Two words describe my feelings about last Sunday’s 13.1 PR attempt – “epic failure.” Had the stars aligned themselves purposely for this reason, things could not have marshalled themselves together any better for the making of what was akin to the perfect storm. By the way, I feel totally entitled to wallow here for a few after which I am bound to refocus and jump right back in. In that vein, humor me if you will while I reminisce.
As luck would have it, I didn’t have to wait for Sunday to see that things wouldn’t go as planned. In fact, it took less than a minute on Friday night to twist my ankle. After railing at fate for a bit, practicality soon set in and I was forced to suck it up and move on. I spent the major part of that night and the next day employing the RICE method (rest, ice, compress, elevate) and felt that it helped, for the most part, during the run. The problem was the inability to count on so many other factors. Continuing with my streak of luck was no sweat as Sunday morning greeted us with dark skies and the ominous threat of rain. My only comfort was that at least my ankle seemed to be cooperating then.
We were into about 4 miles, I think, when the rains came down, and man did it pour. For about 2 miles it fell quite hard and made running a soggy affair that had the effect of providing an initial welcome damper to runners over the heat. However, it didn’t stop there; the continued lighter rain, wetness and water all over the streets contributed to decreasing the overall pace of the race. But more importantly, the rain made my run more difficult since by this time we were on the loop and had to make our way back via at least three major inclines – amidst 95% humidity. By the time I was at mile 8, Teklu Deneke, Ethiopian native and West Side Club runner, had taken first place overall (1st Male), with Serkalem Abrha as 1st female. At that time, I was forced to reduce my pace and fall back on stopping at least three times at different water tables – manned by amazing volunteers in the pouring rain – something I’ve always been dead set against. The last few miles went by in a blur, made even harder when my ankle came to life with a dull throbbing.
I can only say sometimes the medal is worth it. The final mile or so was reminiscent of my last Staten Island run, only tougher hills, and in fact it was with an odd feeling of déjà vu that I crossed the finish line to the cheers and support of some phenomenal spectators who did not allow the dank weather to dampen their spirit and enthusiasm for the race.
As is often the case when I run with an injury, I’m left with a feeling of consternation that I can make it to the finish line, hobble or not, but then barely have the wherewithal to get to the first aid tent. I’m convinced it’s all in the mind even though my body disagrees. As it happened, I spent about an hour there recuperating with the help of NYRR’s awesome volunteer doctors. I remain immensely awed by the giving hearts of these incredible souls that come out race after race and give of their time and talent to the efficacious running of these races. Last Sunday in Staten Island, we couldn’t have done it with out them. #GoNYRRVolunteers
Photos courtesy gamefacephotos.com
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