One Mile Thoughts

Well, I ran my first one mile race.  I really didn't know what to expect, the shortest race distance I had ever ran was five-kilometres. I have run a few marathons under my belt and a bunch of distances between the two, but never a mile.

The two questions I get are first, "Have you run a marathon?" and the second is "How fast can you run a mile?" I don't know why but I get that dumb look when I say, "I don't know", to the second question. It's almost as if you'd have to be stupid not to know that. Well, I didn't, because I had never ran one. It was that simple.

We had just finished the Foot Tools sponsored eight-kilometre weekly run and as usual I tried to stay with the rabbits. I failed miserably. I'm cooling down, when out of the blue, John asks, "Mark, how fast can you run a mile?"

"I don't know, this would be the first," I quip back with my standard answer.

"Good, here's an opportunity," John says. Oh how I have learned to hate "opportunities". "The store is holding a one mile race at the end of the month. Time to put that training to the test."

Being a firm believer in Mark's Rule for Runners: You don't have to be smart to be a runner, I agree to join in. I plunk down my money and have Paula fill out the form. Paula is fast and has been a running partner over the winter, pushing me faster than I thought possible. I have her fill out the form because my glasses are in the car and I can't read it in the store light. She takes all the usual information and asks that dreaded question, one more time, "So, how fast do you think you can run it? I need to know to put you in the right heat."

Put to the question, I have to give a real answer. "Well, I haven't run in a timed mile before, but my running log spreadsheet says I should be in the 6:00 to 5:45 range. But the formula is out at the far ends of the prediction curve."

Paula looks at me, squints a little and puts down 5:45 on the sheet. Damn. It's on paper, it's real. Now I have to hit that number. A prediction is only hot air until you tell some one, then it develops a life of it's own. This one did for me.

Wednesday evening, I spend time playing with the clock to get it working and run entries to the timer-dude, all to avoid having to warm up. I know that I don't warm up enough for most races and never for anything over 10 k. I also know that because of the distance, I have to do a warm up to be ready to explode and hold the pace when the whistle blows (no starter's pistol, the race is in a residential neighbourhood and besides, we're Canadian). I ask Paula as we setup the orange cones that mark the last quarter mile of the course. "Just a gentle warm up jog before the race. Once around the course should do it," she says.

So, following coaches orders, I do an easy spin around the course to warm up the legs. I finish, stretch and walk to the start line in time for the kid's mile.

What a hoot watching the five to fourteen-year-olds run. Some with teeth clenched, some with big smiles. That's the way it should be, running should be fun. The last runner, a little blond girl, maybe six, passes by running with her mother, on the way to the finish, waving at the people clapping.

I joke with a couple of other competitors, most of them lying about how fast they will be running, all of them quoting high numbers. I'm not sure if it's to psych out the competition into running too fast, or to mask jitters, or to have an excuse should the wheels fall off during the race.

Paula, with the official starters whistle and cell phone (to signal the timer with), gets the runners in the male open, women's open and women's elite groups lined up. She makes a joke and counts us down. I'm at the back of the pack, where I belong.

I know about half the runners in this mixed group of thirty runners. My plan is to run 1:25 quarters and pray that I can hold on for the last one. John Falkner, one of the F.O.B.'s (Fast Old Bastard) joins me at the back. John is fast and he's giving me some story about being injured again and not even wearing his racing flats. I look down and see he's wearing trail shoes. I've tried running with this gentleman on numerous occasions, where he has played with me like a cat does a mouse. He flies up hills faster than I can thunder down them. Yeah, like trail shoes are going to slow him down significantly.

The whistle blows and we all take off in a cloud of foot falls and a chorus of stopwatch beeps. The first one hundred metres are faster than I planned and by the time we hit the quarter mile marker I'm well back in the pack and falling behind the leaders, but my watch says that I'm doing OK, 1:20.

I hold on and cut the pace a hair, not letting the people ahead throw me off my game plan. The second turn and then the half-mile marker comes into view. I'm starting to feel the lungs burn and my body start to fade a little as I pass the marker. 2:45, I'm doing OK, not feeling as good as I hoped, but I'm still in the game.

I start to dig deep, holding John off, who I know is trying to play with my head. He's just off my right hip and I can hear the pitter-patter of his foot steps.

I catch and pass my first runner at this point, an older gentleman from the Hamilton Harriers with grey hair tied back in a pony tail. Before this point all the runners were passing me. I see a couple of young ladies ahead and they are both fading as well. I concentrate on form, hand movement, rhythm and running on the balls of my feet. My breathing is starting to drag at the back of my throat. Inhaling is becoming difficult.

As I pass the three-quarter mile marker, I focus on the girls in front of me. I don't even bother to check the watch, I'm too close to the end. Now, it's just a matter of holding on as long and hard as I can. I pass first one of them before the last turn and the other on the other side of the turn. My throat is on fire and my breathing is heaving out of sync with my leg movement, not a good sign. I've dropped in to mode-du-pant with talons clawing at the inside of my neck, like some small animal trying to escape. I'm digging as deep as I ever have before and while I'm not coming up dry, I am just holding my pace.

The course finishes in front of the Aldershot High School, so the final fifty yards drops a little bit. I am oblivious to everything except that finish line, and I reach even further for a gear that isn't there. John passes me somewhere between the top of this hill and the finish line, but I didn't even notice, I'm so focused on finishing. The last 20 yards, my throat burns like I've never experienced before and my vision starts to fade. A grey mist covers my eyes and I try to focus on the duct tape finish line.

Just as I think that I can't hold this pace any longer, blessed relief attends me. OK, so they were the finish chute workers not angels, but I survive none the less and cross the finish line. I even remember to hit the stop button on my watch. Stumbling footsteps take me to the water and refreshment tent. Wracking gasps of air still sears my lungs and makes it difficult to open the spigot on the water jug. My aim with the paper cup is less than perfect but I get enough in to start putting out the fire. Coughs, sputters and another cup of water (gargled this time) help ease things and I'm almost back to normal ten minutes after I cross the finish.

I hobble back to the street with another cup of water to watch the elite men run their race. David Kiptarus is poetry in motion. How come he doesn't look like he is in agony when finishes first in a time of 4:14? I scream at Rory Sneyd, one of the Wednesday evening runners, to quit looking behind him, but he's not listening. Shane Lavell beats him out at the finish line by a half a step for third place. The small crowd roars as Ed Whitlock, the second to last runner in the elite group finishes. Sixty-nine and he still runs a 5:26. Wow!

With the various heats over, all of the spectators and participants head over to the refreshment tent to eat, drink and congratulate each other on their performances. We don't have to wait long for final results to be posted.

I wait for the crowd to disburse before I take my turn to check. Hmm... Out of twenty-four runners in the male open class, I place twentieth, with a time of 05:50.38. I did it, made my prediction. I don't think I've ever felt any worse at any race I've done, but it does feel good to accomplish something in unknown territory.

Now I know and can say with confidence that I'm a sub six-minute miler. However, I vow to never run a mile race again, it just hurts too much.

As I sit here typing the day after the race, my throat still hurts and I'm still coughing up phlegm.

I was out at lunch doing an easy six kilometres with Pat and she asked if I'd do it again.

"I'll pass," I answer, "it just hurts too damn much. I think I'll stick to five kilometre's and longer. They're much less painful."

"Sure," she says, "that's what you say now. You'll run it again next year, just to prove you can."

Remember the Rule For Runners? She's probably right.

By Mark G. Collis

Revised: December 24, 2003.