New Bedford Half-Marathon
I am a lifelong New Englander. And while I have lost 95% of my Boston accent and no longer refer to "horses" as "hosses" or Coke as "tonic," there is one quality that is still very New England-ey about me: I don't fully trust weather forecasts. Especially weather forecasts for race days.
Case in point. Five days before the New Bedford Half Marathon I checked the local news. The extended forecast called for a sunny day in the 40s for Sunday. I shook my head. Nope. It's the New Bedford half. It always means fierce, eye-watering cold. My shoulders remained hunched and my muscles tense. I packed three Cool Max shirts, gloves, hat, headband, tights, and a fleece vest. I would not be fooled into letting down my guard.
The day before the race, I checked the training outline Fernando had emailed me for the week. Saturday before the race: "Ice Bath!!!" he wrote in exclamatory fashion. Now, I've come to learn from Fernando, that the little things really do matter when it comes to race performance. But, although I had filled up a large lobster pot with ice and dumped it into the tub, I couldn't bring myself to step in. Just the thought of the New Bedford Half was making me shiver.
In the morning, I still refused to accept the forecast, even though the sun was bright and blazing in through the window. I stepped outside and expected to feel a piercing wind in my face. Still, nothing.
I geared up, got a good luck kiss and hug from my boys, grab my shoes and Cliff Shots, and hit the road. I turned on the radio to hear the forecast. "Sunny today and low-to-mid-40s."
"Maybe here," I thought to myself, "but NOT in New Bedford." When I arrived in New Bedford, I jogged to the race headquarters. Still, no cruel, punishing wind in my face. No bone-chilling raw air. "This can't be New Bedford," I thought. I saw Sarah Prescott whiz by me looking fit, strong and totally at ease with her long blonde pony tail trailing behind her. I saw Kelly LeCours looking fast, focused and relaxed doing her pre-race warm-up. No one looked miserable. This can't be NEW BEDFORD!!!
Then, after I picked up my race number, I headed to the lower floor of the building to stand in line for the ladies room. A strange, pungent but familiar smell filled my nasal passages. It was the unmistakable smell of Fish Stew coming from the kitchen. "Ah yes, this is DEFINITELY New Bedford!"
I finally conceded to the notion that this could actually be a pleasant race for once. And as I jogged around the starting line, I could see this welcome realization in the faces of other runners. Every one looked more relaxed. Looser. Energetic. Relieved!
Once the gun went off, I realized that this change of weather posed one problem: Would I be too hot? And after the first mile, I realized that my double layer of cool max was just too much. Somehow I managed to keep my club racing singlet on while removing the tight-fitting turtleneck cool Max shirt from underneath-while still running. A little boy along the course actually "Woo Woo"-ed me while I did this, which I thought was pretty funny. I tied the shirt around my waist and kept pace with the huge crowd of runners around me.
With the weather not being a factor, this was going to be a fast race. After the first stretch of flat, the race served us its usual 2-course helping of hills, just after the 2-mile mark. While the first hill is not so bad, the second hill seems to ramble on forever. But once it is conquered, it's a long, rejuvenating cruise 'til mile 7. During this stretch, I was reminded of why I keep coming back to run New Bedford, despite the weather. The crowd support is amazing. The water stops are well-managed and located throughout the course. The local community-adults, kids, shop owners-comes out in force to cheer the runners along. And no lie, I even heard a policeman working the course say to me, "Thanks for coming out and supporting the race." You really get the feeling that the city is happy to have us runners there.
But back to mile 7. So while I had take off a layer of Cool Max, I still had a layer of skepticism. After "sunbathing" during the first 10K of the race, I knew that the race often throws you a curveball with a shock of driving wind off the Atlantic from mile 7 to mile 9. And sure enough, it was there. If you weren't wearing gloves, it did make your hands freeze up a bit. But it wasn't the make-you-beg-for-mercy wind of past races. During this stretch, I noticed a few runners cramp up and slow down. Other runners clumped together and drafted off one another. Although I am just 5'6", a six-foot man decided to fall in right behind me. I didn't mind this so much, but I did mind the loud burps that erupted from his mouth every two minutes. (Perhaps he had a sampling of the Fish Stew before the race.) Whatever the reason, I decided I couldn't take this anymore, so I picked up the pace to escape.
Finally, relief from the wind came as we turned left along the water and hit the 9-mile mark. For some reason, I find this to be the hardest part of the race. Still another 4 miles to go…and there's that not-so-fun hill to look forward to at the end of the race.
Although Burping Man was behind me now, my annoyance factor went up again when an unidentified "Coach on a Bike" took his place a few feet behind me. He was riding on a ten-speed, offering Gatorade to a female runner and giving her minute-by-minute coaching advice. "At mile 10, you're really going to kick it in." "Don't forget all those 400 repeats you did." "Get ready to unleash."
Normally, I'm pretty good at tuning out other runners-even ones with strange, loud habits. But this being mile 9, and my energy level feeling pretty depleted, the Coach's voice started to echo through my brain and "psyche" me out. Fortunately, I thought back to Coach Fernando's weekly training plan. Before race day, he uses a word that I think sums it up: "Execute." It's simple. It cuts through the clutter. It really says it all.
Don't think. Just execute. It's a more succinct version of "Just Do It."
And with that word in mind, I took that right turn at the 11-mile mark, turned off my brain, and just let my legs do the rest. The voice of "Coach on a Bike" trailed behind me. That last hill was still hard, but not as bad as when a vicious driving wind is blowing in your face. A band was playing and the swell of crowd support lifted us all up and over the top, delivering us down to the right turn, and another right turn, until we could let loose on the flat home stretch to the finish.
Over the timing mat. Ankle strap off. Green-ribboned medal in hand. 13.1 miles behind us. A gathering of runners wearing shorts and sleeveless singlets-laughing, joking, and replaying their race highlights. Sun shining. Spectators grinning.
Could this really be New Bedford? In an upset, yes, this year it was. (Note to self: Should have taken that ice bath after all.)
[Holly Madden, March 15, 2009]
[Holly ran 1:28:21 (6:45 pace) at this year's New Bedford Half-Marathon, and led her Goon Squad Runners team to 3rd place in the very competitive women's master division.
Holly has trained with Fernando Braz for many years.]
