10/05/03’s illustrious band:

13311

I can't believe I ran the whole thing.

4:30 a.m. The alarm is set to go off 15 minutes from now, but I'm wide awake. This is an indication of how nervous I am about the big race. It's irrational to be this worked up about it. I'm not competing or trying to set any kind of a record today; my goal is simply to finish and get the T-shirt. But I've been jittery all weekend.

I shower and dress: Good cotton athletic socks, tights that come down past the knee, sports bra, spandex tank top for warmth, long-sleeved shirt bearing the T'ai Chi studio logo, my race number carefully pinned to the front. I'll add running shoes, sweat pants and sweatshirt as I head out the door. I make a sandwich and try to force a few bites down so I'm not starting the Twin Cities 10-Mile Run on empty.

I check my drop bag and waist pack again, even though I made sure of their contents last night. Hat and energy bars in the former for after the race; ID, bank card, cash, sunglasses and mini energy bars in the latter. Car keys, too, while I'm running.

I drive to St. Paul in the dark and park my car in a deserted ramp. I climb aboard the bus that will ferry runners to the starting line in Minneapolis. Sitting amidst sleek, sinewy marathoners, I feel like a mastiff among greyhounds. I swallow a few more bites of food.

It takes a long time to get from one downtown to another on the bus, but in a couple hours I'm going to cover this distance on foot. What have I gotten myself into? Now I begin to doubt myself. Am I wearing socks? Touch both ankles. Cottony. Good. Dear God, am I wearing my tights, or will I remove my sweatpants and bare my bottom to the world? Hike my pantleg to check for tights. They're there.

The bus empties us at the Metrodome, home of the Twins and the Vikings. It's just after 6:00. I queue up for the restroom immediately; I've been doing a good job of hydrating since yesterday, and excitement is putting a squeeze on my bladder. Tales of elite marathoners losing bladder and bowel control under the stress of their arduous race are common. At least I know this fate won't befall me. I spend the hour before starting time pacing up and down the concourse, stretching, peering into the black pit of the stadium.

When it's time to go, about 3,000 runners with purple number bibs pinned to their chests crush toward a single revolving door. (There are 3,634 10-milers altogether, but some of them were already outside.) We take our sweatclothes-stuffed drop bags to the trucks that will haul them to the finish line, then crowd into the street to await the official start. With no idea what I'm doing, I simply follow the crowd.

I make a new friend as we line up: Carol, a high school guidance counselor who is also running her first 10-mile. We agree to stick together until I have to drop to a walk. Both of us are nervous. I don't remember being this uptight since my wedding day -- seven years ago today. I realize I've forgotten to bring my cell phone, so I won't be able to call Mom from the finish line.

At last we're off! As soon as we start moving, I feel better. So does Carol. We stamp deliberately on the special mat that marks the starting line. The mat scans the computer chips tied to our shoelaces to record our official start times. Another mat at the other end will clock our finish times, and we'll be able to check our results online by the end of the afternoon.

The pack trots toward the river and sunrise. All around me, runners remark that the weather could not be better: temps in the 50s, brisk and clear, no wind. There's even a little fall color on display. At mile marker 1, just off West River Road, an ensemble of Taiko drummers dressed in black tunics with flames at the bottom are putting their backs into in inspiring cadence. Turning to look back at them, I almost trip and run into Carol.

The next couple miles pass pleasantly along the river flats. As people warm up, they throw the old socks they've been using as mittens to the side of the road. At 2.75 miles, we tackle our first hill as we ascend from the lowlands to Franklin Avenue Bridge. This spot marks mile 19 of the full marathon route, which merges with the 10-mile route from here on out. The marathoners start at 8:00, which is just about now, so none of them have reached mile 19 yet. We thunder across the bridge into my old neighborhood and continue down East River Road, still paralleling the Mississippi.

We admire the beautiful riverside homes for another couple miles, residents coming out onto manicured lawns to cheer us. I accept a paper cup of blue Powerade from a volunteer. After slopping the first gulp all over my face, I quickly learn the trick of folding the cup's brim into a spout for easier pouring. Runners try and fail to toss their empties into the trashcans, but more volunteers, armed with huge push brooms, sweep them out of the way. A few people stop to use the porta-potties. A few more avail themselves of the thick underbrush on the riverbank.

Around mile marker 4 we encounter another incline, longer but less steep than the last. At mile 5, I break out in smiles. This is a personal best for me; my longest training run was 4.25 miles, and that was weeks ago. A former sprinter who protested any distance greater than 220 yards, I never thought I could run this far. Whatever else happens, my day is already a success.

At mile 5.5, we hit the long, straight stretch of Summit Avenue, lined on either side with some of St. Paul's grandest homes, including the governor's mansion. I had somehow managed to forget the fact that moving from west to east, as the race route does, Summit is mostly uphill. The slope is not steep, but it's steady. Spectators ring cowbells, bang tambourines, hold up handmade signs, and assure us that we're almost at the top. Four miles later, they'll finally be right.

Just before we reach mile marker 6, my right shoe comes untied. I have to stop and redo it. Carol says she'll see me later, but I knot it quickly and catch back up to her in a few strides. I slap hands with some kids standing along route cheering. They think they've touched a real athlete. I swerve to the side to touch the mile marker. This may be the last one I pass at a run.

But no! I'm still jogging as I touch markers 7 and 8, too. This is amazing! But the hill is getting steeper.

By now, the back of my left knee is a little sore, nothing to worry about. The outside of my right knee, however, has begun to ache in earnest. When I tried running for exercise last year, this same problem convinced me to stick to jumping rope. This year I've worked at strengthening my knees by doing squats and plenty of stretches. The effort has paid off, since I've made it this far. And I'm not breathing nearly as hard as I would have expected, had I expected to run this far without walking, which I did not. Maybe . . . ?

As mile 9 concludes, we finally crest the hill and are rewarded with a splendid view of St. Paul laid out below us. An official with a loudspeaker urges us on from a flatbed blasting "Eye of the Tiger," the fight song from Rocky. We raise our arms in the air -- briefly! -- and set our sights on the St. Paul Cathedral. Once we pass that massive grey stone church, it's only about another quarter of a mile, all downhill, to the finish line. And I'm still running!

The end is in sight! Just beyond the church, Carol and I pass beneath the huge American flag strung up overhead between two construction cranes. Crowds line the homestretch. Music and announcers' voices blare from loudspeakers. Photographers park themselves in our path, hoping for that one great shot. We smile for all of them. I'm striding out like I've got energy to spare.

I do my best tape-breaking lean as I cross the finish line beside Carol, even though the tape was broken long before I got here. Who cares? I got here! I have run 10 whole miles in about 1 hour and 50 minutes and am still standing up. I have won. I have won.

A race volunteer drapes a thin foil blanket around me so my damp body won't lose too much heat in the autumn chill. I clutch it around my shoulders like Superman's cape. I bow to another volunteer, who solemnly places a medal around my neck, confirming my championship status. Carol and I part with a high five. It's a good thing I didn't bring the cell phone. I wouldn't know what to say.

I stumble down the goodie gauntlet toward the sweats retrieval area, collecting my finisher's T-shirt, a banana, a bottle of water, a fruit cup and a small can of pineapple juice along the way. Yet another volunteer scurries to fetch the bag with my race number on it. Standing in the middle of the capitol mall, I strip off my wet black T-shirt and replace it with my new, dry blue one. Before putting my arms through the sleeves, I pull off the straps of my undershirt so I can work it down over my hips like a tube top. Miraculously balanced, I pull warm, dry sweatpants on over my tights. Sweatshirt and cap top it all off.

I wander through the post-race party tent in a daze, suddenly almost sick with hunger as the smell of pizza hits my nostrils. I acquire mini Salted Nut Rolls, more pineapple juice, a Coke and a breakfast burrito along with my slice. I eat the pizza and burrito slowly, carefully, in case my overtaxed metabolism should decide to rebel. It doesn't, and after a few minutes of sitting down, I regain the ability to think.

I make it back to the finish area just in time to see the first few wheelers, in streamlined racing wheelchairs and cycling helmets, whiz across the line. Fantastic. Then the overall marathon winner comes roaring home. He's a masters division runner, age 42. The second-place finisher is also in the masters division. The first-place female marathoner is a few minutes behind them. They all look like they could go out and run another 26.2 miles.

The announcer comments that these elite runners maintain a pace of about 6 minutes per mile over their entire course. I compare that to my pace of around 11 minutes per mile. They run nearly twice as fast as I do, 2.62 times as far.

Realizing this makes me tired for real, so I head up the lawn to the bus that will return me to my car. I'm home by 11:30, still soaking in jasmine-scented bubblebath at noon. I'll accomplish little else today besides reporting my adventures and folding some laundry. But that's OK. I've done much more than I expected to already.

My Official Twin Cities 10-Mile Results

bib number: 13311
age: 34
gender: F
overall place: 3148 out of 3634
division place: 354 out of 440
gender place: 1814 out of 2206
time: 1:51:40
pace: 11:10
chip time: 1:49:10

For somebody who didn't even expect to run the whole race, I'm a little dissatisfied with my stats. I'll do better next year.

Congrats also to El Queso Grande and Ms. Wild Rice, who completed the State Capitol 5K Race on Saturday. Way to kick (and haul) butt, Health & Wellness crew!

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