Weston, Fl - Half Marathon

Last weekend marked the official '6 weeks to the Miami Marathon' date. This was conveniently celebrated by Weston's Annual Half Marathon. I must first commend my lovely wife on her spectacular performance in this race. Christi finished in third place, with gas left in the tank. Her improvement from last year to this year was huge - a 30 second per mile speed increase. Congratulations!! Your hard work is paying off!

I also placed in third in my age group. I owe my performance to a man in a yellow shirt. My running comrade lumbered up behind me at mile 9. Armed with his iPod armband, yellow shirt that can be seen from the space station, asthmatic breathing and cement feet, Ole' Yella (apt name from my experience) tucked in behind me to cut the head wind. Being that I am 6'1" & 195 I am the perfect candidate for a drafter standing as tall as Bilbo Baggins.

I didn't mind being drafted; the the nipping at my heals didn't bother me, it didn't irritate me that the pavement was being dented behind me with each thundering hobbit stride, I did on the other hand draw the line when the asthma infused breathing created a very localized tail wind. There is something very unnerving about someone breathing on your neck.

Time for evasive action. The younger, inexperienced me would have speed off and felt the repercussions around mile 12, but Eric 2.0 realized that this would likely be a mistake. So, I slowed, substantially. We went from a 7:30min/mile pace to 9min/mile, quickly. And, as I suspected, the shining beacon of light lumbered past. My turn friends. I nestled into the little draft zone behind him. When I say little, I am not attempting hyperbole.

We ran together, displaying quite poetically: the biting contrast between running economically & painstaking inefficiency. Step after step I formulated my hostile takeover plan. My intention was to 'turn it on' at mile 11.1. As we went through the water station manned by cheering teenagers I took my Gatorade in one hand and water in the other, down goes one, then the other. It's time . . . I don't really break away, I am not Usain Bolt, but I come up beside him and pick up my speed a little more. Tenacity was being showcased at that moment, this pace is significantly more taxing, we're down to a 7 minute mile now. Over the next mile Ole' Yella and I trade leading and trailing, but I notice that the once labored breathing is now a forced wheeze and the heavy feet are hitting even harder. Mile 12; it's time to crank it up. I speed up to 6:30, and the distance between him and I begins to grow, and grow and grow. Victory is mine!

I must admit, the last 1/2 mile of the race was hell. I had pushed very hard to put distance between Ole' Yella and I. I felt victorious for a moment but I still had 800 meters to go, so naturally without the desire to crush something small & yellow, my breathing became labored and my feet heavy. I experienced a personal victory during that man vs. hobbit race, but now I had to finish "THE" race. Fairly anti-climactic, I know. Oh well.