A longtime runner tackles her very first ‘race’

My husband recognized the bartender first.

“I think that’s the guy from the brewery,” he said as the time ticked nearer to the race start.

We were two of about 400 people convened under sunny, blue skies in downtown Reno, Nevada, for the annual Wobble Before You Gobble footrace on Thanksgiving morning.

I walked up to the guy, tapped him on the shoulder, and re-introduced myself as I watched him try to place me. He remembered my name — Alli and Alaska is probably a handy mnemonic — and we chatted for a minute.

“Have you ever done a 10K?” he asked.

I thought. “No,” I answered. The truth is, who knows, maybe I’ve signed up and completed a 10K before. But I’ve looked at every race I’ve done up until recently as some version of a community run. I’m accountable to the distance and supported in it, alongside hundreds or more of my new closest, craziest friends, but I’ve never walked up to the start line with a competitive edge.

My goal has simply been to finish.

This time was different. The day before, I’d felt prerace jitters for the first time maybe ever. Why? It’s because I had a goal in mind, and I knew it was a goal that required me to push myself in a sustained way I’d never done before. For me, a longtime runner, this represented a major first: actually racing in a race.

At bib pickup, I made fun of myself for making a rookie mistake. “It’s best practice to buy new running tights the night before a race, right?” I joked, as I bought new pants. They were really nice, on sale, and in much better shape than the pants I’d planned on wearing. This cavalier move that was against my best judgment, yet fun, made me feel better: I could take the race a little less seriously, even while I planned to give it my best effort.

I questioned my race pace strategy. Normally, I would run at my most comfortable pace. But for this one, I’d need to sustain an edge for an entire 10 kilometers — that’s just over 6 miles. I needed to pick the pace that was both challenging, but also sustainable for much longer than a sprint distance.

I settled on an annoying pace for the first 4 miles, ticking up for the final two and maxing out as I neared the finish line.

I pictured myself running. I tried to feel what I might feel — uncomfortable, but capable, and focused on my surroundings as much as my body. I relaxed my breathing, my face, my posture. I saw the different landmarks I’d pass and anticipated cold air on my cheeks.

Finally, I realized I’d probably want to park myself closer to the race start than I had any other time. Normally, I don’t care when I start or finish as long as I do. But this time, I’d want to focus less on passing people, and more on finding my own space and pace and settling into it, quickly and efficiently.

So, that’s how I found myself chatting with the bartender a couple paces ahead of me, and next to my own husband, who is a much more consistent racer than I am. Typically, I’d be lost somewhere in the crowd with him up at the start, but not this time.

The clock went off. He darted to the front of the line, and I started running.

Immediately I questioned why I’d decided on this distance.

Don’t get me wrong: I did exactly what I set out to do. My pace was a solid six effort, maybe pushing to seven. I don’t have a watch and I decided early on not to check my phone: It would only distract me, either motivating or demotivating me, and as long as I was giving my honest and consistent effort, the feedback of the clock didn’t matter. But I could feel that irritating, slight strain in my lungs; the just-perceptible push of the muscles in my legs past my usual, relaxed and practically indefatigable running pace.

I knew that feeling would not only last, but get more acute the longer into the race I got. I lamented my poor judgment in not signing up for the 5K.

The course was measured in miles, and by mile one I’d started to feel a little more confident. Once a marathoner always a marathoner, and I was able to kick my mental trick of celebrating the mile-long milestone and feeling excited that I only had five more of those to go. (My brain: Five more of those to go is a lot. Also my brain: You can do this. You never have to do that first mile again. Stop thinking.)

It will come as no surprise that the highest points of the race were the beautiful, relatively warm sunshine, the skittering leaves, and the contrast of late fall leaves hanging onto trees with the rushing, deep blue of the Truckee River. The volunteers and staff were enthusiastic and supportive all along the route.

As the miles ticked off, I coached myself along: miles three and four, stay at the annoying pace and maybe ease off the gas a little bit here to save energy for that final push. Mile five: push just a bit past the annoying pace, start to let out the speed. Finally, mile six: go. Run.

I had a lightbulb moment about a half-mile away from the race finish where I realized I was running a true 8 out of 10 pace. This was what I could sustain for the remaining distance, and I was at its edge. I couldn’t go any faster and not burn out. In that moment, I was proud of myself and all of the training I’d put in for this day simply for being able to know my body well enough to identify where I was, and for being willing to own it and do it. After all, it wasn’t comfortable.

That’s really it, too: the race was uncomfortable. It had moments of euphoria. It was a significant and sustained effort. But I finished three minutes quicker than my goal, at a 9:10 pace, which for me is faster than ever.

And I felt … what is that? I felt a sudden sense of amnesia, coupled with curiosity. What would happen if I trained and tried again? What could I do with that time?

Safe to say, this might have been my first but will not be my last race-race.