Running the 2007 Turkey Trot

“Joy, it’s so frickin cold out there,” I scowled as I read 17 degrees on the porch thermometer. “Daddy, you used the word, frickin?” “Yes it’s frickin cold and I don’t know what to wear to the race.” I had laid out my running shorts and long sleeve tech shirt and Runner’s Edge tech T to wear over it, already pinned up with my bib number 4980. Now I had to reconsider my choice of apparel, what with the frickin cold and snow on the ground and all.

After too much deliberation, I donned the togs that I had laid out, but then pulled over an extra layer of running pants, a zippered fleecy jacket, my black balaclava, and two layered gloves. There - I’m prepared for anything.

My Buick’s thermometer read 23 degrees as I pulled into the parking area on Franklin St. just North of I-25 and about a half-mile from the start line on Louisiana St. As I slowly jogged up Franklin toward South High School I observed the gray, overcast sky for any sign of a break in the clouds. To the east was a frail, thin patch of blue.

Upon arriving at the south end of Wash Park I entered a vacant tennis court and leisurely pursued my stretching routine, as I still had about 45 min till start time. Then I made my decision. I would jog back down to my car and strip off my running pants, my fleecy jacket and gloves. I’d gamble that the sun would come out and I’d be glad not to be weighed down by the extra clothing.

By the time I had jogged back up to the porta potties on Louisiana I felt comfortable and sufficiently warmed up to do a race. Then I ran over to the corner of Louisiana and Gilpin to greet my fellow Runner’s Edge members who looked at my bare legs and thought I looked cold. I wished them well, and then sped off to find a place about 40 feet back from the start line. I thought this would be the prefect place: not up with the elite youngsters and not back with the baby stroller crowd.

It wasn’t long before birds of a feather began flocking together: first I saw Steve Renda then Rachel, my summer speed work pacing partner, then Charles Scheibe showed up, and then friends of friends were introduced, and finally I saw Stephen Kurtz. The sun was now shining and my bet on shedding my outer layer was paying off. We all excitedly chirped away as the race officials tried to do their litany of thank you’s until finally a voice yelled out “START” and the crowd slowly made its way over the blue mesh starting pads.

It took me 18 seconds to get up to the start line and immediately I could see that I should have started up closer to the start line, because the dense pack was not moving that fast, and there weren’t any holes to move through. I thought this first mile could be so slow that I might not be able to recover my lost time.

I weaved in and out of runners heading north on Downing up the west side of Wash Park. Gradually after about a half mile the crowd opened up and I could resume my speed. At the huge one-mile marker (thank you race planners for the gigantic markers!) I looked at my watch: 7:04. I was surprised, especially considering the slow start. Should I slow down a bit? After all, I was shooting for a pace of 7:30 to give me a PR of 30 min. My competitive instinct said, “No, see if you can keep up this pace, even if it hurts a bit.”

I rounded the corner onto E. Virginia St and clipped along the North side of the park and then rounded the corner and coursed down Franklin St on the East side of the park. As I passed the 2-mile mark I checked my watch and the dial reported 10:29, which didn’t make any sense at all. I thought the cold might have made it malfunction; it sure made my bare hands inoperable. My mind was not sharp enough to realize the watch had been bumped onto “time of day” mode, instead of stopwatch mode. For the rest of the race I had no idea exactly how fast I was going, except I felt sure I would break 30 min. I just didn’t know how by how much.

Around this time just after passing and ignoring a water station, I noticed a tall runner ahead and to my left, dressed in red, with a distinctive upright posture and way of holding his head. Sure enough, I knew who it was. As I came up abreast of him, I called over, “Mike Kennedy, you’re running really well.” Mike responded in kind and we ran together for a while, and then I pulled ahead. After a while I would hear advancing footsteps behind me, and I would surge ahead so as to dishearten the potential passer, who happened to be Mike.

Mike had been following just behind me for mile three as we ran onto the path inside the park and around the lakes. Now as we moved into mile four Mike made his move, passing me. Keeping up with Mike kept me going fast, but eventually I started reaching the “puke point” and knew I was near my limit. Which brings me to an important issue: just how fast can you make yourself go? When you are breathing the frigid air as heavily as you can, when you are digging deeply into reserves, trolling the furthest reaches of that ocean of pain, trying to catch just one more lightning fast fish that will pull you over the finish line - just how much can you punish yourself? And what reason will your mind give your body for all this suffering?

The sight of the finish line as I rounded the last curve brought an end to these dark mental struggles, and I kicked in to shave off a second or two. As I neared the finish line I see 28:18 on the clock, my gun time.

No spouse or loved one to greet me with a hug and a laurel leaf crown. Oh well, I must be satisfied knowing that I did my very best. Or did I? How can one really know that for sure? Anyway I felt proud of my effort, and knew that I had trained well for this “fun run” that really wasn’t so much fun as much as an exercise in endurance and pacing out my energy reserves.

Mike Kennedy finds me and we congratulate each other. Mike beat me by 9 seconds with a finish time of 27:51 and a 6:58 pace. My time was 28:00 and a pace of 7:01, a PR of 2:18 faster than my 4M Liberty Run on 7/4/07. I came in first out of 132 in my age group 60-69. As I try to tear open the tough wrapper of my Lemon Lara Bar with my inoperable, frozen hands, Mike tells me this time will put me in the first few waves of the BolderBoulder next year.

Mike and I hung around to greet our friends as they finish. Scott Hild ran at a great clip for most of the race but had a difficult time getting out of the crowded pack at the start, giving him a slow first mile. Dave Longcope and Stephanie Jones chat with me until my damp clothes start chilling me and I walk the half-mile back to my car. I thought to myself as my walk turned into a slow jog, “Hey, I should write about this race and put it on my blog.” Hope you enjoyed reading it.