As a Runner

In my lifetime, terrorists have threatened me as a New Yorker, as a first responder, as a Jew, as a teacher, and now as a runner. The common theme here is that none of these groups can be brought down so easily. Now I have all the more reason to go out on Sunday and kick ass for 13.1 miles, in 2 hours and 30 minutes, at about 11 minutes and 28 seconds per mile.

Last Saturday's run was phenomenal. It was one of those epic adventures that makes it worth running in the dark and rain and snow sometimes. It was supposed to be an easy 6-miler, so I could rest my muscles for next weekend. It didn't quite turn out like that.

I hoped to run the whole run at my goal pace (11:28/mile), to gain some badly needed confidence for the race. I started out a bit slower than that, not helped by a couple of red lights, but got into a comfortable rhythm. In fact, I zoned out enough, that as I approached a sharp downhill, I was too busy watching the street ahead that I missed a crack in the sidewalk. Suddenly, I felt myself flying too fast for my feet. I took one lurching step, then another, and went over. Luckily, I hit the grass beside the sidewalk with my shoulder, and stopped myself with my hand on the sidewalk. Out of sheer embarrassment, I picked my phone off the ground, re-strapped it to my arm, and assessed the damage on the move.

Most importantly, I don't think anyone say. I wasn't totally sure though, because a couple of firefighters were out fundraising in the street about a block back. An old man was strolling about 10 yards ahead of me, but he didn't even look back. Next, check the body. Legs fine and pain-free. Right palm scraped and bloody. By time I sorted that out, my average pace had dropped to 11:00/mi. Free adrenaline boost.

At this point, I had hyped up my fall so much in my head that I kept reliving an epic action movie-style dive roll, flipped back onto my feet, and kept on like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I wasn't too disappointed.

At this point, I realized that I could beat my 10K record from February 1, 2009 of 1:10:20 (11:14/mi). I wasn't supposed to be pushing it, but I felt so good (except the hand). I went another mile further, to the halfway point, and then turned back. On the way back, when I approached the strolling old man again, he stopped to clap and cheer me on. Go vampire slayer!

I kept pushing harder and harder (except for one more red light), because my hand stung more than my lungs or calves. I pushed through the last mile in 10 minutes, for a 10K personal record of 1:09:03!

I then enjoyed the reward of a hot, stinging shower, and the discovery that the inventor of alcohol swabs was the most evil human being in the history of the world. Cleaned up, bandaged up, and feeling like a million bucks.

My week required a little bit of adjustment: no handshakes, snaps, or claps for a couple of days. I am temped to explain to the kids how some inertia and friction worked against me.

My run was nothing compared to the awful adventure faced by the competitors in Boston on Monday. But, there's one thing I realized:

Nothing and nobody is going to stop me. Nothing and nobody is going to stop the stubborn and determined people who train to run 3.1, 6.2, 13.1, and 26.2 miles.