Half, as fast as I could have imagined

Ran the Brooklyn Half-Marathon this past Saturday. Having trained at a 9-minute per mile pace, my goal was to finish in under two hours (9 minute pace translates into 1 hour and almost 58 minutes). I am proud to report that I finished in 1:53:26, which is an 8:39 pace per mile. I placed 2,553rd out of 5,832 participants. But the race, obviously, wasn't about me against the other 5,831 runners; it was about me against the 3,279 slobs that finished behind me. No, I mean it was about me running against myself, challenging myself to do my best.

The morning had not started so well -- I made it to the subway platform as the N train was pulling out, meaning I'd have to wait for more than ten minutes early on a Saturday morning for the next train to arrive. I made it out to Coney Island about 20 minutes before racetime, had to put my bag on a bus for pickup later at the finish, had to use the port-a-potty and then get in the race corrals. The lines at the potties were long, and I basically had enough time to do about a quarter of my normal stretching routine before the gun sounded, and I was able to slip into the race corrals as the horde began to move forward.

The first 2 1/2 miles were along (and double-back again) the Coney Island boardwalk. That was cool. I mean, the weather was chilly, but the sight of the beach and ocean to the immediate left, the creaking and thumping of the wood underneath you, the occasional sand hazard to run through or around...a whole different "race" experience. The beginnings of these long races are always so cool...everyone's in a good mood, optimistic about what lies ahead; there's a folksy comaraderie. Did I spell comaraderie right? It looks funny. In any event, I was at exactly nine minutes at the first mile marker, which surprised me, as the crowd was thick and although I was attempting to weave through the thick parts to get some sort of pace going, I assumed I'd be behind the mark until we hit the more open streets. I was still on pace at two miles, and by the fourth mile marker, on Ocean Parkway, I was slightly ahead of pace. Interesting.

Ocean Parkway is a grand boulevard of Brooklyn -- large median down the center, beautiful homes line the sides. A friend who had run the Brooklyn Half in the past had joked that the Ocean Parkway run is frustrating because the cross-streets are all lettered in reverse alphabetical order ("Avenue Z" and then "Avenue Y" and so on), and so you spend time trying to figure out what number letter "M" is in order to calculate how much longer you have until you make it to Prospect Park. Lo and behold, by the middle of the alphabet I was stumped as to how much more Ocean Parkway lay ahead of me.

By the sixth or seventh mile I was more than a full minute ahead of my nine-minute pace goal. On the one hand, this was great. On the other hand, I was concerned about gassing out at the end. The last four miles of the run are in hilly Prospect Park, and I did not want to be the idiot who tanked with a mile to go. But I was feeling exceptionally well. Without a running partner for the first time in a long race (you know, of the two other long races I've ever run), I was able to focus exclusively on my running, making myself relax my body, maintain a pace and good form on hills, etc.

I entered Prospect Park at the nine-mile marker, and I was about a minute and a half ahead. Now I could turn on the psychological games: this was my park, where I run all the time...get out of my way, shitheads. I know, it's a bit simple and juvenile, but I'm not a very sophisticated runner. When I hit the big hill at the northern end of the park, I was practically laughing to myself -- I own this hill! Around the bend to the west side of the park where I knew that Cathleen, Max, Eliza and my mom would be waiting for me near the Third Street entrance...and then I saw them from about 50 yards away. Such a lift! I kissed them all, and then ran away with a new bounce in my step. Literally. I had about two miles to go, and I was psyched. Down the big hill at the southwest corner, and then the last big hill (in the unchartered, for me, interior part of the park). As I ascended the final hill of the run, some guy on the side shouted out "the 13-mile marker is right around the corner." That's all I needed; I bolted into a full-out sprint to the end, weaving in and around folks ahead of me as a I flew to the finish line.

I often use the experience of the two marathons I've run in other contexts: the mental determination I employed in those runs to overcome physical pain and fatigue in order to finish...it is helpful to look back and know that I have the ability to dig deep in the face of challenges. The half-marathon -- a dramatically more humane and less punishing distance to run -- provides me with something different. Not sure yet what that is, perhaps something about what it takes to exceed a goal, but I'm filing away the 1:53:26 of moments that were that race, and they'll be there when I want or need to use them.