Mile 12

One, and then another, passed me on the left. Their strides were long, their cadence even, they ran tall. Up ahead was a small group of onlookers encouraging competitors as they ran by, and just beyond them driven in the soggy ground was a stake with the number “12.” It was a race marker, letting us all know that we were had just a little farther to go. I passed the marker, and so began “Mile 12.”

I trained for this race over the last six months, running mostly on a treadmill but switching in mid-February to outside running after said treadmill finally gave up the ghost. I had put over 600 miles on my body, lost some weight, gained some muscle, and though not “built like a runner,” I enjoyed the run experience. Three times I had run 13.1 miles or more in the months prior to raceday, and in each I had no trouble with Mile 12. But today was much different.

I’m starting too fast. I know it. How do I stop it? I had been told there was a certain adrenaline rush that you feel when you’re standing in a crowd of runners who are all as excited as you are to run. As the countdown begins from “10” I’m rehashing my raceplan. First mile in 8:45…”9… 8… 7…” warm up… “6… 5…4…” ease in… “3… 2…” trust the training… trust the plan… run your race… “1… GO…”

Everybody begins to move. I’m trying to figure out in the crowd who has the same pace intentions. There’s a much older man who’s moving quickly, a young lady who is going a tad slow, a group casually laughing and chatting… and not moving at my pace. The mass of bodies begin to separate from order to disorder and to order again. I find a runner. Bright red shirt with (amongst others) the word “Veteran” on the back, my height, looks my age, game on. I fall in line and follow. I check my watch. Average pace is 8:17 and dropping. This is too fast. I know it. I tried to “ease up,” but watched as Mile 2 was 7:31, and then as my run times per mile were one by one staying under 8:00, too fast for a 180-pound amateur like myself. Internally I was torn. I felt good, but I knew to continue at this pace would hamper my performance at the very end of the race.

“You did not provide adequate nutrition for me,” says my body. “I got you this CLIF Bar,” I reply, “I’m taking small bites,” I reason. “But you passed an aid station with Gatorade, the electrolytes would have been good right about now.” I look at my watch, which reads “12.1.” Surely I have enough in the tank to make one big push here at the end. I hope. My mind reflects on Mile 8.

At Mile 8 I hit my first wall. It was a wall of wind. Literally. This particular race takes place in Brunswick, Maine, on what used to be the old Naval Air Station. I don’t know who owns it now, but I know that they let us run on the runway. Runways are long, and flat, and long, and windy, and long. “The Runway” portion, on the back half of the 13.1, is 2.4 miles long. As I begin running it, going south, a steady wind pushes me north, and will for the next mile plus. I started it running beside a taller 40-something-year-old, who after a while chooses to walk. Halfway into this windy mile I can sense somebody behind me and as I turn, the back of the Bright Red Shirt from Mile 2 is now the front, and Ed, as I come to learn, is using me as a windbreak. I don’t blame him. We exchange pleasantries and I begin to pick his experienced running brain. When he learns I’m fueling with a CLIF bar he suggests a gel, or a powdered mix which could be added to my water bottle. I had heard this before and wished I had followed the advice sooner. We run together for the next 3 miles, after which I see that his fueling strategy is much better than mine, and as such he maintains pace while I begin to slow. I drop from 8:00 miles to an 8:26 at mile 11, and I can feel the drop continuing. It will continue.

“I’m so tired. Why did you decide to do this? First and last time, right?” My body having shared its two cents, I toss the mostly uneaten CLIF bar to the birds and now my mind begins to complain. “First and last, time, right?” Another runner passes me. I look at my watch again, which reads “12.6.” My split pace is 8:45 or so, up from 8:26. I’ve only a half-mile left, but it feels like half of a race remains. There is the another voice in my head. It is softer, but unyielding; polite, but resolute.

“You have finished this distance before.”

“You have no other choice but to finish.”

“Remember who and what is at the finish line.”

The mental aspect of running is perhaps my favorite part. There is a contest of wills and a series of debates that are wildly entertaining, all in the confines and privacy of my mind. There is that part that demands I stop, I see him as “younger me.” He’s clean shaven, and pudgy, claiming that I can go no further, frothing at his proverbial mouth at this foolishness. There is also “older me.” Gray-haired, gray-bearded, leaner, with clear eyes. “Press on, friend. You’ll get there.”

Mile 12 was a critical mile. It was not the distance, not the elevation, but the culmination of challenging circumstances wrapped up in bulky mess. It the mile where I want to quit. Where I did in fact think that this was my last event. Where my body felt like it was “slogging,” moving in slow motion. It is where I watched three or four runners pass me by, where my nutrition plan failed me, where my fast start betrayed me. I did finish “Mile 12,” in 8:56, and I did finish the race. But more than finish the race I soaked in the teachings, not just in the race, but its preparation, and its processes. There are lessons to be learned in a race, whether it be a literal physical race, or a chapter in life. Sometimes these are lessons that are previously known but not experientially understood. When it comes to our Mile 12 moments, when it feels like the body will give out and the mind is giving way from hopefulness to despondency, press on, friend, and do not forsake the learning.