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Around Cape Ann 25k 2005

      And then I came home.

Really though, let me start from the beginning:

The race starts at 9 AM in Gloucester, MA, so we decide that we should leave the house at half-past seven in order to make it there in time to get our bib numbers. (My Dad and I pre-registered, and my Uncle Lev, who is also coming with us, is running bandit (without a number) ). My Aunt and Uncle arrive at our house on time, at about 7:20, and the Honda Odyessy that was calmly sitting, resting, just minutes before, is brought to life, and around 7:40, it leaves our driveway under my own wise leadership. Then my dad notices that since I've been driving to WPI everyday, my gas tank is on E. Oh good, now we're really going to get there on time.

Delayed by gas and packing, we start out from Framingham and my uncle gives me directions which involve taking practically every shortcut imaginable between our house and I-95. During this whole time the car isn't quiet for even five minutes because everyone has their own opinion about how we should have gotten to I-95 and how there way is so much faster and how there isn't so much traffic since it's eight in the morning on Labor Day. We pull into our destination parking lot at exactly 8:58 AM.

We pull over and my dad, my uncle and I make a run for it. My dad and I run to find the registration table with our bib numbers on it. When we arrive, we are handed two bib numbers for the 25K race even though I had signed up for the 7K race.

Seeing as the 25K race was more expensive, I simply noted that I had received an "upgrade," I was going to get an extra 10 miles for free.

Meanwhile, at 9:00.00 AM, the 25K race has started. My dad and I wait for my uncle and when they both start the timers on their watches, we take off running at a blinding pace of 9:20 minute miles. In short order we see that we've caught up to the very end of the race pack, and, because of our pace, we begin passing runners left and right. To add to the intimidation factor of three guys passing you, my dad and I are wearing the exact same outfits: green, running shorts; a singlet with a black front and a yellow back; and white hats.

After the first mile, we determine that we've started the race aleast two minutes later than everyone around us, but considering that this race will take us at least two hours and change to finish, those two minutes won't matter at all.

We get water. We drink. We throw our empty or not-empty cups. We keep running.

Around mile 2, it is brought to my attention that the longest distance I ever ran was in the vicinity of eight miles and that was for a long-slow-distance (LSD) run with the Framingham High School Cross-Country team, during Sophomore year. That was just short of two years ago.

We get water. We drink. We keep running.

Mile 5 I feel a really intense burning sensation in my legs. This isn't surprising though; running makes your legs tired and your heart work. But the feeling is no longer an exciting oo-lets-guess-what-random-leg-muscle-will-hurt-next sort of thing, like a run or race usually is. This was worse. In the beginning it wasn't my knees. This was good because they had ached a lot when I ran last Friday. At mile 5 though, I got really strong pain at the muscle attached at my hip (the one on the under part of the leg) and some other really strong pain at the outside of my calves. Later the balls of my feet and the arches of my feet were over heard complaining about pain as well.

I didn't say much, however, because, traditionally, complaining hasn't ever made me run faster or easier; it merely draws the attention of the people around you to their own pain, which isn't too helpful to them either. And anyways, I was used to stuff like this. For short periods of time at least...

We get Poland Springs water (and we complain about Cape Ann's tap water that we've been given so far). I don't drink because my stomach isn't happy and after drinking during the previous mile I have a cramp near my left lung. I tell myself that the cramp will end when I reach the finish line and we keep running.

Something like Mile 7 rolls around. My dad and I take a visit to a porta-john along the race course, my uncle running ahead and going on to finish a three and a half minutes ahead of us.

We get yellow Gatorade (I hate how colors have now become flavors). I drink the whole cup, knowing it will hurt me. We keep running.

We discuss Katrina and how ever since the French first came to the New World, the Mississippi had been overflowing and ruining houses. Apparently levy-building is a long standing human past-time. We keep running. Around mile nine we leave the area my dad affectionately refers to as "the miles where the views are really good." (my words, not his) We've also arrived at the area when we're supposed to start counting how many people we pass, but we don't.

We don't, that is, until we get to Mile 10. Recall that my hamstrings and calves still hurt like whoa. They ache and they're in pain, and we continue to run at our now-seemingly-not-so-leisurely pace of 9:30 minute miles. We pass a woman wearing a solid color shirt. One in the positive direction.

We keep running, and I notice that my dad is ending up in front of me very often. That means I'm probably slowing him down, and this is bad. So I run a little faster. When you're in a race, faster means two things; either you lengthen your stride (take bigger steps) and keep your pace, or you make your stride shorter and take more steps. With joints that ache as much as mine, I definitely cannot move them any faster, so I simply put one aching leg further in front of the other. This seems to work, though everything still aches.

A woman in a differently colored shirt passes us. Zero, in the negative direction. We waiver; people pass us, we, in turn pass people. Finally we see the woman in the purple shirt. We passed her in the very beginning and then right before mile five, she passed my uncle and I as we waited for my dad to fix his sock. Now she was in front of us. Then she was behind us. We keep running, and I push my legs further.

And we pretty much keep passing people.

Mile 12, I ask "Are we in the right country?"
Mile 13, I ask "Are we in the right state?"
Mile 14, I ask "Are we in the right town?"

We reach familiar ground. Familiar because two years ago I ran the 7K race and then had biked backwards along the race course to meet my dad. We run under a bridge that I've been waiting to see for the last five miles. My wait is not in vain.

Mile 15: Popular Street(*). "Are we on the right street?" We keep running. We reach Cherry Street(*). Now all we need is number 32. "There's number one," I say as I emphatically point at the mailbox located at 1 Cherry St., Gloucester, MA.

Now we reach familiar terrain. My dad mentions that the final hill is going to be "mad hard" (again, my words, not his). I agree, having gone down the hill on my bike a few years before. We see the hill. We take the hill.

There's no water. We don't drink. I ask my dad if the finish is within sight. He says yes.

So I did what ever person does after they're run 15.5 miles during which muscles in their legs have hurt for time periods they have never known before. What ever person does as they approach the finish. I challenged my dad to a 50 yard dash. And I ran. Faster, and with a longer, painful stride.

We ended up passing at least a dozen people. They weren't too happy about that but one man that we met afterwards (who had passed us some miles back and who we passed in the last minutes of the race) shook our hands.

Some oranges, three hot dogs, a Lipton Ice Tea, a 12oz Lemonade, some bagels, and a shower later, we met up with my uncle, and spend the rest of the time finding my mom and my aunt, going to the beach, and walking about Rockport, MA. I didn't drive home, though I did attempt to catch up on my Our Mutual Friend reading.

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