I know, I'm late. I'm going to keep playing the "I have a new baby!" card as long as I can (2 months old today!).
When I signed up for the Freedom Run 5k, I wasn't expecting anything. It was seven weeks to the day after #3 was born, and I was really just eager to get a race under my belt to maintain my team status with our local running shop. The race was in a town about a half hour away, and I had to be there by 6:30 a.m. at the latest for packet pick-up. My darling husband insisted the entire family go, which meant the kids would be getting up at 5:30, and he'd be watching all three of them while I raced. God bless him!
We went to bed the night before way too late, and woke up at midnight with our middle child vomiting. He got a bath, the bed had to be stripped and made, so when the alarm went off early the next morning, feeling energetic was difficult. But that was okay! All of my favorite boys were coming to cheer me on! How could I not be tickled?
After arriving and picking up my packet, and doing the dance of having to get out my nervous-pre-race-pee while also getting my three year old to the bathroom amongst all the other racers with their pre-race-bathroom routines, I headed out to the start line to prep for the run. My goal was to get sub-25, which was not exactly a PR, but would be swift with what I'd been running lately. I jogged around the parking lot once, and felt ready to go. The husband informed me that this was not an adequate warm-up. I reminded him that I never warmed up, and then he reminded me that I'm getting old. Thanks, love. "The shorter the race, the longer the warm-up needs to be." Okay, fine. So off I went to run up and down some streets to get my legs and ankles warm. I wasn't too worried about it-- the race was advertised as very flat, so I just needed to pound out some quick miles-- the suffering would be short lived.
I'd like to go on record as saying that the people organizing the race are, in fact, liars. That course was about as flat as my post-partum belly.
And please tell me I'm not the only person completely incapable of accurately gauging where in the start line I should be. I always underestimate myself, so I end up having to weave in and out of people to get to people running my pace. It's not awful, because I find passing people to be a nice little ego boost, but it does affect my efficiency and hinder my kick at the end with the unnecessary depletion in energy.
Anyway. Started way too far back. I figured an 8 minute pace would get me what I wanted, so allowed for a little bit slower the first mile to get into the groove. A flat course meant I'd be able to adjust the last two miles no problem to get the average pace I was seeking. About a mile and a half in, though, I discovered the deception of the race description, and was kicking myself-- I'd warmed up better than I had for any other race, I didn't need to take it so easy the first mile. Regardless, I reminded myself that it was only a 5k, so I could suffer outside of my comfort zone (I think that idea makes sense only to people in endurance sports) to reach my goal. I was hurting, but I could make it! I was going to do it!
I made it around the last bend before the slight uphill to the finish line, and tried to give it my last kick. I wasn't looking at my Garmin, or the clock above the finish line. I was in the zone. I was going to do it! I was going to make it! I was-- HOLY CRAP THERE IS A DEAD GUY IN THE FINISHING CHUTE.
Okay. So he wasn't dead. But a roughly 70 year old man had apparently recently face planted into the pavement by the finishing barriers, and I did a little dance (both physically and mentally)-- do I stop and help him? I didn't see him fall. I didn't know how long he'd been down. The finish line was RIGHT THERE-- so do I finish and come back? There are tons of people around, so is someone coming? As I debated this in my head, a couple of official looking people rushed to his side, and I opted to let someone who actually knew what they were doing help him out and finish.
Official finish time? 25:04.
So. Close.
Again, wasn't expecting much, other than my little goal and getting a race done. The husband insisted I look at the placing, since medals were given to the top five in each age group. I laughed, as my PR of 22:39 got me second in that tiny 5k, there was no way a 25:04 would get top five in a race as large as this.
And what do you know? 25:04 was apparently good enough for third.
I was happily tooting my own horn, admiring my medal, when the husband so kindly reminded me:
"Yeah, but if that guy who was old enough to almost die doing a 5k hadn't ALMOST DIED, he would have beat you."
Thank you, sir.
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