NOT THAT MANY years ago, I was a runner. What I mean is: running was a significant part of my daily life. ‘Runner’ was a significant part of how I saw myself.
Back in my late thirties and right through my forties I ran pretty much every day, and I ran with real purpose, not only to get outdoors and connect with nature but also to improve my endurance, speed, running technique, willpower and above all self-knowledge. I ran to feel alive, and I ran to grow – both physically and as a person. I ran to become the best version of myself that I could be. (Well, the best version as I perceived it, anyway!)
Because of all this, running for me was a quest, a journey. On a day when I ran I knew at the day’s end that I’d done something meaningful and worthwhile that had moved me forward – something that had made me more than I’d previously been. Running ticked many of the boxes that long backpacking journeys had previously ticked. To be clear, backpacking was still my biggest passion, but it was a passion ‘on hold’ because my family came first. Running provided a reasonable alternative that wasn’t excessively disruptive to family needs – although arguably my obsessive nature edged it in that direction more than once! But still, the running journey didn’t keep me away from home for months on end the way a long walk would have.
The journey began when I was nine, when I watched British athlete Sebastian Coe achieve his first mile world record. The television I saw it on was black and white, the screen small, the picture fuzzy, but watching Seb Coe fly around the track with thousands of fans screaming him on lit a fire. The next day, I argued my father into timing me run four laps of the local park. It didn’t matter that I ran so hard I didn’t even finish! What mattered was that my running journey had begun.
I wasn’t an especially talented runner at school. There were plenty who were faster. In my twenties and early thirties I continued running for pleasure, and to stay fit for long walks. I never imagined I could be competitive, but when I finally began running seriously in my late thirties I discovered that I could, in fact, compete at a level I’d never imagined. I started running seriously to see what I could do before it was ‘too late’, before aging began the inevitable physical decline. I ran, in large part, to ‘find out’. (As ever, the curious traveller.) What I ‘found out’ changed my perception of who I was.
Races were only one part of running, though. Being out in nature, in motion, growing, was the main reason to run. But to run and not race would have been to miss out on all that running could be. Racing demanded total commitment. It forced me to push beyond the self-limiting internal voice that often said: enough, ease up, can’t do this. Racing showed me that I could do it. It showed me that I was so much more than I’d thought, that my limits weren’t limits at all. What an empowering thing it was to learn! And the beautiful thing was everything I learnt from running also applied to life beyond it.
I’m writing this blog to share a race report I wrote for a running website eleven years ago. I believe it hints at part of what running once was to me – well, still IS in some regards; how life affirming it can be, how joyful; how self-revealing. (For another running-themed blog of mine, see this one: An Ode To Kinder) I’m sharing this now because, at 55, I have to accept that I’m well into a different stage in my running journey: the inevitable physical decline! Over the last five or so years running has become more and more of a struggle. Minor injuries and ‘niggles’ have seriously interrupted consistency, and without consistency my endurance and speed have rapidly declined. My body IS getting slower, no matter how much I want to rage and rail against it. The light-hearted skip and dance over the hills now often feels like a slog.
Three weeks ago I gave myself yet another minor injury: two painful knees, partially caused by snowshoeing too far in heavy plastic mountaineering boots, but also, perhaps, from too many miles recently run on a body not appropriately balanced. Week ankles, for example, can play a part in knee issues. Or simple wear and tear from decades of flying downhill at sub-five pace! Whatever the cause, running right now is a bad idea. If I were to worsen the injury I might have to avoid doing any kind of foot travel for months, and doing that and not being able to access my treasured wild places isn’t a prospect I’m excited about!
The current enforced break from running has got me thinking once again about short term pleasures versus long term gains. I’m reassessing my running ‘journey’. I’m questioning whether it’s now worth it, whether I should even be on a running journey… because I do still very much want to be able to hike long distances in the decades (hopefully) still to come…
But it’s going to be a hard call, to give up running now so that I can walk far in the future. It’ll be hard, because I still treasure the sheer joy of flying fleet-of-foot across the hills.
Anyway – here’s that race report. From back when I definitely was still a runner…
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FEER THE DEER 2014 – A Race Report
One of the (many) things I love about running is the honesty of it. What I mean is: we as runners know where we stand. We might sometimes feel pride in our own achievements, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but we can’t hide from how they really stack up. Runs like Dennis Kimetto’s recent 2:02:57 marathon put it clearly in black and white. The numbers – ours compared with his – say everything. I mean: a 4:41 mile, run twenty-six point two times? Seriously!!!
One of the (many) things I love about racing on trails rather than roads is that we don’t so easily know where we stand. Every race is different, every stretch of trail has features unique to it, and every runner deals with them in their own way. Runners who leave us behind on roads might be left behind by us on trails. The numbers mean less.
On paper, several of the runners signed up for May 2014’s Fear the Deer Trail Half Marathon looked capable of leaving me behind. There were runners with 15-minute 5K times taking part. Far beyond my level. Realistically, I was looking at… fifth… absolute best case scenario. First ‘master’ was an outside possibility, if all went well.
The Fear the Deer had been on my radar for several years. Touted by the race organizers as the Front Range’s toughest half marathon, it twists through Deer Creek Canyon Open Space, gaining close to 3,000 feet along the way. The trails are rocky, steep and narrow, the scenery superb, and the vibe low-key and friendly. It sounded like my kind of race.
I prepped well. Aside from a solid base of distance and speed I ran the route three times in training: once to learn it, once to run all the ascents flat out, and once more to hit all the descents at top speed. When race day came I knew what to expect and how to pace it. Sleep during taper week was unusually sound, and short speed sessions in the final days added real zip to my legs. Fear The Deer’s 1:35:20 course record was far beyond my reach, but all the geeky data I’d amassed from my prep runs suggested I could get close to 1:40…
Conditions on race day were perfect: cool, windless and clear, and the trails were finally ice-free after a snowy spring. I drove down with a good friend, Brad. His training had being going well too and he had high hopes this would finally be his revenge race, the race where he’d cling to my shoulder and then take me on the final descent. Before the start I chatted with the course record holder, who had signed up once again. His 10K personal best was some five minutes ahead of mine. Odds were I’d soon be choking on his dust.
And yet… and yet… I wanted to win. More than that, I actually believed I would. The previous night the first chapter of Killian Jornet’s book Run Or Die had reminded me that winning was as much a mental game as it was physical. It argued that you had to believe – that to do it you had to really want it. Well… I definitely wanted it…
The race begins with a rolling half-mile, followed by a nasty two-mile 1,100-foot climb. Finding myself in the lead group I settled in and concentrated on running a maintainable pace, neither too hard nor too slow. As the climb went on several runners – including both my friend Brad and the course record holder – fell behind, and to my surprise I was soon in second. When the leader paused for water at the first aid station I found myself in first and almost gave up then from the shock of it! I topped out the climb a full minute faster than I’d done when running it flat out in preparation, and yet this time I’d been holding back. I took that as a good sign!
The next two miles were fantastic; payback for all the miles that had led to them. Flying on forest trails with just one young guy in pursuit I put the burners on, and running had never felt so effortless. Being in the lead was an odd sensation, somehow unreal. From school onwards there had always been faster runners than me. I knew where I belonged in the scheme of things, and it wasn’t up front. But you can be sure I enjoyed it!
Of course, it didn’t last. The one mistake I’d made in preparation was drinking a splash too much coffee that morning, and finally I had to stop and share some of it with the pines. It didn’t take long, but the runner who’d been chasing me was soon twenty-seconds ahead. Reality was restored.
But… I wasn’t ready to accept reality just yet! It took me two miles to reel him back in, and the doing of it took me far beyond the feeling of effortless running I’d earlier enjoyed. Now, I was giving it everything. When I regained his shoulder he put in a quick spurt that made it look as though he was just toying with the pace, and the gap widened in an instant back to fifteen seconds. It almost broke my resolve.
For the next four miles I gave chase through the forest, never gaining ground, but not losing any either. The trail climbed, dropped, twisted and turned, and the effort was at my absolute limit. It would have been oh-so easy to have eased off just a touch and accepted my position. There was no one else in sight and second place seemed assured. The other runner was in his early twenties. I was forty-four. What was I even thinking?
But I clung in there… because I didn’t want to come second. I fought against straining legs and protesting lungs and the screaming inner voice that said I’d reached my limit; I fought against them even on the last big climb where the gap widened a few seconds more. But there was still a chance. The final three and a half miles were mostly downhill, and downhill on technical trails was my specialty…
When the descent came I launched myself into it, cadence ultra-high, brain very much engaged, loving the rush of it even if it was too little too late. For the first mile I couldn’t see any gain, but then it began… little by little… I was closing! A real opportunity arose halfway down. Another trail branched off to the right and I could see a moment’s hesitation in the runner ahead: he didn’t know the route! Part of trail running IS knowing the route, not assuming that everything will be clearly marked, and I was tempted for a fleeting second to let him go as he stepped the wrong way. But when it came down to it I couldn’t. I wanted to win… but not that way. “NO!” I screamed ahead to him, “Stay left… LEFT!” He jumped back to the correct path without loosing momentum and the opportunity passed.
The gap widened again when we hit a final short climb, but I had the bit between my teeth now, and when the last downhill mile began I was hitting the straights at 4:30 pace. I pulled him in. All of a sudden I was right back on his shoulder, and the race was well and truly on. There was just one problem: the trail was narrow and hemmed between thickets of scrub-oak and there was no space to pass. And the other runner clearly knew it. He eased up a little to save himself for the finish and made damn certain he stayed in the center of the trail. It was a race, after all!
A half mile from the finish the trail widened for a single short stretch. I knew it was coming, and I was ready. When we reached the spot I surged, giving it everything, but my attack was sensed, my burst matched, and I couldn’t get by. Our elbows clashed briefly and then the trail narrowed again. Gasping from the effort it was all I could do now not to lose contact again. If the other runner had maintained his counter burst for just a few seconds I’d have been toast. Fortunately, he eased back up…
There was one final chance. The home straight was wider and away from the trees, and when we reached it I hurled myself forward once again. I don’t honestly believe I have ever covered ground so quickly. Hitting 3:28 pace (according to watch data) my feet were moving so fast downhill it was all I could do not to crash over. For an intense moment the world was a smaller place. Sounds faded, sight was restricted to a narrow tunnel, time lost all meaning. I didn’t know where the other runner had gone… I just knew he wasn’t directly in front of me anymore… and I knew that I was bloody well… going… to… give… it… everything… because… I… WANTED IT!
I wish I could have seen myself over that final stretch. I bet I looked like a raving maniac. A real ‘men in white-coats’ job! But… it paid off. I won… by a single second. Momentum carried me far beyond the finishing tape and into a parking lot, where I fetched up behind a car and threw my guts up. But… winning… what a feeling! I still knew where I stood in the scheme of things – I wouldn’t be challenging the world’s best marathon runners anytime soon (or ever) – but that didn’t lesson the exhilaration or emotions. It was an utterly inconsequential race, but life simply doesn’t deliver many moments like it.
I finished in 1:35:55, significantly faster than the 1:40 that I’d believed was my limit, which says a great deal about what we think our limits are, and what they really are. Oh, and my friend Brad, seeking his revenge? He came in 6 minutes later…
I collected my trophy, some deer antlers painted gold. But the greatest rewards were internal. I felt… elevated, fulfilled, and one hundred per cent alive. No, make it two hundred per cent! For an hour and a half whilst running the rest of the world had ceased to exist. I’d been consumed in the moment, at one with a single purpose, at one with the trail, the woods and even with myself, with every sense intensely alert, giving it my all, flying forward, living to the absolute full… and finding out.
For a short while, I’d really been a runner.
