Race Day

It's late September, and if you find yourself in the company of a fellow past or present, pseudo-athletic, compulsive distance runner, sooner or later the conversation invariably turns to the event by which all Hill City natives of that ilk define themselves.

 "I've never really enjoyed running the Ten-Miler," remarked just such an acquaintance, a veteran of well over one hundred races, including many marathons, now, predictably, sidelined by knee injuries. He was in no way disparaging the organization of the race -- which is superb in every respect -- but rather implying that its grueling finish -- one and one-half miles straight uphill -- effectively negates the pleasure and satisfaction normally evoked by such sporting exercises.

Since it is the only race I enter -- and has been for the last twenty years -- it is impossible for me to compare the Virginia Ten-Miler -- race or course -- to any other. However, I believe a mind-numbing familiarity with each -- spawned by thousands of recreational runs and twenty-five serious ones -- humbly qualifies me to articulate a knowledgeable opinion and, in the process, add some insight, both sensory and imaginative, to the term "enjoyment."

I begin by praising the beauty and variety of our journey.

We start -- and end -- in Midtown, to use the newly-coined nomenclature, at E. C. Glass High School, the sprawling, red-brick edifice which majestically straddles the former Lynchburg Fairgrounds, still, after fifty years of expanding boundaries, the natural, if not the geographical center of the city, and, thus, a fitting icon for this annual ritual.

From there, over a gentle uphill and then downhill slope, we pass through a light retail-industrial corridor, highlighted by a small church, a television station, a bank building, a fast-food restaurant, and, on the north side of the road, a recent addition to the landscape, the imposing Centra Health Cancer Center, replacing a two-decades-old former department store and Thomas Road facility, and now gateway to the Lynchburg General campus, its own massive new wing towering in the foreground.

As we coast downhill, leaving behind two more banks, a service station, a florist, and Holy Cross School, development tapers off; natural vegetation sprouts briefly on our left before we encounter a medical center, an apartment complex, and a synagogue, but more luxuriantly on the opposite side, where the overgrown topography declines into Blackwater Creek.

We glide by the Farm Basket and turn sharply uphill, entering a residential neighborhood, a diminutive Greek Church on one side, a prominent red brick ranch set back on the other, its roadside mailbox decorated with an American flag.

Though still tracking uphill, the course levels off, and we contemplate a marvelous assortment of structural and horticultural designs which continues another mile along Langhorne Road: mini-mansions with circular driveways, hidden courtyards, elaborate lawns; comfortably modest ranch and Cape Cod homes with brick or wood siding; ivy-lined brick and stone walls, white picket and rail fencing, huge boxwood barriers; oak, pine, poplar, and dogwood trees of all shapes and sizes shading the sidewalks and front yards.

We crest the Rivermont Terrace incline and swing east down Rivermont Avenue, which exhibits on both sides an enchanting array of private and institutional architecture: stately, spacious Cape Cod houses; the grand, elegantly landscaped, Randolph College presidential home; the sweeping vista presented by the distant, white-columned superstructure of the Villa Maria overlooking its extensive grounds and forest; two impressive churches; apartment buildings of ancient and contemporary vintage; the curiously-located and impossible-to-characterize Cavalier sports bar/diner/pool hall; and, finally, on our left, the distinctive red-brick wall lining the perimeter of Randolph College, now educating males and females, its two historic landmarks, Main Hall and Smith Hall, rising to dominate the Avenue.

The next block, according to legend, unveils Lynchburg's first strip center, which offers a pleasant collection of small shops, offices, and (two) restaurants, planted eclectically in the midst of a traditional neighborhood. From here, it's only a few hundred yards to the venerable, yellow-brick Garland-Rodes School, housing the Virginia School of the Arts and gateway to Riverside Park, itself a repository for odd and interesting sights: well-worn public tennis courts and playground equipment; a sentinel-like gazebo; a decrepit, grass-filled swimming pool, the vestige of a bygone segregated era; a yet-to-be-restored, steam-powered passenger train; the remains of Stonewall Jackson's packet boat, recently sheltered from further deterioration; a stone platform overlooking storied Treasure Island -- all surrounding a vast, open field, the site, on non-race days, of airborne golf balls, footballs, and baseballs.

We emerge from the Park's second entrance, between two thick stone columns, and turn back up the Avenue, just before the streetscape begins to show its age, and embark on the long trek homeward, retracing our steps, the splendid panorama now seen in reverse, like a DVD tracking backwards.

It's a joy to behold -- unique, extraordinary, memorable.

Not only is the Virginia Ten-Miler my only race, unless I'm traveling it's essentially the only course I dine on, starting from my home, either biting off the 5.5-mile loop through Riverside Park or consuming the full ten by continuing to the High School. Thus, the race serves up refreshing and gratifying delicacies in contrast to my routine, tedious outings.

First of all, it validates my putative training regimen: one or two five-milers a week, and one ten-miler, following the pattern described above. My short runs supply all the mental relaxation and physical conditioning I (or anyone) really need; the only reason I run farther, I tell myself, is to maintain the state of fitness presumably required for a decent showing come September. Of course, if the Virginia Ten-Miler were tragically to expire, my obsessive personality would no doubt compel me to persist in those needless extensions, putting the lie to my self-delusions.

Secondly, race day is the one time during the year I can revel in the open road, unconfined to narrow, constricting sidewalks. The broad expanses of Rivermont Avenue and Langhorne Road spread out before me like the parting of the Red Sea, and, oh, what rewards lie therein: a shorter distance, granted by a handful of yards but measurable nonetheless; a more forgiving surface, if the oft-promulgated contention that asphalt is softer than concrete has any substance; a smoother path, absent the curbs and uneven pavement which induce trips and falls; and a safer passage, purged of the vehicular traffic usually clogging the roads and lurking in the shadows of side streets.

Third, in a paradox that informs road races, I am forever solitary, but now part of a crowd. I prefer to run alone; I don't have to adjust my (slow) pace to match that of my partner, or consume valuable energy engaging in idle chatter. But the herd effect does yield two explicit benefits, my companions colorfully camouflauging my stark visibility as a crazed distance runner while quickening my competitive juices to generate a little more speed.

And, finally, like bees to honey, race day rouses interested observers from their hives, who, though slimmer in number than when headliners led the pack, deliver a much-appreciated buzz along the way. When I hear those friendly, encouraging acclamations, "Looking good," or "Go, Marc," I raise my weary head from its habitual downward concentration and respond with a forced smile or limp wave.

In spite of these enticements, I must admit that, as my seventh decade looms on the horizon, my enthusiasm for this runfest may be diminishing, as it already has for so many of my contemporaries, who have gracefully retired from the contest, either for physical reasons or simply because they would prefer to avoid all the gratuitous pain. It's becoming more arduous for me, too -- not to run it, but to post a respectable time, under eighty minutes, eight-minute miles, which I have never failed to attain, and significant because I believe it is the number which separates running from jogging. But just as each passing year inexorably produces another birthday, so too does it add precious seconds, even minutes, to the Ten-Miler record book. In fact, practice runs of 80:50 and 81:35, the only two I could stomach in the stifling heat that blanketed us all summer, suggest that I may never again see 80:00 when I cross the finish line.

I suspect, however, that just as my measure of success has steadily regressed over the years -- from 62:00 (my best time) to 70:00 to 80:00 -- once that standard has fallen, I'll keep running, with the bar set a little lower (actually, in raw numbers, higher, since this game is scored like golf).

Thus it is with studied apprehension that I rise this morning at 6:00 AM, and commence my pre-race routine: stimulate my facial nerves with a splash and a shave; awaken my slumbering muscles and constricted blood vessels under a hot shower; don my pink-and-yellow Elvis tee-shirt, reserved annually for this day only, to which is attached my entrant's identification; perform my normal stretching exercises; nourish myself with two pieces of dry toast; and, forgoing wallet and license, taking only a single car key, drive to E. C. Glass High School, park on Murrell Road, and surreptitiously conceal said key behind my right front tire. Now I'm ready.

And, along with one thousand others, I am in luck. It's a perfect day for running, the first like it we have seen in three months: 55 degrees, low humidity, a cloudless blue sky overhead, a personal best performance there for the taking -- unless, of course, you are 59 and your best days are far behind you.

Warming up, I jog slowly across the overflowing parking lot toward the broad greensward which fronts the school auditorium and is bustling with activity. I skirt booths and tables displaying an amplitude of goods and services, all gratis -- memorabilia, massages, refreshments, medical advice -- en route to the water stand, where I quickly down two cups of lukewarm water, which, in a matter of minutes, tickle my bladder. I hurry towards a lineup of portajohns and wait impatiently to relieve myself; hardly anything comes out.

The race announcer, his voice booming like a brass horn over a loudspeaker, shepherds us to the staging area, interrupting his commands for frequent, but totally unnecessary, weather updates and to introduce today's favorites and three alumni of all thirty-four Ten-Milers (two mutually exclusive groups). I wander among the dense assemblage -- multi-colored tee shirts, sport tops, drooping shorts, and athletic shoes intermingling like magnified pixels -- catch the eye of a familiar face, wish him or her well, and snake towards the front of the pack, even though it will rapidly outdistance me. An imperfect but nonetheless stirring rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner sends shivers up and down my spine -- or maybe it's the chill in the air, or the irrepressible excitement of yet another ten-Miler. I glance to my left at the iron sculpture of an Olympian in flight, by Umana, strategically placed adjacent to the starting line, lean forward in imitation, take a deep breathe -- and then, a sharp retort, and we're off.

The initial downhill mile poses a vexing question for first and old-timers: how fast? I believe I will have to run a 7:30 to have any chance of breaking 80:00, but too swift a pace will surely sap my reserves. Inspired by a surge of adrenalin and the mass of fellow travelers, I lengthen my stride. The mile marker is always deceptive; after rounding the curve and passing Holy Cross, I feel it should be right there. It doesn't matter this morning, because I'm cruising in this crisp, cool, Canadian air, my concern now that I've been too quick -- is that possible -- when I see the numerals flashing: 7:15.

Now the grade increases -- in our favor -- and I let gravity pull me downhill. Like hands clapping, my feet noisily slap the pavement, crunching the minimal padding in my aging (four months old) Brooks Terminators. I smile at my neighbor, because I can read his mind: The return trip won't be this kind. Across Blackwater Creek, the first signs of exertion emerge: beads of perspiration on my forehead, a circle of moisture staining Elvis's nose, forced inhalations in lieu of easy breaths -- and a slackening pace as I climb Langhorne Road. I know this hill too well: the closing half-mile of my long runs from home, but today only the second mile, which I complete at 15:10.

After that steep incline, the third mile appears to level out, another cruel illusion; it's all uphill. Pockets of spectators are scattered along the roadway, including a gathering at my own street, whose encouragement I acknowledge with a nod and a wave. I'm holding a comfortable pace, nestled in a sweet spot between adequate speed and energy conservation. My confidence is growing; no longer a mere possibility, eighty minutes is suddenly a probability. I sweep through the Langhorne Road s-curve into a slight declivity, accelerate, and stretch for the mile marker: 23:00.

Yesterday, the Rivermont Terrace hill would have presented its usual stern test; today it's a minor inconvenience, peremptorily surmounted. A large group of well-wishers is gathered at the crest, spurring us around a hard right and onto the four-lane Avenue. The runners are spread out by now, each in a mobile cocoon, struggling to break free of his limitations. We head straight into a rising sun, its warming effect pleasantly moderated by the dry air, the smooth downhill, and my breathing eases on the flatland fronting Randolph College. Just as the four-milers are peeling off towards campus and their finish line, I see the hard-charging race leaders streaking by us on the opposite side of the road, their arms and legs pumping like pistons, and watch the mile marker clock 30:40.

The fifth mile is another flirt, seducing us with a steady run through Rivermont's picturesque storefronts and a gauntlet of cheerleaders, inspiring me to charge up the short rise into the Park and then down the trail which leads to the river, almost floating, I feel so light, my feet barely skimming the surface. I hear a voice calling out the times from above, it's so close, when, like a slap in the face, I confront an almost vertical climb that reduces me to a crawl, while the pregnant seconds tick on, tick on. Grabbing for air, I keep my legs churning, and cross the mile marker at 38:30, still not over the crown.

The sixth mile is critical for me. Halfway home, I peer into the future where the finish line awaits, yet to achieve it I must repress all such visions, and take one mile at a time. I burst free of the Park shadows and feel a wall ahead, the sensation of approaching exhaustion. I'm tempted to slow down, slacken the pace, rest, but I will my body forward, drawing on the reserves of oxygen all those training miles have manufactured and stored, and, like a gear downshifting, my determination is rewarded: a second wind kicks in. My lungs begin pumping reflexively; my stride lengthens. I repass Randolph College at 46:10.

Now I'm counting the hills -- only two more until the Big One, both in this seventh mile, a modest one up Rivermont Avenue, easily scaled, and the other up Rivermont Terrace, where the downward opposite slope almost propels me over the top and to the mile marker. It's best now to block out all externalities and concentrate on the task at hand -- lean into the run and put one foot in front of the other; in this mode, I'm surprised at my own strength. I repass the Williams Home at 54:00.

Believe it or not, the eighth mile is an opportunity to make up a few seconds; once you navigate the s-curve, it's all downhill. A nagging question hovers on the edge of your consciousness: Should I run faster? Or, in actuality, can I run faster? The answer lies somewhere in a Twilight Zone between both. My mind says "yes," my body says "no." Or is it the other way around, since my mind is well aware of the suffering that awaits, and wants to conserve the body's strength. It engages in some wishful thinking, too: if only the the last two miles were like this one, I could cruise in, just like I'm cruising now as I hit the eight-mile marker at 61:30, a 7:30 pace, my fastest since mile one.

My strategy, such as it is, for those last two miles never varies in its naked simplicity: gut it out. I shoot down the hill to Blackwater Creek, and I feel a slight ache stirring in my calves and thighs, foreshadowing a deeper soreness tomorrow. It becomes irrelevant as I hit bottom, tease myself up and over a little hump, and collide with Farm Basket Hill. If I don't stop, I know I can complete the last two miles in, at worst, seventeen minutes. And how tempting it is, with my lungs pumping and my legs carrying dead weight, to slow down, to walk, to catch my breath, just for a few seconds -- but I persist, hardly running, jogging, looking ahead for small victories along the endless climb: Kulman Place, Hill Street, the Jewish synagogue. The grade levels a bit, then resumes its angle, and I'm fighting it, actually conquering it, all the way to the nine-mile marker, which I pass at 69:35.

Now the roadway flattens for a hundred yards in front of Holy Cross, affording a bit of relief and the opportunity to gather oneself for the long, slow incline that is the last mile. I look up, lower my head, and go after it, whispering to myself, "Almost home," echoing the cries of support and polite applause emanating from a few scattered spectators. As Hardee's, then CVS fall in my wake, at the false summit of the hill, I pass a tired runner who gasps, "This is the hardest part," while all I am thinking is how each step is bringing me closer to the end.

I crest the hill, see the goal ahead, and dig deep for a closing kick, not much, but enough to hold my place, I'm sure, until someone sprints by me, intent on saving a couple of seconds. The shouts of the crowd, the announcer counting off the times, the instructions of the chute officials, are all empty noise. I'm almost there, and suddenly I am there; I fall forward across the finish line, and slow, finally, to a walk, stop, bend over, grab my shorts, and breathe the sweet, cool air.

And then I remember the clock, winking at me from overhead: 77:35. I'm still a runner! Old age vanquished for another year! What a race! What a day!