Go Team at the Brooklyn Half

Twas a good day at the races. I have now officially run a half marathon. It's official in the sense that I was among 5328 runners who paid New York Road Runners to time it and we all got a t-shirt for the privilege. The weather conditions were perfect. It was 48 degrees, 93% humidity and the wind was 10 mph, according to NYRR. Rain threatened, but it didn't happen. Completely cloudy skies. No complaints!

I enjoyed myself in spite of my performance. It was wonderful to pass the 13 mile mark and be greeted by Kristi who told me the team was waiting for me around the bend. Then I heard their cheers and I pushed for the last several hundred yards. I felt very strong. I didn't leave it all on the course, by any stretch, but that's a function of a painful foot. If I could trade in my foot, I know I could make some progress. As I look back on the day, I feel more frustrated about the acute pain in my foot than I felt at the time. For obvious reasons, I can not let my mind wander into the minefields of frustration when I'm in a long haul. Even on a short run it can be deadly. This week I am going to find a way to minimize this pain or it will make marathon day a whole lot harder and longer than it needs to be. More importantly, it will shorten my incipient career as a runner. It's hard to be out on the road twice as long as everyone else. It gives new meaning to the loneliness of the long distance runner because there's no one around.

I stopped 6 times at least to try to massage and shake away the pain. I held off as long as I could, but when I couldn't take another step, what choice did I have? I stopped and I immediately regretted it as I watched runners glide past me. It's really difficult to break the rhythm of running and start all over again. That's when things start to unravel. It's frustrating and sort of demoralizing. I lose considerable ground each time. A walk/run or hobbled walking isn't an option. I have to stop completely, take off my sneaker and knead my foot to bring it back to life. I made two strategic and very timely stops at the bathroom, too. Some of the finer points of that have yet to be worked out.

I went out a bit fast. I ran the first mile with Anne in 11:45 or so. We saw some guy fall victim to the perils of the boardwalk's very uneven surface. Then she took off and I kept a pretty good pace for a few miles. I decided to stop to avail myself of the boardwalk toilet (as opposed to hazard the port-a-john later), and by the time I got back out there, I didn't feel as if I was really in a race. Nearly everyone had gone ahead. While I don't need to be elbowing for space, it would be nice to feel the energy of the race, of having some people around. I know I had more to give out there.

Why they attach the absurd name Grand Prix to this shlep up Ocean Parkway from Coney Island to Prospect Park is just silly marketing. Where exactly does the Grand Prix part fit into the picture? I'm watching these young Orthodox kids watch us and I found myself singing the Allan Sherman song about driving up Ocean Parkway: "Shake hands with your Uncle Max, my boy, and here's your sister, Shirl. And here's your cousin Isabel, that's Irving's oldest girl. And you remember the Tishman twins, Gerald and Jerome. They'll all come out to greet you and to wish you welcome home. Meet Horowitz, Borowitz...."

Today 13.1 plus 1.5
Miles to date: 211.3