The Jacksonville Winter Beach Run is a January favorite on the Jacksonville road race circuit as a reliable flat and fast race in usually agreeable conditions. Alek and I have run it a few times in the past decade with very favorable results. As you well know, humidity is usually the dreaded foe that sandbags my performance much more than my smaller-framed competitors in distance running. As such, I hoped with all my heart and soul for low humidity going into Saturday’s Winter Beach Run 5 mile race. Much to my delight, my low-humidity prayers were answered (only 58% humidity on race day at the start to accompany a balmy 72 degree day). But I forgot to say “and hold the wind” with that pre-race prayer.
As a beachcomber who has lived a mere 100 yards from Neptune Beach for the past two years, very close to the start of this race, Alek was very concerned about the projected winds in the forecast on race day. I chuckled and scoffed at his concern and thought — hah — I can handle the wind as long as the humidity cooperates. And boy was I wrong.
The 5 mile race course featured a simple out-and-back course (no twists and turns, which also helps me) with a turnaround point at 2.5 miles. The race started well and I barely detected the tailwind that was apparently assisting me through the first two miles as I held an 8:00 min./mile pace somewhat comfortably. When I hit the turnaround to head for home in the second half of the race, the headwind was instantly menacing at an unrelenting 15-20 m.p.h. While that type of wind may feel like a pleasant stiff breeze to those out for a romantic stroll on the beach, that degree of headwind feels like a brick wall of air molecules that causes your back to be sore from the added strain of what feels like one step forward and two steps back on a giant treadmill made of quicksand. It felt something like this:
As a runner with a large mass, I was one of the lucky ones, though. The runners with a more slight stature were simply swept up by the wind and unceremoniously discarded into the ocean as a new form of human projectile ocean debris.
As I closed in on the marker for mile 3, the grim reality set in that this was going to be a frustrating and insanely challenging race that would yield a disappointing time. By this point in the race, my pace had slowed to an 8:30 and by mile 4 it was an 8:50, which is a ridiculously slow pace that I run comfortably in my training runs and yet it took everything I had to hold this pace in mile 4 and it was even harder in mile 5 as I slowed to close to an inconceivable 9:00 min. pace. By the last mile, I just wanted to stop, walk, and drop out of the race and pretend it never happened. But something in the back of my mind told me, you can’t be the only person who is suffering with these conditions — and I was right (for a change), so I’m glad that I persevered.
The human creamsicle in the distance storming toward the finish in the Winter Beach 5 Mile Race is me. I purchased that racing shirt because it reminded me of my favorite rainbow sherbet in my childhood (orange, raspberry, and pineapple).
When all you want to do is stop, all you can do is persevere. And it’s a cruel reality. Stopping is so easy and so sensible. Pain is unpleasant and pain avoidance is among the most natural human inclinations. But as a competitive distance runner, you subject yourself to unwelcome pain in training so you can have the opportunity to subject yourself to more unwelcome pain on race day to be able to reach your goals. So withdrawing from the height of your pain on race day is the ultimate betrayal of this process. How dare you give up? If you don’t see value and virtue in pain, then you shouldn’t be training and racing. And having to live with yourself (and your hypercritical family members) when you give up when the going gets tough in races is the ultimate in existential misery. So “shut up and keep running” is the only option. Sometimes, you are rewarded with a piece of hardware for your troubles, but your soul will flourish every time you refuse to give up regardless of the seemingly impossible adversity and no matter what the scoreboard reads at the end of the day.
To compound the challenge to my perseverance in addition to the impossible headwind was the fact that the race organizers changed (I mean added to) the race course this year. They decided to have the race finish on the boardwalk instead of on the beach. This meant two things that were very bad for everyone’s race times. First, the race organizers literally added almost two tenths of a mile to the race with this adjustment — my watch read 5.18 miles when I crossed the finish line. So that’s almost 1:30 extra time right there. Second, runners had to trudge through deep and loose sand for half of that extra distance to reach the boardwalk, destroying valuable momentum as runners closed in on the finish. I was so angry with the final race time that all of this nonsense yielded that I stormed away from the finish line snarling and blurting out rapid-fire curses. I was beyond certain that I didn’t have even the remotest chance of placing in my age group. And I was wrong yet again. I finished 58th of 635 runners overall (Top 9%) in the race and placed 2nd of the 22 runners in my 50-54 age group. It was my last hurrah in this age group (I turn 55 this week).
Alek’s story is an even more compelling testament to the crazy race conditions. His time for the 10 mile race was more than 3 minutes slower than what he expected. In fact, he had completed a 10 mile training run a week before the race that was two minutes faster than his time in this race. But again, it’s all relative because everyone was slower in these conditions. Alek persevered to finish 7th of 237 runners in the highly competitive 10 mile race and snared 1st place in his 20-24 division.
Alek works to maintain his position in the chase pack midway into the 10 mile race.
So I look on the horizon and wonder what’s in store for the next five years in my competitive road racing. With there be another peak of glory before I continue to slide into the quicksand valley of lost speed and endurance? At 55, you just hope that you are healthy enough to have a fighting chance to give it your best shot and stay out of the medical tent at the finish. I have felt miserably bad immediately after many of my races in the past two years (dry heaves, oxygen debt headaches, soreness everywhere, etc.), so I will try to train hard and stay within my limits on race day as I strive to do my best in each effort. That’s the one thing I can control. Usually it’s good news to “age up” to an older category because the depth of the competition pool becomes a bit more shallow (because they have found new homes on golf courses, in retirement communities, or at your local cemetery). But not so for the 55-59 age group, much to my chagrin. The guys who are still running races at this age somehow remain quite speedy in this last lap of their competitive running days before the body screams “enough” and rebels with all its might.
I had run 1000 miles in 2018 for the first time since 2014, and I had run 100+ miles in Orlando for the month that I was home for the holiday break. I had been training hard and I knew that I was well prepared for this race. And all of that training occurred during a year in which I switched jobs for the first time in a decade, relocated from FL to NJ, endured mega-transition living out of hotels, spent dozens of hours at all hours of the day and night on I-95 commuting from NJ to CT on weekends for the entire fall semester in my new job while traveling throughout the U.S. and to several countries for many speaking engagements. Through it all, I stayed the course and made sure that my training didn’t suffer. I surely wanted to see better results today, but better things come to those who wait and persevere. And I’m hopeful for some fast times in 2019 if I can just get one decent day for running on race day.