Back in the Running

Alas, back out of late; reflections on my racing life

Unless you are a runner (or have interest in and knowledge of racing), please choose one of the following: 1) pass on this piece, 2) gloss over the stats, 3) read the footnotes first.

Backstory: good riddance

For three years, off and on, in three-or-four-month stints, from age 44–47, I ran four miles daily, two each to-and-from the Oak Grove subway station. In my past life, I had a real job — and a husband, whom I ran with.

“Dick” was a tough coach: he had me do sprints, hills, and HILLS, to the point that every few months I’d say: “Screw running — I’m done,” only to get sucked back into it after a few months’ vacation.

Meanwhile, Dick continually proved himself to be aptly named. Finally, in 2004, I said, “Screw you — and running too — I’m done.” I divorced myself from both forthwith.

In those days, I was mediocre at best

I used to place in the bottom half of my cohort. Back then, the top ten of each age group were listed online; my name was never amongst them. Until one day, Dick — after viewing the race sponsor’s website — exclaimed that not only had I made the top ten — I was ninth!

I hurried to the computer. I was indeed ninth — ninth of nine. Dick chortled as I looked, crestfallen, to find that not only was I last — I was a very distant last.

Check out how I got revenge

Pardon the digression: resuming …

My race pace in those days was 8–40-ish. Perhaps it would have come down had I not taken several extended hiatuses. Regardless, I was done. At age 47. I’d originally hoped to eke it out to 50, at which point, in a field of five, I might just manage to place (third) once in a while. As it was, having quit, that hope was rendered moot.

(Not-so-)fast-forward eight years, to 2012

At mid-decade — “double nickels” — I was in a funk, triggered by the torturous imploding of a close friendship. When it finally ended, a short period of relief was followed by a prolonged period of grief.

I couldn’t bear sitting with such sorrow, so I ran from it. Literally. I figured that the misery of pounding the pavement to exhaustion would trump the misery pounding in my heart. And so it was that I ran faster than ever before.

Thus concludes this ironic tale

At 47, after months of four-miles-daily running with my ex-husband, my race pace was about 8:40.

At 57, after months of four-miles-daily not-walking with my ex-friend, my race pace was about 7:40.

I am generally snuggled quite comfortably amidst the top ten of my age group; indeed, I often place. I don’t miss my ex-husband. Despite shaving a minute off my pace in his absence, I do miss my ex-friend. He’s the best coach I never had.

This was written five years ago, in my erstwhile speed-demon days — the demon has long since deserted.

Runners’ lingo:

“Digital” language is typical amongst runners; hence my sundry departures from the convention of spelling out numbers less than 10.

5K stands for 5 kilometers; slightly more than 3.1 miles.

Race finish times are expressed in minutes(colon)seconds; e.g. 24:07.

Pace: number of MM:SS it takes to run a mile; e.g. 7:46 (which equates to a 5K time of 24:07).

Racing medals are commonly awarded for each sex/age group; these typically are: Under 20; 20–29; 30–39… “F60–99” stands for the division: females, age 60 and up; some events include the category 70-plus; others stop at 50-plus.

Having “placed” in a race means to have come in first, second, or third in your (age/sex) division. If you come in first place, you may say that you “won” your division; I am loath to come across as immodest, so I decline to use the word “win” — especially when I’m the first of one.