Race Report: Falmouth Road Race (7M Run)
August 13, 2006, Falmouth, Massachusetts
In 1981, at age 11, my parents signed me up for a 7-mile running race known as the Falmouth Road Race, "on a lark" as my Dad describes it now. The appeal was that the race started within walking distance of our summer house in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. I actually did OK for an 11-year old with no running experience to speak of other than chasing soccer balls and huffing my way through a U. City Memorial Day 5K at Heman Park in St. Louis.
Twenty-five years later, here I was again. I reflected on that 25-year span as race day approached. High school, college, various jobs, thousands of soccer games, hundreds of running events, triathlons, national and world championships, triumph and heartache - shared with family and friends and sometimes alone in the quiet chambers in my mind as I tried to find my way in the world with some type of meaning and fulfillment. Many endeavors were attempted, including some failures, but looking back, it's undeniable that a lot of living took place in that 25-year span — and for that I am thankful.
My running had improved enough from "lark status" to where I now had a competitive race number, starting in the sub-elite corral, directly behind the Kenyans and other pro/elite runners. As a "local," I know the roads around the starting area, so I headed to the bike path to warm up. I soon spotted three Kenyans warming up as well as the majority of the elite women. The Kenyans were wearing full sweats and jogging very slowly. I immediately adopted their easy jogging pre-race approach. For a moment, I thought they might respect me for having a low race number #138 (thanks to a decent result at the STL 1/2 Marathon back in April ), out of 10,000 participants. So I gave them a wave and they returned the gesture.
Soon it was time to get in place for the wheelchair start, the singing of America the Beautiful, and the F-15 flyover. Then, BOOM, we were off.
A guy stumbles before we cross the bridge in the first 100 yards. He recovers without getting trampled. The streets are completely packed with runners until we turn on Church Street and head towards the picturesque Nobska Lighthouse, where the money shots for the newspapers and race posters would be captured as they are every year.
The weather was good this year: sunny and low humidity, temps in the 70s. Better than the torrential downpour in 1999 or the rain and humidity of 2001, I thought to myself.
Uphill by the lighthouse, I cross the 1-mile marker on the road in good time. Into the shady rolling terrain, looking for my support crew soon. Mile 2, a little slower, but still doing well.
My parents, sister and family, Jamie, and some other family friends were at the traditional spot around 2 1/4 miles. I stayed to the left to get close to them. Major love for the "Massive Belgian" with encouraging signs and good volume. Activated!
The rolling hills were wearing me out. Mile 3, slower, but now out of the hills onto the unshaded flats on the coastal road. Old soccer buddy Jeff is up ahead, there he is - cool, good to see him. His girlfriend doesn't look familiar and yells what sounded like "Go LSU" as I run by. Oxygen debt is in effect, so I convince myself not to try and figure that one out. Later, I asked her about it and it turns out she said "Go yellow shoes!" That makes more sense.
Miles 4 and 5 were hot but well-supported with crowds and music. One kid laughed wildly after handing me an empty water cup. Another little girl said I had "good juice." Really? I don't remember mile 6 other than the 10K line which let me know I was much slower than my 10K PR in Canada two weeks earlier.
The end was nearing, stay strong. There's the final hill. On the way up the hill, the race photographer lurked to capture my mask of pain. Soon the mask of relief took over when I crested the hill and I saw the humongous American flag blowing in the sea breeze. The announcer spots me coming down the hill and let's everyone know that I'm "John" (close, I guess) from St. Louis. "Go Rams!" I wonder if he said that for the other three Missourians running?
Dad and Jamie hustled successfully from support station 1 to the finish line to welcome me after a tough race, which despite my continual decline in speed, was still my best time there out of my seven or so finishes, besting my former best time in 2000 by over a minute.
Final thought: It's tough to enjoy the scenic course and appreciate the crowd support while you're racing in all-out mode. Driving the course at a leisurely pace assured me that I was lucky to run one of the nicest running venues once again - 25 years after the first time.
(259th place overall out of ~10,000)
Celebrity Sighting: Team Hoyt
In 1981, at age 11, my parents signed me up for a 7-mile running race known as the Falmouth Road Race, "on a lark" as my Dad describes it now. The appeal was that the race started within walking distance of our summer house in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. I actually did OK for an 11-year old with no running experience to speak of other than chasing soccer balls and huffing my way through a U. City Memorial Day 5K at Heman Park in St. Louis.
Twenty-five years later, here I was again. I reflected on that 25-year span as race day approached. High school, college, various jobs, thousands of soccer games, hundreds of running events, triathlons, national and world championships, triumph and heartache - shared with family and friends and sometimes alone in the quiet chambers in my mind as I tried to find my way in the world with some type of meaning and fulfillment. Many endeavors were attempted, including some failures, but looking back, it's undeniable that a lot of living took place in that 25-year span — and for that I am thankful.
My running had improved enough from "lark status" to where I now had a competitive race number, starting in the sub-elite corral, directly behind the Kenyans and other pro/elite runners. As a "local," I know the roads around the starting area, so I headed to the bike path to warm up. I soon spotted three Kenyans warming up as well as the majority of the elite women. The Kenyans were wearing full sweats and jogging very slowly. I immediately adopted their easy jogging pre-race approach. For a moment, I thought they might respect me for having a low race number #138 (thanks to a decent result at the STL 1/2 Marathon back in April ), out of 10,000 participants. So I gave them a wave and they returned the gesture.
Soon it was time to get in place for the wheelchair start, the singing of America the Beautiful, and the F-15 flyover. Then, BOOM, we were off.
A guy stumbles before we cross the bridge in the first 100 yards. He recovers without getting trampled. The streets are completely packed with runners until we turn on Church Street and head towards the picturesque Nobska Lighthouse, where the money shots for the newspapers and race posters would be captured as they are every year.
The weather was good this year: sunny and low humidity, temps in the 70s. Better than the torrential downpour in 1999 or the rain and humidity of 2001, I thought to myself.
Uphill by the lighthouse, I cross the 1-mile marker on the road in good time. Into the shady rolling terrain, looking for my support crew soon. Mile 2, a little slower, but still doing well.
My parents, sister and family, Jamie, and some other family friends were at the traditional spot around 2 1/4 miles. I stayed to the left to get close to them. Major love for the "Massive Belgian" with encouraging signs and good volume. Activated!
The rolling hills were wearing me out. Mile 3, slower, but now out of the hills onto the unshaded flats on the coastal road. Old soccer buddy Jeff is up ahead, there he is - cool, good to see him. His girlfriend doesn't look familiar and yells what sounded like "Go LSU" as I run by. Oxygen debt is in effect, so I convince myself not to try and figure that one out. Later, I asked her about it and it turns out she said "Go yellow shoes!" That makes more sense.
Miles 4 and 5 were hot but well-supported with crowds and music. One kid laughed wildly after handing me an empty water cup. Another little girl said I had "good juice." Really? I don't remember mile 6 other than the 10K line which let me know I was much slower than my 10K PR in Canada two weeks earlier.
The end was nearing, stay strong. There's the final hill. On the way up the hill, the race photographer lurked to capture my mask of pain. Soon the mask of relief took over when I crested the hill and I saw the humongous American flag blowing in the sea breeze. The announcer spots me coming down the hill and let's everyone know that I'm "John" (close, I guess) from St. Louis. "Go Rams!" I wonder if he said that for the other three Missourians running?
Dad and Jamie hustled successfully from support station 1 to the finish line to welcome me after a tough race, which despite my continual decline in speed, was still my best time there out of my seven or so finishes, besting my former best time in 2000 by over a minute.
Final thought: It's tough to enjoy the scenic course and appreciate the crowd support while you're racing in all-out mode. Driving the course at a leisurely pace assured me that I was lucky to run one of the nicest running venues once again - 25 years after the first time.
(259th place overall out of ~10,000)
Celebrity Sighting: Team Hoyt
posted by JPD at Tuesday, October 10, 2006
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