RACING THE MILE

Racing a mile down Fifth Avenue was the most fun I've ever had in a race. Except for the parts where my chest felt like it was going to explode and those other parts where I considered walking off the course.

But the OTHER parts were great. Other than having to jump around an incredibly slow runner (wearing head phones yet!) who lined up right on the starting line directly in front of me, I got off to a great start. Too great, really, because I was keeping pace with runners who were too fast for me. I knew it but I didn't slow because I wondered what my quarter mile split would be.

76 seconds! A 5:04 pace. My fastest quarter ever! With the uphill second quarter next I knew I had to slow. I also knew that it was physically impossible forme not to. And that it was so uncomfortable that I didn't want to continue like this. So I slowed. But I didn't exactly mean to slow by 16 seconds! 92.5 seconds for the second quarter. Well, that's 2:48.5 for half a mile, also my fastest ever. I knew then that this would be a good race. After all, my goal was just to break 6 minutes. Now I knew I would and that I'd do better.

The third quarter was downhill. The only runner near me pulled away. I didn't care. Other runners were far ahead. I assumed there were a bunch behind me. Again, I didn't care. The race was just with me and the intense pain I felt. Of course I didn't know it, but my heart rate had already reached what I believed was my 164 beat per minute maximum towards the end of the first half mile. Now it had moved beyond even that, eventually peaking at 167. How could I maintain my pace in this ultra max state? How could I not slow down and limit the intense discomfort? On the other hand, how could I do anything to screw up this terrific time I was running? There was less than 10 city blocks to go. Surely....

I did 87.6 for the third quarter. Not good in itself, but plenty good enough to ensure a sub 6 minute finish. On the final quarter I could not speed up. Even as I passed the 200 meter to go sign I couldn't kick. Truthfully, I didn't want to. I just wanted it to end. My legs were concrete. But I saw the clock at the finish line and it was still under 5:50. I pushed to get in before it could change. Now I wanted to speed up. I tried, but I have no idea if I actually did. My final quarter was 92.4, so I probably didn't! Not good, really, but the absolute best I could do then, of that I have no doubt.

I finished in 5:48.5! I smashed 6 minutes! I surpassed my 2002 performance of 5:54! Five years older, 6 seconds faster! I broke 5:50! And, don't forget, I actually started in the second row and was slowed at the start. My age graded time computed to well under 5:00. Surely this great race would put me among the award winners.

Sixth place. I took 6th place. Five men in my group ran faster. How is that even possible? Don't they realize that they're supposed to slow (certainly more so than me, since I apparently, have fastered) as they age? Well, at least I was the speediest 57 year old in the race!

To throw in a little more injury, the official results had me at 5:52. According to it, I didn't break 5:50. Oh, well, I don't care. I DID!! I'm believing my watch!

Man, it was great flying down Fifth Avenue. Especially that first quarter. And especially at the finish line.