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Today I traveled three miles north to Canterbury, NH for the 5th Annual Woodchuck Classic 5K. I first ran this race in 1996, coming in second to now-CMS teammate Scott Clark, then won in 1997. Last year I missed it with some trivial malady, a patch of brain fungus or something of that sort. As the 9 a.m. race is the kick-off to the revered Canterbury Fair, and because the race co-director is a favorite former coach, I like to show up for this event whenever I can, even though it's ugly with hills and the traditional end-of-July heat.
At the start, I didn't see anyone recognizably fast among what looked like a hundred or so runningfolk (107 would finish, with another two dozen kiddies completing the 2K Chipmunk Scramble). This was good, because when I'd embarked on my 4-mile warmup I had realized that on this fine muggy morning I felt like the arse end of a dromedary camel, and as the warmup progressed I had understood that the feeling wasn't going away. I hoped to expend as little effort as possible while still making off with the grand prize - a sizable aliquot of real NH maple syrup and a chunk of pottery crafted by the talented fingers of the race director's wife.
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The almost-loop course is a riot. It drops 150 feet in the first mile. Mile two has a challenging rise but little net elevation change, and then, sadly, the course ascends 110 feet to the finish. In fact, all of that elevation gain occurs betwixt 2.4 and 2.8 miles; between this gigantick hill and the squadrons of deerflies that choose this point to envelop the struggling, staggering masses, the effect at 4K is harrowing. Here I always find myself wishing I could content myself with sitting around, inserting a variety of unhealthy foods and potions into my person, watching my waistline burgeon, and laughing at fools who engage in any form of exercise.
Anyway, I sought to run with the leaders and no faster, but it didn't work. In races in which I'm confident from the start that I will probably win, I generally like to dash off into the distance and slow down as much as I can without giving up the lead slot. I do this even when I plan to "sit in the pack" and today was no exception. I ran clear of 2 or 3 high school kids and by the 1K mark could no longer hear them. Mile 1 was 4:40. I know, that sounds recklessly fast, but believe me when I tell ya that that mile is DOWNHILL. The last two times I raced here I was 4:28, 4:30 en route to 16:04, 15:59 respectively. I didn't feel like I was racing, I felt like I was putting up with a race; I can't describe this, exactly, but I wasn't excited about leading or winning. I just wanted to finish up, chat with folks and watch the Morris Dancers do that funky jangly thang they do.
Essentially this is what I did. I slowed down to a pace that felt like a strenuous training run and looked back often to ensure I had a good lead. I was really a wimp today, good people. I minced up the hills like a man with a backpack full of grenades. I wound up winning in 16:57, 23 seconds in front of the next fellow. By all accounts, including mine as well as my gullible friends at the finish, I "took it easy," but deep down knew that if I had gone to the well I would not have found a lot there this morn. My racing tends to be pretty erratic at the mileage I'm currently doing, and today was a fine example. I was 1:08 slower than 11 days ago (when, granted, I had several fellas pulling me along and the course had fewer hills).
Lingering near the three-mile mark and clad in street clothes was the aforementioned Mr. Clark, who was laughing as I ran by because I had spoken in the previous days of stealing his course record. Even his two young children and his lovely wife were laughing. Ha ha, folks. I'll be at the Beach to Beacon 10K on Saturday (8/7) and I plan to go thru 5K a good minute faster than I did today!
Afterward I ran 3 miles with the never-mellow yellow fellow, then wandered around the fair and had a damned fine day and too much coffee as well, which should be obvious by now.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008 04:36 PM
