13.1 in Houston• A race report
I was able to run the whole race at Houston Half, which was not a given! I finished in 1:54. I’d considered not starting due to an injury that cropped up two weeks prior. But having fundraised for this race made it feel more important, plus I had a flight leaving for a work trip out of Houston right after the race, so I had to be in the city anyway.
I guess deep down I really wanted to be on the starting line too.
And indeed, the atmosphere on race morning was electric. Fuck me because I still love this feeling. The music, the dark sky, the announcer crowing about the race’s 250,000 fans, and the nerves of the other runners crowding into the chute, that collective effervescence… was it too much to hope for a good day?
The afternoon before the race, I went to a meetup hosted by my charity team @meat_fight for our Houston crew. It was a feel-good reminder of why we do what we do, and it provided a dose of perspective. The team is a mix of supporters like me and then athletes who run with MS, which is a lifelong disease without a cure. My injuries were annoying but obviously not lifelong disability. Our jerseys have upside-down 13s reminding us about beating the odds of a bad hand. Being part of the group made me feel like the race was more meaningful.
That night we spent at my brother and sister-in-laws house. We enjoyed their hospitality: homemade pozole for dinner; a beautiful tres leaches cake. They happened to be entertaining a small group of friends. We played Loteria, and I won a round. Maybe my luck was turning after all.
I started the race as slowly as I could, letting my body warm up. I felt smooth. I slapped so many “tap here for Power Up” Mario signs, gave SEVERAL taps to an anti-ICE sign, and waved and smiled at the spectators like they were there for me personally. I made it to mile 8, AKA my average long run this season, before I started to tire.
This training block was mostly a bust. I couldn’t run fast or hard, couldn’t deadlift, and in the worst of it, I couldn’t even unload my laundry without pain or modification. Alas, I had not sprung for the pricy washer/dryer bases and was reminded of my pain and misery not only while running but also during menial housework.
The thing is, I will whine forever about not getting to run the way I want to run, but I keep. coming. back. And I think it’s less of a Des Linden “keep showing up” ethos, or a moral tale about persistence, than me just not finding anything else I like as much. What I do right now kind of feels like a lack of moving on, but also, for me, this takes repeated humbling. And that is one way I’m growing.
I couldn’t capital-T “train.” But I could run easy. I jogged my 3 days a week. It was un-sexy and disappointing. But it was better than nothing. And by race day, it was enough.
At mile 10 I felt an instinct to start going harder. I could have repressed it. Why bother? But something unconscious urged me ahead.
I thought I’d rejected the doctrines of high performance for good. “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift,” yeah right, miss me with that bullshit, Steve. Tell that to the breastfeeding toddlers that rankled my nervous system beyond repair. I have been giving it my best, pal. But I’ve been giving it my best since I was 8 years old. And it looks different every year. Some years are trenches. Some years are transcendent.
I can tell you how it all unfolded; year after year. Coaching, injuries, mindset shifts, teammates, education, training settings, opportunities, and other life responsibilities all shaped every season. Some years it’s obvious why it didn’t all click; some years it’s more opaque.
Besides performance, I believe in other good things about the sport: the exercise, the friendships, the routines and rituals. Was it one of those compelling me to finish hard at Houston?Or was it something more primal? Something familiar that I hadn’t felt in a while? Something I saw glimmering in the distance?
Or was it simply the race-day high? I remembered the energy at the start of the race, the way the crowd had kept me going throughout, even the silly but real boost from hearing “Mr. Brightside” playing on loudspeakers as I ran by. I wondered if it would be easier to get this buzz by going to raves. A missed opportunity, perhaps?
After I turned onto Allen Parkway, the physical effort obscured the mental. I didn’t care anymore why I felt this way. I just gave myself over to it.
I ran my fastest three miles in months, all the way through to the end.
I look so happy at the finish. And I was. Was it worth all the anguish it took? I don’t know. But it’s intriguing enough to make me want to keep trying.
Love that you ran your fastest three miles in ages — and love that smile on your face!
To not moving on 🥂