cool morning, nine seconds usually don't mean much. But they can mean a lot if you are trying to run a personal best or, in my case, beat last year's time.
1.6 ONE THOUSANDTH SLOWER!
According to my watch, I ran the hilly 10 mile race in 5,623 seconds. Last year I ran the race in 5,614 seconds. Those nine more seconds mean this year I ran 0.16% slower than last year, just a hair's breath slower, as they say.
You would think I could have found those measly nine seconds and a few more somewhere on the long 10-mile course. Except that:
I ran the race about as hard as I could. As planned, I started out at faster than 9:00 minute per mile pace in the flatter opening miles (with an 8:45 best mile), ran slower over the Navy bridge and through the hilly neighborhoods (with a 9:47 slowest mile), and then picked the pace back up to around my target 9:20 per mile pace in the last three miles.
My Garmin was giving me my mile splits slightly and increasingly before the mile markers, which mislead me a bit about my speed.
As is often the case, I found doing "runner's math" difficult when running at race pace: In the hills I really did not have a sense of how far off pace I had drifted.
Given that I am a year older and the oldest in my five-year age group, my time is fine and not finishing as close to the top of the age group this year (10 of 56, I think) as last year is OK, too.
THANK YOU, RACISTS
Actually, the difference might have been greater than nine seconds, were it not for the pair of racist runners who where making disparaging comments about African Americans and Black Lives Matters protests when I came up on them at the start of mile eight. I heard their startling conversation unfold while I was focusing on picking up my pace as we turned onto Route 450. My racing brain offered up no appropriate verbal reply to interject into their conversation. It said, instead, "bury these jerks, put them in your dust." So I did, starting my faster pace a little sooner and harder than I probably would have otherwise.
Thanks for the boost, racists. I, for one, did not want to be your audience!
