The weekly report hasn’t got much to, well, report. I ran 7 miles on Monday in 59:11, which averaged out to 8:27. A few weeks ago, I would have considered this a perfectly good run, but I had to work to convince myself that this was supposed to be an “easy” run anyway. I had a half marathon coming up, and this seven-miler felt like I was slogging through wet concrete. Funny what a taste of speed can do to you.

I took Wednesday off. I was supposed to do another seven miles, but my legs felt like crap. I hoped the additional rest would pay off for Saturday. Friday night we went out with some friends to see the new Harry Potter, and as I got up from the theatre seat, my knees ached more than any time since the marathon. Maybe I’d get lucky and it would just be “withdrawal.” Sometimes the body gets used to the pounding of running and creates phantom pains and injuries when you get off schedule. I didn’t get to bed until just after 2, and then I was back up at 6 to prep for the race.

Okay, so against me, we’ve got only 4 hours of sleep, achy legs, I’ve just come off a high mileage week, and the weather forecast is for thunderstorms. FANTASTIC. Actually, I was kind of looking forward to the possibility of racing in the rain. I like running in rain - and if nothing else, I could blame a poor performance on the weather!

The course was four back-and-forth loops, or eight lengths of 1.63 miles. Since there was no realistic way to get the miles marked, I decided to base my pace on the lengths. I wanted to be as close to flat eight-minute-miles as possible, so I calculated that I needed to hit 13 minutes per length. That would bring me in at an hour and 44 minutes. Once again, a very aggressive goal.

We got to the starting corral just a few minutes before the duathlon kicked off. You see, the Lake Michigan Triathlon series has two triathlons (of different distances), a duathlon (run-bike-run), a 5k, 10k, and half marathon. They all happen together, so you’ve got swimmers, runners, and cyclists all racing at once. It certainly makes up for the “boringness” of the looping course.

When it was time for the foot races to start, I took my position right at the head of the group (look at those calves! Except for the kid up front with the red and white stripes, we were all half marathoners). Now, these races are conducted in a very laid-back style. The starting “gun” was a cowbell. Literally, “Ready, set, *CLANG CLANG CLANG*” And we were off! (The guy behind me took off like a bullet - and won the half marathon in 1:20)

As I ran the first leg, I led a pack of about six runners. We chatted back and forth about the course, other races, the weather (which was overcast, but holding out). After we made the first turn, I caught up to a skinny girl who suddenly decided to match pace with me. At first I was annoyed, but then we started to talk. She was a 21-year-old student from Madison running her first half marathon; her only other race experience was a 5k last year. Marissa was hoping to hit a nine-minute pace. When I told her that I was shooting for just under eight, she decided to stay with me as long as she could.

We eventually pulled away from the group. When we reached the start of loop 2, I looked at my watch and swore. Marissa asked how we were doing, and I said, “we’re almost two minutes ahead of schedule!”

“Really?” she said. “Maybe we can keep this up! I feel great!” So did I, so we did.

We kept right on running and talking, noting that we were hitting between 12:00 and 12:30 for each length, putting us further and further ahead of our goal. It was an amazing feeling. I actually felt like the old, veteran coach, putting this scrawny, freckled girl through the paces and showing her she can do more than she thought. Of course, that might have just been dehydration talking. But Marissa and I hung shoulder to shoulder for the entire second and third loop.

As we neared the end of loop three, I noticed that she was picking up her pace. I laughed and asked her if she was doing it on purpose. She said, “yeah! I read that you should start picking up three miles before the finish!”

I shook my head. “I’ll try to keep up, but I usually don’t pick up until the last mile, mile and a half.”

“Come on, Ed, you can do it!”

And then we started loop four. Marissa took off like a bloody gazelle, calling over her shoulder for me to keep up. No way, girlie. “Go for it,” I yelled, “I’ll see you at the finish!” I didn’t want her to see that I was listing to one side a bit from a side stitch. I was thinking, not now! I’m so close, I’ve been doing so well! I pushed on, making faces, until it finally subsided about a mile later. Now, with only two miles left, I suddenly felt light and dangerous.

I picked it up.

I saw Marissa just before I got to the turnaround and gave her thumbs up. There was no breath left for talking now. I was gaining ground on those leading me, and I chewed up three people over the next mile. I was pushing it hard - but saving just a little bit for the show I was going to put on at the end.

As I came over the last hill, I let gravity pull me into my kick. I was weightless. I was flying. I was a one man machine of running destruction. I was too fast for the camera (that’s my foot on the lower right). I was lucky no one was in front of me, because I totally would have run them down with a violence. As I bolted into the final few meters, I showed that actually touching the ground was for suckers and mortals.

And then I was done. A little kid handed me a bottle of water, a woman handed me a medal, and someone else asked for my timing chip. I stood there, chest heaving, thinking to myself, wait - what the hell just happened? Was that all? There’s no more? I looked at my watch; I’d managed to hit the STOP button as I crossed the finish.

1:39:52

I’d beaten my goal by five minutes. I beat last year’s time on this course by *sixteen* minutes. I beat my half time from the full marathon by over *ten* minutes. I was shocked. Later I would find that my “official” time was only 1 second different, 1:39:53.

Overall, I was ninth out of 27. I was the sixth male (of seventeen), and first in my age group (of… one). [Full results]

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