19-01-2015, 11:36 AM
“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”
― Ernest Hemingway
Here’s the thing about lost fitness. We worry about muscles, or lack of them. We fret over pace and staying the distance. In reality, fitness is all about lung capacity, the ability to inhale huge amounts of air to feed the furnace. Everything else is fine-tuning.
Two miles into a three mile race my lungs felt like party balloons out of the packet. They simply would not inflate. I’d stopped to suck the still, heavy air. I gulped, desperate, a fish stranded in a fast-flowing river of runners. Limbs loosened as my blood filled and my war machine rumbled back into life. On, on.
We’d risen before dawn, we merry band of CWD runners and supporters. The 17th Key West Half Marathon starts at 07:00 sharp, the 5K thirty minutes later. Resplendent in our team shirts, Team Head cycled to the start. Cycling is the thing in these parts. The island is, for the most part, pancake flat. Roads are usually littered with tourists and pedlars, a minefield for drivers. You can circumnavigate the place in little over thirty minutes on a push iron, even the simple, rented breed, such as ours. No gears, reverse pedal brakes, cute basket for carrying water, towel and swim wear. All part of the timeless charm of this special place.
Ah, race morning, I have missed you! Pinning on my number, pulling on my shoes. The rise of excited voices as light leaks into a blue-black sky. Cheerful announcements, warm-up music, chatter, chatter, chatter. Hugs, selfies, group shots, the exchange of brave talk, post-race plans, the cheerful trading of ailments. The call to arms, the off!
The 5K course took Duval, the town’s main street, east for many blocks. Garish galleries rubbed shoulders with run-down bars, all stood silent and dark at this early hour. Supporters peppered the sidewalks, clapping and whooping as we swept by. I’d started too fast, of course. How else? I had no pace planned, no strategy. This was a ‘get round’ run, the only objective to finish, hopefully on both legs. With no zephyr to counter the steadily rising warmth the air surrounded us, heavy and moist. My forehead ran slick within five minutes. Five more and my knee, that knee, piped up, a low, dull ache. I tried to ignore it. No time for histrionics, knee. Pipe down.
Just after the first mile we swung right onto Olivia, right again onto Whitehead. Hemingway’s House loomed large to my left, the Six Toed Cat café to my right. Tall palms lined the road, spiny fronds dark against the softening sky, our guard of honour. Halfway down Whitehead my lungs shrivelled. My breathing, already too quick for comfort, got high and tight. I pulled up just shy of mile two and the unseemly wind-sucking commenced.
Once everything had slowed down, including the booming pulse in my ears, I set sail, finally remembering that breathing should dictate pace. I relaxed, took in the softly lightening view, thanked every marshal. We twisted and turned through Mallory Square, waving at the tiny faces peering down from the seven storey balconies of the monolithic cruise ship berthed alongside. A few more switch-backs, past Amigos, my favourite Cuban Coffee outlet, and on into the finishing funnel. I could see Jake and Mrs S just past the big blue arch. They yelled me on and I put on a finish, arms outstretched, triumphant.
[attachment=2889]
Relief.
Air. Water. No leg pain. Sweaty hugs. Bliss.
Post-run goodies included bagel quarters with peanut butter and jelly, a pint of Michelob Ultra (at 8am!), dog-tags for the 5k (the Half medal looks wonderful and includes a wine stopper dangling beneath) and the most colourful finisher’s shirts I’ve seen. Hats off to the race orgaisers, the volunteers, the wonderful dreadlocked MC at the finish, and most of all, as ever, to the marshals. I'll be back.
We stayed to cheer the team home, nine runners all told, four completing the Half. My old Garmin shows 27’51”, race gun-time 28’ and change, finishing 9th out of 29 in my age bracket. The numbers mean nothing. Completing a run, albeit as a sweaty, heaving mess? That means a lot.
― Ernest Hemingway
Here’s the thing about lost fitness. We worry about muscles, or lack of them. We fret over pace and staying the distance. In reality, fitness is all about lung capacity, the ability to inhale huge amounts of air to feed the furnace. Everything else is fine-tuning.
Two miles into a three mile race my lungs felt like party balloons out of the packet. They simply would not inflate. I’d stopped to suck the still, heavy air. I gulped, desperate, a fish stranded in a fast-flowing river of runners. Limbs loosened as my blood filled and my war machine rumbled back into life. On, on.
We’d risen before dawn, we merry band of CWD runners and supporters. The 17th Key West Half Marathon starts at 07:00 sharp, the 5K thirty minutes later. Resplendent in our team shirts, Team Head cycled to the start. Cycling is the thing in these parts. The island is, for the most part, pancake flat. Roads are usually littered with tourists and pedlars, a minefield for drivers. You can circumnavigate the place in little over thirty minutes on a push iron, even the simple, rented breed, such as ours. No gears, reverse pedal brakes, cute basket for carrying water, towel and swim wear. All part of the timeless charm of this special place.
Ah, race morning, I have missed you! Pinning on my number, pulling on my shoes. The rise of excited voices as light leaks into a blue-black sky. Cheerful announcements, warm-up music, chatter, chatter, chatter. Hugs, selfies, group shots, the exchange of brave talk, post-race plans, the cheerful trading of ailments. The call to arms, the off!
The 5K course took Duval, the town’s main street, east for many blocks. Garish galleries rubbed shoulders with run-down bars, all stood silent and dark at this early hour. Supporters peppered the sidewalks, clapping and whooping as we swept by. I’d started too fast, of course. How else? I had no pace planned, no strategy. This was a ‘get round’ run, the only objective to finish, hopefully on both legs. With no zephyr to counter the steadily rising warmth the air surrounded us, heavy and moist. My forehead ran slick within five minutes. Five more and my knee, that knee, piped up, a low, dull ache. I tried to ignore it. No time for histrionics, knee. Pipe down.
Just after the first mile we swung right onto Olivia, right again onto Whitehead. Hemingway’s House loomed large to my left, the Six Toed Cat café to my right. Tall palms lined the road, spiny fronds dark against the softening sky, our guard of honour. Halfway down Whitehead my lungs shrivelled. My breathing, already too quick for comfort, got high and tight. I pulled up just shy of mile two and the unseemly wind-sucking commenced.
Once everything had slowed down, including the booming pulse in my ears, I set sail, finally remembering that breathing should dictate pace. I relaxed, took in the softly lightening view, thanked every marshal. We twisted and turned through Mallory Square, waving at the tiny faces peering down from the seven storey balconies of the monolithic cruise ship berthed alongside. A few more switch-backs, past Amigos, my favourite Cuban Coffee outlet, and on into the finishing funnel. I could see Jake and Mrs S just past the big blue arch. They yelled me on and I put on a finish, arms outstretched, triumphant.
[attachment=2889]
Relief.
Air. Water. No leg pain. Sweaty hugs. Bliss.
Post-run goodies included bagel quarters with peanut butter and jelly, a pint of Michelob Ultra (at 8am!), dog-tags for the 5k (the Half medal looks wonderful and includes a wine stopper dangling beneath) and the most colourful finisher’s shirts I’ve seen. Hats off to the race orgaisers, the volunteers, the wonderful dreadlocked MC at the finish, and most of all, as ever, to the marshals. I'll be back.
We stayed to cheer the team home, nine runners all told, four completing the Half. My old Garmin shows 27’51”, race gun-time 28’ and change, finishing 9th out of 29 in my age bracket. The numbers mean nothing. Completing a run, albeit as a sweaty, heaving mess? That means a lot.