Ricky Bobby On Course
OK, so what I came to learn later is the number signs were set up so the faster people — the ones who run a five or six or seven minute per mile pace — so they can start in front of the pack and not get mixed up with the 11 and 12 dregs. Is that right? I didn’t ever go look it up, but it makes sense now.
Because a few hundred yards out, I started getting passed. And not passed by the guys I see plodding on the beach. No, these were runners. They had watches and those slipper-type shoes that weigh nothing. They all had shorty shorts and lycra tanktops and muscles that can only come from have absolutely no life and no ability to enjoy sports that are actually fun.
They streamed by. Some were tall, others short, but these guys and gals were all lean and light on their feet. They had done this before. They had flown or driven in from somewhere else, likely very far away. This was not the street they lived on.
A mile later, I was still getting passed. I got passed and passed and passed. I guess technically, I probably never really passed anyone the whole morning. If the math checks out, and I was on my best day a nine-minute miler for three miles, but probably like an 11 or 12 over distance, then no one at any point who was slower than I am would have been in front of me.
But you know, who cared. It was beautiful out, the breeze from the south was steady, but not like hammering on me the way it does while running upwind on the beach some days. This might work out! I might finish in like four hours, which, by the math, is not bad at all.
I was cruising along. Not thirsty, not hungry, feeling right, and seemed like no time before we were nearing the First Flight monument. When I looked later, that put us right at about mile 10 or 12.
Some woman came up beside me, her feet in her Saucony’s so light and fleet that they barely made a sound. I bet she was jealous the way my kicks boldly announced every step with a gunshot-like report.
“First marathon?” she asked.
I smiled. I know how obvious it was. And it was OK for her to mock me. Because she didn’t understand what we were running into. Remember, I know this island.
The woman paced along with me for a bit, she checked her watch, and I had to ask.
“Do you mind?” I said, “Like, how fast is this? What kind of pace is this, for a mile?”
“Right at 8:15,” she replied. “Is that about right for you?”
That made me laugh. I didn’t know. I felt great. The rain was starting, and the last time I’d seen the waters of the sound the whitecaps were forming.
If you know anything about open water, you know exactly what wind speed it takes to form whitecaps.
But now we were a bit inland. More protection.
And I was settled in.
I was even starting, it seemed, to catch some people.
Later I’d see that I’d clocked the first half of the run in 1:50.
At that moment, I really could not see what was such a big deal about these races. Why were they so short? Why not make them longer so they’d be a little tougher? Maybe weed out a few weekend warriors so the pros wouldn’t have to run with people like me?
