Motivation is an odd thing.
It was seven years ago that my life changed, at least temporarily. On July 20, 2017, I was hit by a drunk driver. I was at work, driving a UPS truck on my relatively new route in Westport, MA. At about 3 o'clock, I was preparing to back into a driveway on East Beach Road when a car going about 50 miles per hour came barrelling around the corner in the wrong lane. He hit the front part of my truck, the driver's side. I was out of work for about a year. Eventually, I was back on my feet. My running career slowed, but I was able to resume this sport that I have grown to love.
COVID stopped all races as I started running again, which gave me plenty of time to look over races that may or may not be back after the pandemic. One race that immediately caught my eye was the Horseneck Half Marathon in Westport, MA. The course runs right over the spot where the accident occurred. My fitness at the time was nowhere near the level that it needed to be to run thirteen miles, so I filed this under the long-term goal file and moved on.
Fast-forward to the spring of 2024. I had just completed the New Bedford Half Marathon and felt confident enough in my fitness and training to register for the Horseneck. Okay, here we go.
Sunday, May 19, 2024, starts early with the usual pre-half morning routine. I leave the house very early, with a slight mist falling. Typically, a slight mist and cool temperatures signal great running weather. However, I am obsessing with my lack of water protection for my phone. Eventually, these thoughts simmer down, and my thoughts turn to how far away the starter area is from the Route 88 exit on I-195. It also occurred to me that in almost forty years of living in the area, I had never been to Horseneck Beach, one of the most popular beaches in the area.
My arrival time seems comfortable. I hit the port-a-john, and then I experience something of a racing anomaly. I always race alone and rarely run into anyone I know, so I was surprised when I was warmly greeted by one of my former co-workers, Joe. He seemed surprised that I was doing the half (there was also a 3½ mile race that started simultaneously), but by looking at me, who wouldn't be surprised. We wished each other luck and moved on.
I saw the finish line arch and thought it would be a brilliant place to warm up. Oh, big mistake. After a few minutes, I realized that no one was gathering at the arch. I finish my warmup, and panic sets in. Here is some advice for fellow runners; always know where the starting line is. I had a mini panic attack and an extra warmup, but I managed to find the start just as the National Anthem was playing. Catch your breath for about ninety seconds, and the horn goes.
I am employing the Galloway run/walk/run method like I have in previous races. However, today, I go with a forty-five-second run segment. This proves tricky for the first mile; we are running on state route 88, a busy extension that leads to the beach. The runners are confined to a tiny part of the road that is cordoned off and the sidewalk. Trying my best to both carve-out space and stay out of the way of my fellow runners. This goes on for about 1½ miles; I happily make the first turn onto Drift Road at a respectable 19:30.
Drift Road continues for about a little over 3 miles. It is a mixture of very minimal rolling hills and flat track, although there is no prolonged straightaway at any point. Nothing looked overly familiar from my UPS route. However, I could grasp the basic "lay of the land." There were several homes on this street, but most of the residences were tucked away on many private streets that intersected the main drag. This being the case, I was somewhat surprised to see a fair amount of spectators lining the route. Some were cheering on specific runners, but most were just taking in the run in a subdued manner. I noticed two particular supporters; a woman who looked to be in her late twenties and her daughter who looked about six. The child had a sign that said, "Keep going, you can do it," while the mom kept clapping for us. Four and three-quarter miles under an hour (58:05) and still feeling pretty good.
The right onto Hixbridge Road features the most technical part of the course, the East River Bridge hill. At its worst, it is a 5% grade, but it tricks you into thinking you have fully ascended, only to present you with more (albeit less steep) incline. There is a sharp decline as soon as you make the turn, which I took full advantage of with a quick pace. I banked some time and cheated walking up the hill more than I was supposed to, but it seemed to work out pretty well. 5.8 miles at 1:12 was as good as I could have hoped for. I feel a little fatigued, but taking another right gives me a little mental boost.
Horseneck Road will continue for about five miles. It is extremely flat and differs from Drift Road in the fact that several businesses line the street. I remember a brewery, a farm, a boat repair facility, a nursery, a restaurant, and a bed and breakfast. My memory is only acute enough to use these landmarks in terms of ambiguous pace and distance, but I'll take anything in terms of a "yeah, you passed that" moment. First up is the brewery, where no fans are waving free beer signs. Heck, no fans.
I hit the seven-mile mark with some soreness and fatigue kicking in, but at 1:28, I was looking at about a 2:40 finish, which was at the wrong end of my goal time. I see the same mother and child cheerleading duo, still enthusiastically lending their support, bringing a much-needed smile to my face. I am also going to try something completely new in my racing career; a gel. I did try consuming gummy bears at the New Bedford Half (on the County Street Hill, no less), but I found them difficult to swallow, and it disrupted any sense of rhythm that I had at that point in the race. I did not know if it would help, how it would taste, how my body would react, and what to do with the empty wrapper. The answers are in order: It did seem to give me a slight boost rather quickly. The gel tasted like vanilla cake frosting, so much so that I squeezed out every drop. I felt a slight twinge of digestive discomfort, but it was nothing that a double hit at the next water station could not cure. Finally, I put the empty package in my pocket, only to have the non-consumed sticky goo leak all over my snappy new green shorts. Three out of four ain't bad.
At the ten-mile mark, the nursery comes into view, and I am checking in at 2:06. My hope of beating 2:40 is rapidly fading; however, the prospects of finishing under my self-proclaimed "that's pathetic even for a senior citizen like you" demarcation (3 hours) seem almost in the bag. I have one walking during the running break, and while my pace has definitely slowed, I feel like I still have something in the tank. I choose not to break open my second gel and get that rush of confidence as I pass the rest of the businesses on Horseneck Road. 10.8 miles at 2:15.
The right turn onto East Beach Road is peculiar. I have somewhat lost my bearings since I am unsure how far the final turn is. The road is in great disrepair, and in some spots, there are piles of rocks that must be avoided. It seems like there is more traffic. The runners that I have been hanging with are pulling away. And I keep a very close eye on the house numbers, waiting for the spot where I got hit.
202 East Beach Road is where the accident occurred. I am looking for a small paper street that comes before the impact point, but I can't find it. I searched for the road markings that the accident reconstruction team drew (and there were many of them), but there were none. Finally, I took a long look at the house, double-checked the number, and found it. 202. No triggering. No upsetting impacts. No bad flashbacks. I am taking that as a great sign! I snap a photo of the house, double-check for road markings, and continue the race. 1.4 miles to go.
I take the final right onto West Beach Road at 2:30, with 1¼ miles to go. My rhythm is about gone; I am running less and walking more with no actual cadence. I have never been to this part of the beach before; the small dead-end road turns into a parking area for campers. I had no idea this existed. I think the fact that the geography was so new to me helped me get over the line; my mind was focusing on all this new scenery, and my legs were starting to feel like iron. The camper area turned into a narrow pathway with a few hardy beachgoers hanging around. Getting close.
There was a sharp right turn, which I was not expecting, but to hear someone shout, "C'mon, the finish is around the bend," perked me beyond words. She was correct; a sharp left, and the finish arc, which I had mistaken for the starting line about three hours ago, was in plain view. There were still a few cheering spectators, among them the mother and daughter duo that had stopped at various points on the route. They got a thumbs-up for sure. A clenched fist crossing at 2:46 meant that this was not my worst time at a half marathon, but it was the first one where I passed the medal handouts with a blank stare. (Yes, I went back and got one.). It was satisfying.
I skipped the complementary post-race adult beverage. I went to church. It was a good day.
