Running Downhill: Season of the 5K Itch, Part 3 – You Can’t Always Get What You Want

When people want a serious running challenge, they do a marathon or, increasingly, a half-marathon. The 5K? Not so much, but let me assure you; if you give it a chance, the 5K will seriously kick your butt.

At the beginning of the year, I made it a goal to break 17 minutes at the Longest Day 5K in June. With the right training and some good tune-up races, I figured that, barring injury, a sub-17 was inevitable, but after months of pretty concerted effort, I wasn’t quite so sanguine. I’d done four tune-up 5Ks and, throwing out my first bleary-eyed 17:33, I’d run a 17:01 and two 17:08s. Honestly, I’d thought I’d see more progress than that over five months (if a 17:01, followed by two 17:08s can, in any way, be construed as “progress”).

But now the real test was nigh.

In the days before the Longest Day race, I take things pretty easy. My daughters are in the last week of school, and, per our tradition, we celebrate daily with chocolate shakes at Sophie’s Cosmic Cafe. They’re solid shakes, too, with 12 ounces of pure ice cream. On Tuesday, I run quarters on the track with flat results. Last Sunday’s race is still in the legs, which should come as no surprise. I start to wonder why I ran that race, but I’m confident that I’ll feel fresh come race day. Friday — race day — arrives. The legs feel decent. I jump on the bathroom scale: 143.6 pounds, up three since Monday. I’m hoping it’s all glycogen, but physics assures me that cutting out 30 miles of running and adding daily milkshakes could have something to do with it.

The race is scheduled for 6:45 p.m. It’s a mild evening, just a breath of wind and I jog from my house to the start location. I’m sluggish, which I put down to the time of day and the couple of hours spent sitting around in gridlock. Olympians might spend race day resting, but mere mortals still have to haul coal.

The race director calls everyone to the start. The gun goes and runners surge off the line, charging downhill and around a bend. I’m focussing on not blowing the race in the opening kilometre. Ninety seconds in and it still feels like a mad, horror-movie sprint. Ahead, I spot masters ace Catherine Watkins. On her flank is Sabrina Wilke and right with them are two fellow half-centenarians, both speedy, both looking fit. I need to be with that foursome so I surge up to them. Catherine and Sabrina lead us along the West Mall, a barely perceptible long uphill. I’m feeling easy and light. I tell myself that’s what it’s like in the zone: easy and light, like angels, if angels didn’t have wings and had to run to get anywhere. Then I stumble on a speed bump and I’m jolted from my reverie. Easy and light? We’re in a 5K, not a marathon. Easy equals slow. I should be hurting.

A sharp right up an incline and there’s the 2K mark. I glance at my watch. It slaps me hard: 6:42. The last K was uphill, but not that uphill. I surge ahead and Catherine jumps onto my pace, as the others slip back. Push up to the flat; navigate some corners.

Catherine glides ahead. I’m emptying the tanks to stay with her. She reels in a runner who ups his pace and they inch away. So what, I tell myself. I’m racing the clock, there’s no need to dig deeper. Then I snap out of this quitter nonsense. Come on, four minutes left; hang tough!

Finally, 4K. My watch, the enemy, is gloating: 13:40. Sub-17 is drifting from reach. We’re in the last straightaway before two turns to the finish. I inch past Catherine. A lanky twenty-something just ahead launches a long kick. Another young guy nearby fires up the afterburners, too. I have no such capacity. I’m a coal-fired locomotive, my boiler about to explode. I round the final corner, making weird strangled noises.

Then its done. I shuffle towards the refreshments, shaking hands, patting backs, uncertain of my time.

I watch other runners finishing and wait maybe 10 minutes for results to be posted. People cluster around them. I finally get close enough to squint at the sheet of paper. Geoff Martinson won in 14:33; no surprise there. And there’s Catherine’s name with “17:02” beside it. I finished just in front of her, but my name’s missing. I head to the timekeeper to tell him. “Oh, those are preliminary,” he says. “the next set’ll be accurate.”

Another ten minutes; muscles cooling, back tightening. I should leave, I tell myself, and check online tomorrow. I hesitate a bit longer. Then updated results get posted.

There it is: after six months of focus devoted to breaking 17:00, I’ve run… 17:00. Not 17:01. Not 16:59. 17:00. Well, that kind of sucks.

I think about my recently acquired milkshake flub. I wonder about those scheduled 18-milers that, too often of late, turned into 14-milers. I consider the wisdom of racing a 5K the Sunday before. I imagine that most coaches would have advised against that. Then I shrug and start a lazy jog home. 17:00, 18:00, 16:00, 14:00: does it matter, really? I’ve run more races by June than I ever have and had fun doing it. What’s more, I learned just how hard it is to run the “perfect” 5K. I’m done with 5Ks for this year, but there’s always next year. And if I do manage to break 17 minutes in 2015, I just might celebrate with a chocolate shake, after the race.