Blessing of the Fleet

I've been excited about this race ever since I first heard about it last year. A weeknight summertime race with a festival atmosphere? Yes, please. It was also cool to know a bunch of people -- both in and out of WTAC -- who would be doing it, too. This being my first road 10-miler, I didn't have a historical time I could easily use as a gauge of what I thought I could do, so I took to the ever-useful McMillan running calculator. I put in my only post-ankle sprain road race time (Bridgton 4 on the Fourth - 21:53 for 4 miles), and the calculator spat out a time of 58:27. OK, that's a useful starting point, but I thought I might be able to go faster, since the 4-miler was a relatively hilly course and I had three additional weeks of training under my belt. I arbitrarily decided that my goal time would be 58:00, and this is what I submitted with my application.

Race day arrived, and I discovered that the biggest challenge I might face would be getting to Narragansett, as a ton of people would be funneling into the town at around the same time on just a few roads. I was warned about traffic on Route 1 and consequently navigated through back roads and alleys to get to the high school. I parked in a field (my poor little Fit scarcely had the oomph to climb a grassy knoll to reach the parking spot), and picked up my "seeded" number in the middle school. When the woman gave me the number, she said what sounded like, "Chris Garcia." I politely repeated back my actual name, and she gave me a friendly but confused smile. Hmm.

I took a 10-minute solo warm-up and saw Jeff and Mike B. on both the front and back ends. I jogged over to the start with a few minutes to spare and wound up sharing personal space with both Seth and Jonny a couple of rows back from the line. A little to my left I saw what I assumed was an apparition of some sort. I went to wave my hand through it, only to discover it was real flesh and blood. Before me stood the Mike Galoob, New England Runner magazine's athlete of the month and secret agent of some kind. He said he'd be doing this as a workout, which meant I'd lose to him by a little less than usual.

The siren sounded, we took off down a hill, and I tried to settle in to the right pace as soon as I could. This meant dialing back on the downhill, and letting a whole bunch of people go by, including Jonny, who had already run something like 74 miles on the day. I caught back up to him around the mile mark, and he asked if my wife (who was positioned around the turn onto Ocean Rd.) would be mad that he was beating me at 0.8 miles. I said no, but I wasn't actually sure.

Despite the race still being in its early stages, I somehow found myself running alone on the Ocean Rd. stretch, into a slight headwind, of course. Where was Jonny now? Jeez. I had decided before the race that I'd try to run the first five miles at 5:50 and then try to negative split from there. I was slightly ahead of pace when we turned off Ocean Rd., but that soon changed. I hit a hill and got enveloped by a swarm of young men and the lead women. What just happened? This woke me up, and I latched on to the fastest boys in the group. (Apparently, anyone under the age of 30 has become a "boy" in my mind. When did I get to be old?) One of them I recognized as Colin Tierney, the top RI high school runner (who apparently was banditing the race, as his name doesn't appear in the results despite a big showdown with Mike Galoob in the final meters). I was eventually dropped by the fastest four or five guys in the group, but they had succeeded in dragging me along for a mile on the brutal 108 section of the course.

I hit the halfway point in 29:07, just three seconds under 5:50 pace. I was worried about my ability to negative split, but at least I'd accomplished the first part of my goal. Soon after, I grabbed the GU that I'd stashed in my hat and squeezed half the contents into my mouth just before a water stop, thereby avoiding the cement-mouthed situation I'd found myself in at Run with the Beavers. Live and learn.

Like many other runners, I was grateful to finally enter the shaded side road off 108. I also had some work to do, as my mile-six split was slow (5:55), thanks to the long hill on 108. I picked off a few guys along this wooded stretch and kept my sights on the others I could see ahead. I'd passed around 10 people since the first mile and thought I might be able to catch two or three more before the end of the race if I could keep pushing. I moved by two more guys just before we turned back onto South Pier Rd. and then tried to keep the pedal down as we went back past the start line. I was only vaguely aware of my pace at this point, but it didn't much matter; I just really didn't want to get passed back by anyone I'd overtaken. There's nothing worse than the pass-back, is there?

A sweaty mess. (Photo by Scott Mason. Is this a copyright violation?) 

I was feeling strong as I turned onto Kingstown Rd. for the final mile. No matter how exhausted I am in a race, the middle-distance runner in me almost always shows up for the last mile. There were two more guys I thought I might have a chance at with a big finish, so I began to accelerate as I came up behind a guy in a URI singlet. Just as I went to pass, my darn calves cramped up again. Fortunately(?), this was a somewhat familiar feeling, and I was better able to manage the cramps this time around. I knew that any sudden change of pace or direction would lock them up, so I very carefully tried to up the tempo and pass this guy. He stubbornly put up a fight and even threw in a surge as some URI supporters showered him with affection. Where's the love for WTAC? I finally moved past him in what felt like slow motion and tried my best to run fast the rest of the way without a calf malfunction. Every few seconds, I'd feel a twinge and back off before tentatively increasing the pace again. I hated knowing that I wouldn't be able to mount a respectable kick, but at this point I was happy to still be on two legs.

My best 'Gazelle' pose (both feet off the ground) as I approach the finish. (Photo by Jana Walker.)

Just as I began to realize I had no shot at catching the next guy, he took a sudden left turn. I wasn't familiar with the course, but it sure looked like the course continued straight. (This was just a hunch based on the hundreds of people who were lining the street directly ahead of me.) I got to the street where he turned and prepared to make a hard left when I saw that it was blocked by barricades, the runner trotting off anonymously into the distance. Yet another bandit!

The suspect was unusually gawky, with a long and narrow head, and a nicely coordinated outfit.
(Security camera-like photo by Spitler Race Systems.)

Just like that, I was alone, hobbling into the finish in 57:57, three seconds ahead of my arbitrary prediction, and with a second-half split 17 seconds faster than the first. I was satisfied with the execution of my plan but again very disappointed by my body's betrayal over the last mile. I was well hydrated (and didn't wear long socks this time), so all signs point to muscle fatigue as the culprit. That might have something to do with the fact that these 10-mile races have been my longest runs since the winter. As my ankle continues to heal, I'll make it a point to log some longer runs to better prepare for the fall racing season.

It was great to catch up with the guys afterward and hear about the many PRs and gutsy performances. I was particularly impressed (and not totally surprised) that Jonny managed to run just over an hour after all of the mileage he'd already put in on the day. The most mind-blowing performance of the day, however, goes to Mike B., who devoured a massive cheeseburger in about 3.6 seconds during the post-race dinner. He is an inspiration to us all.

Post Script: Sure enough, the 16th place finisher in the race was listed as "Chris Garcia" of Charlestown. I wrote a polite email to the folks at Spitler but figured it would probably never even be opened. Much to my surprise, the results were updated with the non-Spanish version of my name later that day. Well done, Spitler!