Initial Impressions 2.0: St. Peter's Fiesta 5K

My second race fell on an off day from work for me; it was to begin at 6:30pm on a Thursday meaning I had all day to think about whether it would be my last or not. For those of you not wanting to relive the entire story obviously it was not my last as I am still running to this day, but for dramatic effect let’s keep the suspense going.

I had all day to think about the pain in my right knee and left Achilles. Why did I worry about it being my last race? Sure, rest would probably have done the trick. It might have been 6 weeks of rest. It is easy to keep running, or keep exercising when you get into a pattern; however once you stop for any extended period of time it becomes so much easier to stick to that pattern as well. I feared that 6 weeks off from running when it was still so new to me would take away my new found passion so I threw caution to the wind.

I began to get myself psyched up for the race before starting the nearly 2 hour drive from Cape Cod up to Gloucester. The drive and the music I played got my mind off of running and allowed me to enjoy the summer afternoon. Unfortunately as I got closer to Gloucester the clouds and fog began to roll in. By the time I parked near the YMCA on Middle Street there was a light drizzle in the air. I figured this could only hurt my chances of a pain-free run.

I got my bib and shirt from the kind folks at the YMCA. They allowed me to change down in the locker room. It was deserted and silent, alone with my thoughts, how fitting. As I changed I stretched my legs and could feel the pain still there, somehow I thought that maybe race day would provide a miracle. It did not. I returned to drop my gym bag at my car and felt sober about my running career. Before I left to head to the race area I posted a message on my Facebook page thanking my 3 running mentors, my Uncle Steve, Deanna, and Emily, and of course my mother. I felt as if I was getting ready to retire from running before I even got started.

The St. Peter’s Fiesta was going on, a celebration of Italian heritage which struck home with me thanks to my heavy Italian descent on my mother’s side of the family. The crowds were sparse at best thanks to the cool and raw weather. I tried my best to avoid the carts of sausages, fried dough, and the like, there were a few stationed right at the starting line which seemed more than a coincidence.

There was a light rain at race time and such a crowd at the starting line; unfortunately it was not organized. What I mean is that I have since learned at half marathons they have the pace times along the side of the starting line, meaning if you plan on running a 9 minute mile you line up behind that sign. Here it was everyone for themselves, slow people in front and all.

When the race began it was hard to get going. I was trotting, trying in vain to get around slower runners and even some with strollers. The slick road only made things slower. Finally I was able to break free and turn my engine on. All I could do was give it my all and hope for the best. Luckily there was only one hill during the race, which was a plus. We ended up heading down to the State Fish Pier, around a barrel and back into town.

The cheering crowds along the streets helped me stay focused. I kept my legs churning but paid attention, like I was waiting for the ‘other shoe’ to drop. Then through the mist and fog I saw the finish line and more importantly I saw my time. 22:48, 7:22/mi. I crossed and caught my breath. I grabbed a pair of bananas and a bottle of water before sitting on the sidewalk and taking stock of my body and how I felt. Sure my legs were tired from running all out but there didn’t seem to be any new damage which was what I had been dreading.

I smiled and people watched as I recovered. With all of the pain and uncertainty going into the race I had shaved a minute and a half off of my previous 5K time. To top it off I had no injured myself worse so I knew that my running career was not over after 2 races. I did not stick around very long after finishing. I had to work the next morning and still had a 2 hour drive home, plus I was hungry too.

I returned to the YMCA to shower and encountered a bit of a problem. There was a line of guys waiting to use the showers. I had been in the locker room and counted only 3 showers, using some rough math I was looking at probably an hour wait for a shower. Yeah, I decided that I would drive home in my running clothes since I was alone I would not be offending anybody with my old gym socks scent!

I made sure to send a follow up post to Facebook letting everyone know that not only had I survived the St. Peter’s Fiesta 5K, I had run a great race. I was still on my runner’s high all the way down the North Shore. I remember having to stop and get gas before I hit Boston. I was so hungry that I bought a big back of Jack’s Links Beef Jerky and ate it one-handed while I drove.

I knew that I was going to have to rest up my injuries after the race but it was comforting knowing that rest would solve my problems. I had been so close to having to give up my new found passion, but I was lucky.

Have any of you come close to having to quit running? Have any of you gone into a race expecting it to be your last, or even expecting to aggravate injuries? Or would you have been smarter and postponed your next race until you healed? Maybe I just enjoy the dramatic moments.