Ran the Race for Freedom in Antioch yesterday, and after a truly miserable run the preceding Saturday, my legs and feet weighed heavy with doubt. The tiny, dissenting voice in the back of my head whispered, "You can't do this." When that statement was overridden by logic, the voice wheedled, "Well, sure, you can finish it, but you won't be able to run it the way you want to." Earlier this summer, I vowed that I would never give up any gains. That I would run each race faster than the last. I read that strong runners run each lap stronger than the one prior, and I'm trying to learn to read my body so that I can do the same. It ain't easy!

The night before, Dave and I ate dinner at Red Lobster. I ate 1.5 of those cursed cheddar biscuits...and a heavenly amount of snow crab. Leaving the restaurant, I wondered whether or not I'd be able to digest the lump in my stomach (perhaps I overdid the carb-loading), but I've learned that my body digests protein uber-efficiently. Sho'nuff, by morning I was hungry. But not starving. After eating a banana and slamming some coffee, my body was confident that we did alright on the food front.

Drove over to Dave's parents' house to grab our numbers and out the door. I had #601. A good, solid prime number. Pinned it over my newly aquired red adidas tank (ideal fit, ideal wick, love it) and looked at myself in the mirror. My confidence was deflated, but I was committed and ready.

When we got to the start line a mere 1.5 hours after waking up, my legs realized they had a task. I felt my quads and glutes twitching, apparently they were ready to run, regardless of what my mind said. There were hundreds of people, old, young...clad in fleece, in coolmax...in bright new shoes; in dirtied, well-worn shoes...with makeup, without...such a great diversity of fashion in Smalltown, USA. There was a distinct lack of ethnicity, but a good deal of patriotic spirit.

When the horn sounded, I was off. Since there was a huge mess of people in front of me, I drafted behind two tall high-school kids. I weaved when they weaved, I boosted when they boosted...and then, I had clearance. I fell off their pace and tried to find my own. Imagine my horror when a few moments later, I passed the first mile marker and it read 9:20. A mess of thoughts occurred simultaneously:

- Shit! I forgot to start my chronometer! (Begin furious punching of random watch buttons while trying to run in a straight line)
- Shit! I can't run that fast!
- Shit! The clock says 9:20, but I probably crossed the start line at 00:20!
- Shit! Wow! Shit, I can't keep this up!

And my favorite...

- Shit! I have to pee!

And thus begins the doublethink. I have to slow down because I know that I am physically incapable of maintaining a sub-10 pace. But I need to speed up because my bladder keeps crossing and uncrossing its legs. The opposing forces propel me up a series of slight inclines to mile marker 2. Once it's in sight, I sprint a bit to get close enough to read the time. 19:10. What?? A 9:50 mile? I can't do this!! It's getting really hot by this point, and the water they hand us is welcome, but warm. But this is the magic mile. Ahead, I see families in their driveways, sitting on folding chairs, standing with arms crossed, but positioned to watch the runners go by. They clap, they smile, they encourage strangers with their enthusiasm. Several of them have positioned sprinklers pointed into the course, to relieve runners of the heat. Others have set up un-sanctioned water stops. This is the kind of Midwest hospitality you are not likely to find anywhere else. I pant a breathless "thank you" to those within earshot. A pre-teen boy stands at the curb, trigger finger on the hose, eagerly waiting for a runner to nod. This is the signal for him to let loose a gushing stream of cool water. He grins a freckled grin.

In front of me, a middle-school aged girl runs smooth. Long tan legs matched in length by her subdued, single ponytail, black shorts with the word "viper" printed across the butt in Courier, no nonsense yellow cotton t-shirt. The girl runs like a breeze. I envy not her age, but her form! It amazes me to see adolescent coltishness replaced by a runners' grace. By the way she holds herself, I doubt she has any idea. She later claims a division placement. I suspect it's because she finished, then doubled-back for more. Beautiful kid, quiet confidence. We should all have that self-possession.

During the third and final mile, I'm more focused on running in the shade and through sprinklers than I am on form. I am concentrated not on pace, but on not tinkle-ing down my leg. I try playing my favorite game, "What am I going to eat for breakfast?" It works till I hit 2.75 miles. Then I realize that I've been focusing on the wrong goal for the last 6 minutes, and now it's time to get serious. I do roll call. Breathing? Check. Feet? Check. Lungs? Check. I am more or less in good shape, and the remainder of the course appears flat. One, two, inhale. One, two, exhale. 3 mile marker. Where's the pace clock? It's at the end, Carolyn. You gotta get there to get your time. I round the corner and there it is. It's ticking...31:47. Dear God, my last 5k, I hit 31:58. My first time under 32 minutes. My heart renews itself as I realize that I am in range of a new PR. From who-knows-where, I get a second wind and before I know it, my legs have kicked into overdrive and my arms are pumping. I pass about a dozen runners and everything around me has gone silent. It's just me, and the clock. I cross the line, kicking high, at 31:57. It isn't until much later that I remember..."No, Carolyn. You did not cross the start line at 0:00."

I finished in 31:31. A 10:09 pace. 450th place overall, and 22nd in my division. I've cut 8 seconds off my mile. I am the fastest female runner, between the ages of 30-34 from Chicago. Then again, I am also the only runner in my division from Chicago. Alas, I came in as "Unknown Runner." But no matter. I know. :)