"Wow, that was a really good idea. I should do that." A blog entry with an introduction like that would lead one to believe that the contents of said blog entry would be positive, uplifting, or, at the very least, not disastrous. Well. not this time. Let me travel back about a month, to the last day of May, to set all of this up.
I had just completed a run of 6 kilometers at my usual spot on the local reservoir. When I completed the run, I noticed a pain in the back of my knee; it was not knockout stabbing painful, but it was definitely more than slight, and it was entirely new and coming out of nowhere. Still, I chalked it up to running too far on an Uneven surface and figured it would be okay to take a typical lengthed run soon. That being said, I took about two weeks off.
My next run came about 17 days later, a routine four-miler at my favorite spot by the reservoir. There was a twinge of pain in my left knee, but again, nothing set off alarm bells, and I figured my extended rest period did the trick. Aren't I the optimist?
I was now more concerned with my lack of fitness than my potential orthopedic issues, so I drove down to my favorite running spot on the Cape Cod Canal two days later. I felt fine during my warmup run, but felt a slight knee pain doing some side strides, which I foolishly ignored. After about 3 minutes (yes, that's right, only three minutes), I felt a gripping pain in the back of my knee that brought me to an immediate stop. What's worse, I had to limp back ½ mile to my car. I could barely walk when I returned to my car and drove home. A visit to urgent care later that afternoon brought about a diagnosis of nothing serious but RICE (Rest, ice, compression, elevation), ibuprofen, and no running for the foreseeable future.
The doctor's orders were followed, and again, my knee improved quickly. I was able to ZWIFT frequently, which helped with my fitness, and I did "test". my knee with a few walks with no major problems. I awoke at 5:00 in the morning and got ready to run the Peachtree 10K road race in Atlanta, thinking more about the coveted t-shirt than any injury problems.
Now, we can successfully circle back to the beginning of the post. I arrived at the Lindbergh MARTA station at around 7:00 and spotted several port-a-johns close to the subway entrance. If you know what I mean, I decided to take FULL ADVANTAGE of this stroke of good fortune. When I blissfully exited and made my way to the shuttle bus, a young woman used the quote in the first sentence. I am unsure if she was speaking directly to me or simply thinking out loud, but suddenly, I felt this would be a good omen. It was the last one of the day.
The shuttle bus left on its usual route and got stuck in the regular traffic. What was unusual was the amount of time it languished in this traffic. The drop-off point was still a fair distance from the starting area, and you could feel the tension rising among the riders, especially those in an earlier starting wave. When we finally got to exit (no where near the original drop off point) the stress was now more audible. Some participants even ran to the starting line. Bad omen.
I still had what I thought was a decent amount of time before I started when I arrived at the first bank of port-a-johns. The lines were long, and they did not seem to be moving. After about a half dozen runners exited various loos screaming, "There's no toilet paper!! Is there any toilet paper??" the reason became quite clear. It was also here that I realized that I had left my gel packs at home. Bad omen.
I did manage a warmup, and my knee still felt okay. However, I lost my bearings in the start area. There is usually an intersection with drinks, port-a-johns, and areas to warm up and socialize, but I seemed to have missed it and got herded directly into my starting wave. I felt thirsty, but I could only see half-empty water bottles. Bad omen.
The start of the Peachtree is absolutely exhilarating. The vast crowd, the DJ blasting loud thumping music, the gigantic American flag flying above the starting line, and the announcer counting down the time until your starting time and working the crowd at the same time. Adrenaline was flowing through my veins, and at that point, I really thought I could pull this off. Yes, my time would probably be poor, but no DNFs. I would score that T-shirt. I can't put BANG because the starting gun is actually an air horn, but I was off, albeit walking at the start because of the crowd.
My Jeffing tactics were simple, and I thought they would give me the best chance of finishing. 45/30 (45 seconds of running followed by 30 seconds of walking) for the first 3 miles, then a switch to 30/30 at any point where I felt like I was running out of gas. This worked well for the first mile; I had a sub-12-minute mile, which I did not expect.
The first sign of trouble occurred slightly after one mile. I was already feeling the effects of the heat and humidity; I knew hydration would be significant. I saw a hydration station passing out bottles of an electrolyte substance, but I missed the smooth pickup. I stopped and doubled back for a bottle and felt a slight soreness in the back of my knee. Just enough to put me on alert. Ironically, this is where I started to also feel the need to empty my 63-year-old bladder. I slowed the pace down but was still in the game.
Another mile passes at a slightly slower pace. I can feel soreness around my knee mounting, but I also find passing 3K encouraging, knowing that I have pushed through one-third of the race. And I also spy a group of port-a-johns with a very small line. A quick pit stop, and back up a small hill and unto the main course. Going up the incline cancels the very wonderful feeling of a freshly emptied bladder; I feel that soreness growing until a tight, stabbing constriction grabs the rear of my leg. I limp over to a MARTA bus bench, in pain and not really knowing what to do. I'm sitting on this bench in a great deal of pain, and my biggest concern is not finishing. I guess I am a runner.
I don't know how long I spent on the bench. A kind man from the hydration station brought me some water and what I believed to be some encouragement in Spanish. A police officer started to ask me some questions about how I felt, but once she radioed in my age, gender, and condition, I decided to try to tough it out and limped (literally) back into the race.
I spent the next ninety minutes walking, sulking, and taking in all of the festivities that I just could not get behind. It was discouraging looking ahead and watching the great throngs of humanity running the course while I limped along, trying to stay out of the way. The only good news was that the pain in my knee did seem to subside slightly as the race went on, and I was able to pick up some speed. But as I crossed the finish line in front of Piedmont Park, it seemed like a hollow victory.
I did get my finisher's peach (unlike last year) and the coveted Peachtree 10K t-shirt, even though I had to navigate an unorganized, extra-large waiting line. I found my tribe and pretty much packed it in; my son-in-law found a parking spot near the finish line, so after a few finisher photos, it was time to go.
No pictures this year.
But plenty of motivation for next year. See you soon.
