Pushed to the limit

I spent the whole summer training for this particular day. Preparing for the worst, I pushed myself with some grueling runs in 90-plus degree temps when many were hunkered down in air conditioning.

Passing the seventh mile at Falmouth in 2011
(MarathonFoto)

Running the Falmouth Road Race is my annual summer goal. It’s something that’s circled on my calendar and remains in the back of my head when I lace up the sneakers and try to figure out my new Run Keeper app on my iPhone.

More accomplished runners, like my wife, prepare for a race like Falmouth by taking part in local road races and organized events. But not me.  Falmouth is my goal, my only goal.

I laugh when I look back at how I used to support my wife’s running by standing at the finish line with a box of donuts and a cup of coffee.  Dudes with ripped abs would give me a funny look, but maybe not as funny as the look I would give right back.

I happened upon Falmouth when I served as a finish line volunteer in 2003 and 2004. I wanted to see my wife run and at the same time, found time to put down the donuts and help cheer on, and assist those a little gassed, as they crossed the finish line.

It was then that I told myself, “I want to give it a try.”

My first go around took me an hour and nine minutes. Not bad, considering my starting corral back in Woods Hole was pretty much as far back as you could go and I had no idea how to pace myself for the 7.1 mile course. There were so many people, it was near impossible to actually not start running until the second mile. Holy crap.

But with more training and determination to improve that time and move up in the starting block, I trimmed my time considerably down to 1:04, to 1:04 and finally, after my sixth race, cracked the hour mark with a 59:03. 

Somehow, after waving to the Marathon Photo dudes at mile seven, I had found a little reserve of energy and managed to sprint to the end.

Training for 2012 was right on course. I worked hard and logged some good miles, despite a rather hotter than normal summer. But I had a feeling it might be hot in August on the Cape, and boy was it.

Cheryl and I headed out for Falmouth at the crack of dawn Sunday morning and made our way through heavy rain to Falmouth Center by 6:30. Rain was coming down in buckets, which really didn’t bother me, as it was actually refreshing.

As volunteers, we sloshed our way through the muddy field to the waiting yellow school bus. The rush of fresh air through the open window felt good, but rookie behind me didn’t like getting a little wet so we sealed up the windows, which only to made it worse for the poor bus driver who had to battle a fogged up window while making his way down the narrow road to Woods Hole.

Maybe that’s why we actually got lost, though I think we’ll place the blame on the Falmouth Police detail who sent us to the Martha’s Vineyard Ferry. Nope, we weren’t going there, just drop us off at Woods Hole. We’ll find the starting line.

After about two hours of stretching, munching on a variety pack of power bars, energy gels, bagels, coffee, and water, we made our way to the starting line. I wished my wife good luck as she took up her position among the elite runners.  I just kept walking back to my corral – but this time, it was up front, number three to be exact.

As I joined the hundreds of other runners in the corral, nervously bouncing and stretching and trying to stay loose, a terrible thing happened.

It stopped raining.

There were still some lingering clouds, but it was hazy, and yes, I think the sun was starting to announce its presence.

This was not a good sign. As the national anthem and the countdown to the start commenced, the humidity level picked up. Steam was coming up from the wet pavement and soon 12,000 runners will be making their way up along Surf Road and into the steam bath.

For the first two miles, I felt fine.  Had some good strength and able to pace myself nicely while dodging some of the donkey’s who already called it a day – one mile in.  No question training runs down a busy Hope Street in Providence helped me with the two-mile obstacle course of road kill. But I knew, the toughest stretch was still ahead.

Surf Drive comes after the third mile marker. It’s nice, flat, coastal run with tidal pools on the left and Martha’s Vineyard on the right and there is always plenty of water station.  Passing mile four, I was in my groove. But it was getting tough. The humidity was really steaming things up. I had to remove my sunglasses (it’s another story as to why I was actually wearing them) as it was starting to get hard to breathe.

By mile five, I was headed around the Falmouth Harbor. The crowds were huge. Screaming. Garden hoses spraying runners, it was all fun. But not for me. I had to pace myself for the final kick. I was about a minute or two off my pace of reaching my goal to break 59 minutes.

By the 10K mark, I was still feeling fine, but I had this funny feeling that the final kick was going to be tough to find. The seventh mile marker seemed so far away. The resistance of the treadmill I was stuck on winning the battle.

Those familiar with Falmouth know that the final one-tenth of a mile is pure torture. It’s a roller coaster series of hills where once you reach one summit, expecting to see the finish line just a few yards away, yet another series of hills heading down towards Falmouth Center awaits.

I first learned of this little quirk during my first year as a volunteer, seeing a world class champ misjudge the final stretch and ran out of gas.  I saw first-hand the reigning Boston Marathon champ pass out at the finish line, showing me the difficulty a simple 7.1 could unleash on even the best of the best.

So here I was, cruising down the final leg of the race, waiting for the kick that never came. Gazing at the my watch which was counting closer and closer to my goal. But the heat took its toll. 

After running seven miles in about an hour, I came up just 10 seconds short of reaching my goal.  Disappointed, perhaps.  It was something that was certainly within reach.

But when Olympic gold medal champion Frank Shorter called it “the toughest Falmouth Road Race of them all,” I feel pretty good for what I did. 

Hope Street, here I come.