Race Report: March Madness Biathlon… & Scotland Run 10K

Sunday morning I spent a lot of time in Central Park. Too bad it was still cold, and though the temperature was right about 27 degrees it still felt pretty chilly even with multiple layers on. No, I did not do the biathlon, though if I had my bike act together it would’ve been a nice event to enter. It involved two miles of running followed by two bike loops of the park, or 12 miles, plus another 2 mile run. The finish deadline for the 800 competitors was two hours, so it wasn’t a real killer, or at least didn’t seem like it to me (though I kept my mouth shut about the perceived easiness of the course while cheering on the racers). I did get to watch the transitions, see what gear people were throwing around, and watch some folks struggle on the final 2-mile run. The event was finished up by 9:30 so that the New York Road Runners could start the Scotland Run at 10. The Scotland Run caps off Scotland Week in New York, a celebration of bagpipes and shortbread and red plaid outfits and shit.

So onto the observations. One problem I noticed in the biathlon was with such a short time spent on the run before folks started hitting their bikes, the bike transition area was soon jammed, and it quickly became survival of the fittest. I saw one guy stop, sit down and block a whole aisle while he leisurely put on his bike shoes, and I was amazed angry racers weren’t pelting him with CO2 canisters. Granted, this was no hot shit Ironman competition, but it seemed a bit cramped and haphazard. I also noticed that the quality of the bikes slowly descended from ‘Terminator’ to ‘Big Wheel’ as the T1 time elapsed. Serious folks have serious rides, while the daytrippers are on bikes with banana seats and plastic tassles on the handlebars. Sure, I exaggerate, but not much. And I’m not criticizing anybody, but I didn’t see many speed records hit while people were running. I thought I’d at least see one 5:30 minute/mile runner, but not in this event, not even close. Those 5:30 folks were just waking up to run a 10K somewhere else.

As the event went on, I made it to the west side to cheer people on, part of my ‘pay it back’ campaign that helps competitors and engenders good karma for my later races. I saw a couple of guys I knew, which is always good when it’s 27 degrees and your standing on the side of the road and clapping like a wind-up monkey toy. Before it got old, the whole thing was over, and everybody was back at the start at the Loeb Boathouse. I had a half hour to get over to Tavern on the Green, near where the 10K was to start.

And unlike the small family feel I had experienced at the biathlon, the race start was pandemonium. Nearly 7000 runners had come out and were jamming the drives, and the starting gun/booty call made it even more insane. It was still cold, but warmer now in the sun, and I positioned myself not too far from the front of the line. After what I believed to be a bagpipe version of the National Anthem and some muffled, fast-food drive-through remarks from officials, we took off heading north to complete one loop of the park.

And of course, there’s the usual 15-minute per mile runners with headphones, walkers, etc., who get right up front at every race so the rest of us nearly kill ourselves when we nearly run them over in the first few minutes. Later this month, the NYRR will be instituting pace corrals based on previous finish times in short races to combat this problem. This time I was lucky, I was not far from the front; running pal Susie was behind me, and it took her 5 minutes to get to the start line. Which is ridiculous.

Anyway, off we went. And before the race I had looked up my best 10K time. And wouldn’t you know I got it in my head that I could beat that 42 minutes with a little more effort and determination than I usually give in a short race. So no water stops for me, and this time I’m paying strict attention to pace. After a fast start, I discover my first mile was under 6:45; funny though, it didn’t feel so good.

It got worse. Halfway through I realized I was running a 10K at a 5K pace. I started getting nauseous every time I was speeding up a hill. Not good. You’ve heard the voices: ‘I really can stop if I want to, it’s not worth getting sick over’ followed by ‘but you made it this far’ and ‘only a few miles to go’. Only to have this inner conversation repeating in a sickening loop every time it gets horribly uncomfortable. And of course, f-bombs start popping up between the nouns and verbs.

I knew I had to slow down going up the small hills, and I NEVER do that, but it was better than having some bagpiper along the course watch me hurl. Bagpiper along the course, you say? The Scottish shit was hardcore out there, I’m tellin’ ya.

‘I’m not doing this again’, I announced as I got all Nietszchean and ‘that-what-does-not-kill-me-only-makes-me-stronger’ on my own sorry ass. Then I hit the 5-mile mark between 32 and 33 minutes and I STILL cannot do the proper math to figure out whether I’m running fast enough or not. All I know is I’m slowing down and people are passing me and I don’t care, which says something right there about my state of mental health at mile 5.

We finally, finally start to see the finish line coming into view ahead, it’s the same finish line as the marathon, and isn’t that fucking cute. There’s a damn incline right here, screw the New York Road Runners for not picking a flat finish to this race and all the other goddamn races we’ve run, too. Yes, your pal Cranky sure got testy, because it was A.F.T that the G.D. race was over.

And the clock says 40:26. Holy Shit! How did that happen? Well, you ran your ass off to the point of almost throwing up, you idiot. What did you expect? …I was still having private, internal ‘discussions’, obviously. Later on I found out I was 13th in my age group of 358 male runners, which is about as good as I can get. Had I gotten a sex change on Saturday, I would’ve been the 13th woman overall. See what happens to your brain on race day? You think up crazy shit.

So after racing twenty 10K races over the last decade, I cut a minute and a half off the old P.R. from ’04, the same Scotland Run at that. Nice. But what wasn’t nice was feeling morbidly ill during the race, and getting to the finish on sheer willpower. So let this be a cautionary tale: race, and I mean at or above a 90% effort, at your own peril. I have no regrets (not now, of course, I’m sitting at a keyboard eating double chocolate chip cookies and opining about something that happened yesterday). But as I tell myself and you as well, be careful what you do out there and what you wish for. All that ‘racing’ crap can get you into trouble.


One more thing, NO WAY I’m racing in Boston, three weeks from today. If I have to stop at Wellesley along the way for coffee and donuts, so be it. Screw Heartbreak Hill, I’m taking my time.

(Here are some biathlon photos just so you know it’s the same crap going on everywhere. The final photo is of the 10K start only; as you might imagine, I was cursing and swearing too much to create cuddly Kodak moments.)