A harbinger of good things to come
10K Time Trial race report & other musings
My car speeds smoothly up winding mountain roads, hugging each curve as it passes near stunning mountain peaks laden with fresh snow. The leather steering wheel feels comfortable and precise in my hands, and I feel the thrill of effortless ascent up this beautiful canyon that I have come to love, knowing that I am gaining precious elevation that I will consume as I descend during my run.
The car is a bright
red Mazda6 with a white leather interior, a recent purchase that still feels
almost excessively luxurious to me. Some might call it a manifestation of a
mid-life crisis, but in truth, that stage of life passed me by some time ago!
The sky is
gloriously blue, the sun is bright and warm for early spring, and I am about to
begin a solo 10K time trial race down Monte Cristo canyon in northern Utah. My
sweet wife has agreed to drop me off at the gate that blocks vehicle traffic
from driving farther because the road is still snowbound at higher elevations. There
is an enormous gravel parking lot there that is a popular staging area for
snowmobilers, and some enthusiasts have already unloaded their machines and are
zipping madly through vast fields of pure white snow.
It is surely one
of God’s most beautiful creations – a tiny, feathered friend no bigger than my
fist. It is a delicate light blue with gray feathers underneath. In many
cultures, bluebirds are a symbol of happiness and joy, and they signify that
positive things are about to occur. Did it have meaning for me?
© Joshua Covill | Macaulay Library
As with so many
snap-happy smartphone users, I instantly feel the need for a photo! Very slowly
and cautiously, I reach for my phone to position it for the perfect pic. But
alas – the bluebird sees my movement and immediately flits away. However, the thrill
of the moment remains.
I gear up: Hoka
One One Carbon X shoes, Thorlos socks, Brooks Sherpa 2-in-1 shorts, REI merino
wool short-sleeve shirt, Garmin Forerunner 245 Music GPS watch, Plantronics
Backbeat Fit headphones, and my Samsung Galaxy S10 phone in a waist belt,
finished off with lightweight sunglasses. My wife takes a photo of me leaning
against my car, then drives down the canyon to wait for me precisely 6.21 miles
away (I already identified her waiting location with some detailed work on Google
Earth the night before), where she will do her own walk/run. I do a slow
one-mile warmup run around the large parking area, then lean against the snow
boundary gate to perform my final stretches.
I turn toward the
open road, start my watch, and I’m off. I have a big smile on my face, and I
feel light, happy, and excited. I am hoping to run under 7:00 per mile and
notice early that my pace is around 6:00-6:15 per mile. I can tell that the air
is thinner at the 7,200-foot elevation and my body must work harder to extract
the needed oxygen, but I still feel great. The first mile seems to fly by in no
time at all, and I clock in at 6:11, one of the fastest miles I have ever run.
My mind begins racing and calling up the eternal optimist inside my head,
wondering if perhaps I could finish well under 7:00 minutes per mile. Mile number
two flies by at 6:14, and I am starting to feel very excited – this is much
faster than I usually run!
Then the faster
pace starts to take its toll. I can feel my body starting to strain, and my
watch announces through my earphones that mile three was completed at a 6:39
pace – I am slowing down. I am now halfway done, but I know I started a bit too
quickly; combined with the higher elevation, my lungs and legs are starting to
burn. I feel like stopping – can’t I just catch my breath for a moment? No! I
know I will be very unhappy with myself if I don’t push on.
So I grit my teeth
and continue forward. I know that I banked some fast miles in the first half,
and if I can keep a decent pace, my overall average will be satisfying. If I had
the talent of many of my fellow runners, I could bang out mile after mile at
exactly the same pace, like the metronome sitting back home on my Yamaha G5
grand piano. But right now, the only thing of importance is what Kurt Olsen can
do, nothing else.
I grind through
miles four and five at 7:03 per mile each, and then 7:06 for mile six. My Mazda6
is now in view, parked next to the road, beckoning me as an impromptu finish
line. I pass my wife, who is walking near the car, cooling down after her run.
She looks at me but doesn’t cheer, seeing my intense focus. I stop my watch at
6.21 miles plus a few steps, put my hands on my knees to gulp in some air, and
then look at my overall pace: 6:43/mile average. It’s the fastest I have ever
run, on a per-mile basis, for any race of any length during my 19 years of
running! I raise my arms and let out a whoop of joy. This is far better than I
expected!
We drive down the
canyon, reach a spot where we have cell service again, and I post my time trial
results to Strava. My running friends, as always, are so kind, encouraging, and
supportive. The glow of achievement lasts for days.
Fast forward one
week: on the advice of Coach Stazza, I decide to run the same course for my
second 10K time trial. It feels like déjà vu: driving up the same canyon in my
red car with my wife, parking next to the snow gate, getting another photo with
my car, and preparing to run. The sky is clear and blue today, but the
temperatures are much colder, near freezing, which means that leggings, jacket,
hat, and gloves are in order.
There is one
difference in my routine today: I mix a Maurten 320 drink sachet with precisely
500 ml of water and sip it for the 45 minutes preceding my run, finishing the
last few swallows just before I start. I am very well hydrated today, urinating
like the proverbial racehorse right up until launch time.
I do the same
one-mile warmup around the parking lot, and then lean against the snow gate to
do my stretches. I wonder: by chance, would I happen to see my bluebird friend
again today? Surely that couldn’t happen. As I am going through ten reps on
each side of a full-body stretch that I invented, I look up, and am astonished
to see a pretty bluebird flying just a few yards in front of me and land on a
nearby tree. I choose to believe it’s the same bird from last week; after all,
who can really argue otherwise? I can’t help but grin. It’s going to be another
good day for running!
And indeed, it is.
This time, I manage the clock a bit better: my first mile is 6:20, a whole 10
seconds slower than last week (insert eye roll here, as if that small of a
difference will have an impact on the overall outcome). But then mile two is at
6:12, then 6:15 for mile three. The fatigue starts to build, but I focus on
running more relaxed this time and push through. Mile four is at 6:34 and mile
five clocks in at 6:49. I start paying less attention to my watch and
concentrate on running smoothly with good form. I drop only one additional
second for mile six at 6:50, and then sprint toward my beloved wife and car
(prioritized in that order, obviously) to finish my race. My overall pace: 6:30
per mile. I cannot believe it. I am ecstatic!
This is the
fastest I have ever run in my life. It is my greatest sports-related triumph,
coming at the age of 57 after running for nearly two decades, not having
started until I was almost 40. I’ve had some great running experiences over
that time: over 12,700 miles in total, with 40 marathons, including Boston, and
a smattering of other distances raced. To set a new PR (3’03” faster than my
previous best 10K, set 16 years ago, and 1’19” faster than just a week ago!) at
an age when most others in my same bracket have given up on fitness altogether
brings me a sense of accomplishment unlike anything I’ve experienced before,
and it happens on a solo run in a beautiful canyon – just me against myself.
New life. New
hope. Renewed optimism. Perhaps that bluebird truly was signaling better things
to come. I think we’re going to be okay, after all.
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