The Curse of the Garmin

The horses are at the gate. Not quite, but at least the runners are in the corral. It’s the start of the NCM half. Any comparison with the crew surrounding me in the 2:00 pen with the thoroughbreds at the front are strictly limited to our imagination. However, in our minds, we are all Kenyans.

This is the pinnacle of four months of training. When that ultimate decision, influenced by unexpected choice by others, resulted in a whimsical decision to give it a go. The path forward had been fraught with more perils than any previous attempt. A lesser mortal might have suspected a conspiracy, a collusion among the ragtag group of pretenders to the throne, was in force. From weather, to phisio, to travel and the most troublesome; allergies. It has been a long, hard, often interrupted journey. This truly was a campaign of snakes and ladders. Fortunately medication came to the rescue, providing a remedy at virtually the last possible moment for the final aliment. Only the next few hours will tell if this relief had came in time; enabling me to not only compete on an equal footing, but also to triumph again. The spirits are soaring.

And it seems there is a affinity, an equality among the half participants. Very unlike the 5K or 10K races. With their walking groups, strollers, and laissez faire attitude. The runners in the first few rows may be dedicated. Blazing past the spectators, many of them fellow half entrants; leaving us with visions of gazelles in our minds. Further boosting moral for the following morning. But these visions only last momentarily, as the impending, plodding, pack approaches. A sense of reality returns as the circus passes. All that are missing are the elephants, clowns and marching bands. Hitting the wall has a very different meaning at this distance.

And so we are all gathered here in the corral. Home to the dedicated. The ones who train multiple times each week. The ones that have a training plan; a goal and a race strategy. As the seconds tick down, the anticipation builds, the stories exchanged, the energy increasing. To a person, the watches come out like clockwork, the satellites locked in and the mind focused. Everyone around me is a veteran, having run multiple 10K’s and halves. A few have completed the dreaded marathon and commented; nevermore. I was easily spotted as the newbie. No watch on my wrist. No plan to speak of. But I felt welcome. A fellow comrade in arms. The sun was shining. Surely this was meant to be.

As the gun goes off, the dam bursts. A slow ripple begins at the front that slowly works its way back as thousands of runners stream thought the starting gates. The pace, initially slow, running shoulder to shoulder, accelerates as the gaps increase, settling to a smooth flow with a casual ripple as the runners settle into their place. It is smooth and rhythmic, feeding off the energy of the pack, moving forward in sync. There is almost an euphoric air as you glide forward. Much to my surprise, I easily catch up to the 2:00 bunny, the 1:55 bunny and the 1:50 bunny. How hard can this be. The K’s are falling by the wayside. I am in my element.

But this was not to be. Reality set in at the 12K marker. I distinctly recall the fleeting thought that I tried to banish from my conscious. Probably the second most vivid memory of this day. Oh crap. There is another 9K to go. A combination of interrupted training with an unsustainable pace was coming home to roost. The demons were banished for a few more K, but with the impending ramp to the bridge over the cannel in sight, resistance was futile. For the first time in any race, I slowed to a walk. I did manage to recover but the pace was faltering, the spirit weakened; only sheer will keeping the legs moving. Further disillusionment as the pace bunnies kept passing, and now the 2:00 bunny was fading from sight. Not entirely defeated, the legs kept moving to the finish. And to be rewarded later in finding out I did manage to break the 2:00 mark. The best news of the day.

And so I sit here, again, after another day of running. My Garmin, the silent, haunting, witness to a less than stellar performance. The solution to my race problems, a sustainable pace, was to be a guiding light, the star of running watches. Setting the course and time straight, a beacon providing real time feedback, to enable a quicker pace that would return me to my rightful place as leader of the pack. Unfortunately, ever since the watch arrived, I have never been able to sustain the same level of training before the NCM half. Having to stop frequently, cut runs short, and generally underachieve. I am sure you may suggest other factors should be considered, but I prefer The Curse of the Garmin. The Kenyans can rest easy for another night.