Thanks to last week’s huge-ass New York City Half Marathon, it would be an understatement to say that the field today was not exactly stacked. But even so…

Boom.

I’ll take it.

This race started at 11:15 a.m., which gave me a whole morning to start feel really negative about my half-assed training, my achy foot, my poor digestion, my grandfather who actually had colon cancer and fought in World War II and wouldn’t be such a pussy about a race. Grumble grumble. I grumbled all the way to Lincoln Center, where I parked, and to a nasty port a john in a construction site, where I eased my colon, and to the baggage check, where I ran into Megan. I grumbled to Megan, who responded that she was not feeling so hotsy totsty, but had a mega excuse in running a half marathon PR the week before. Grumble. I went and did 3/4 of a stride and declared myself warmed up.

So, I went into this race with a really bad attitude but a really solid race plan: start out at around a 7 minute mile for the first mile – which I knew went up the infamous Cat Hill – and then ease into a slightly sub-7 minute pace. A little McMillan calculating told me that, based on my 19:41 5K time, I should be able to run at a 6:52 pace for the 9.3 miles. Sure. Sounded a little fast, but certainly something to aim for, right after that easier first mile.

At 11:15, the horn sounds the start, and what do I do? Take off like a bat out of freakin’ hell. “What are you doing?” I asked myself. “I dunno! I dunno!” my body responded as it bounded up Cat Hill.

“You will not feel like this the second time up this hill,” I told my legs, to which they said, “Whee! A 6:42 first mile.”

FML.

Now, here things get a little weird. I try my best to crank it down from 11 for the second mile, which comes in at 6:15. Out loud, I say, “Are you serious?” Apparently no one else is taking splits or seems concerned that we dropped out pace by 30 seconds in the second mile. I make a conscious effort, sort of, to slow down in the second mile, which I clock at  7:11. I consulted with Megan after the race, and she said the second mile seemed short and the third long, so I don’t know what to make of that. A bad race course, that’s what I’ll make. But I roll in at mile four around 6:40 pace, and am fairly sure that I haven’t slowed down too much.

I should mention that this entire time I have been trailing two women. I was fairly certain that a very fast woman had taken off ahead, but in my general vicinity is a girl in shorts and a taller woman in tights. For the first four miles I have stayed about 20-25 yards behind them, but as we pass the four-mile marker, I notice that tights is quickly catching up with shorts. I am still utterly convinced that I have blown my chances at finishing this race in anything but excruciating pain and a slow-ass time, but I keep them in my line of vision. Just as we round the bottom of the park at the 65th street transverse, I catch up with shorts.

“You’re doing great!” Shorts says.

“This wind sucks!” I respond.

Tights is about 20 yards ahead, but Shorts and I quietly make our way up behind her. We hit mile five in a trio. Huh, I think. This is a race. Too bad I’m going to die really soon.

As it turns out, though, Shorts is the first to go. Somewhere after Cat Hill Part Deux (which, true to form, sucked much much more the second time ’round), she slips behind. It’s me and Tights. I’m right on her ass, which I feel like I should apologize for, but also really want to reassure her that I started out much much much too fast and will in  no way be passing her at the end. We hit mile seven in 6:35.

The eighth mile is roughly the same as the third mile, and I know it is going to suck very similar balls. Tights pulls ahead while I plod up the hill. “Run your own race,” I tell myself. “Let her go.” She goes, but I guess the hill took it out of her as well, and I pull even again. Things are starting to get pretty difficult now, and I swear if I weren’t running against another woman, I would have slowed way the hell down already, but somehow I keep moving. Less than two miles.

We are actually moving now. Like, fast. There is a guy next to us who has seen me ride Tights’ ass the entire time and, I’m certain, is pulling for her. Don’t blame him. I am pulling for her, too, except now I realize that she is hurting just as bad as I am. As we approach blessed mile nine, we swap the “lead” – Tights ahead, me ahead, and again. Then it’s me. And mile nine (6:33) is just ahead. And I really hate to take the lead when I’m not sure if I can keep it, but it’s now or never. So, with a little more than a quarter mile to go, I go.

Hehehe. And then let up. I don’t really have a kick.

But anyway, I’m still sort of kicking, and people are legit cheering, and I hear the announcer say something along the lines of “she’s catching up! this could be close!”

Hells to the NO it’s not, I think, and actually lay down the hammer. I am sprinting. Tights is sprinting. My legs super duper hurt. The finish line is right there, and so am I, and half a second later, so is Tights.

I believe it was 1:01:51. Actually, I know it was. About 1:45 faster than anticipated, a 6:39 pace.

It becomes quickly evident that my tendonitisesque left foot is not as pleased with my race as I am, and immediately starts throbbing. That’s annoying, but this is probably my only time EVER being in the top three in a NYRR race, and I am not about to let it rain on my mini-parade. The first woman came in at something ridiculous, 57:XX, but I am good for second.

Almost as awesome as the race was a huge face full of 40 Carrots frozen yogurt at Bloomingdale’s, eaten with Megan and Jacqui. Jacqui had a great race, beating her goal time, and Megan ran super-speedy as well, despite her recent domination of the NYC Half.

Anyway, I’m going to navel gaze and ruminate about how my time isn’t actually legitimate, but I’m hungry now. Later skaters.

P.S. – I discovered this on the way home. I’m a car owner, but a lazy one. Do I really need a hubcap?