Super Caveman Challenge race report

The hardest working cavewoman in the running business put on yet another race this weekend: the 10K on the 10th. Per usual, I had to go for the Super Caveman Challenge and do 10 miles instead of 10 Ks--not that this masochism was an official division of the race, but I had a 10-mile run schedule for today anyway.

As is becoming my typical Saturday routine, I went to the Super Runner's Shop (halfway to a free pair of shoes!) and met up with the gang there. Right before we left, The Laminator, fresh off his PR at the Long Branch Half-Marathon, showed up and we got to talking about his fantastic race (and the weird weather over the weekend).

We jog on over to the Runner's Gate at Central Park, where the group separates into the different distances. The Laminator, a Brazilian guy, and myself form the 10-mile group, lead by pacesetter Julio. We map out our route as one big loop of six-miles and one inner loop of four-miles. When Julio asks what our pace is I ambitiously say "about 8:30" knowing full-well that group runs tend to move faster than the projected pace. The Laminator agrees to this pace, even though I know he can crank out sub-7-minute miles like no one's business, and the Brazilian guy, well, I don't think he responded. So Julio, who is incredibly fit and (I find out later) about 40 years my senior, says "well, I'm not as fast as you guys, but let's do the first six-miles at about a nine minute pace and then the last four we'll speed it up." Sounds like a plan to me because my stomach wasn't feeling 100%.

So we set out north on east side of the park. The Laminator and I quickly realize that Julio either sandbagged us or needs a new watch, because these were not nine-minute miles. These are more like 8:30 miles, and Julio seems to be pounding out eight-minute miles on the uphill.

Most of the race was hard for me because we were pushing such an aggressive speed. I felt bad for The Laminator, because here he is, holding back for me at his recovery pace, and I can't even talk because I'm afraid that starting up a conversation will stop me dead in my tracks.

We get to the six-mile mark and Julio is there (he had pulled out way ahead of us) and shouts out our time at 50:20. At this point I can't do the math in my head--runner's brain has impaired me from doing anything more than counting the miles to go. If I take this as my time for the race that puts me at a pace of 8:23, which is good (it would actually be a PR since I've never done a 10K), but I'm not doing 10K, I'm doing 10M. So onward we go.

About 10 seconds later, a trio of gaunt runners whiz by and the only piece of their conversation that I catch is "I just clocked that mile at 6:09."

...

Here I am dying with every step and then come these three guys at breakneck speed talking as if this were easy. So I did what any self-respecting runner who has been put in their place would do: I let out a few four-letter words and threaten to throw my water bottle at them (that'll slow them down for sure). Fortunately they have run out of earshot.

The rest of the race goes on much of the same: left foot, right foot, repeat. Finally at mile seven I get a bit of a runner's high and it keeps me going for the rest of the race--which I desperately needed because there are some nasty-ass hills in Central Park.

I gave a little sprint at the finish--nothing spectacular, but I did cross the finish line a little faster. I look at my watch, which reads 1:23:47. I shook hands with The Laminator and wished him luck on the six-miles he had to go to get in his 16.

When I'm at home I map out the route. Turns out it was a run of 10.15-miles, meaning my pace was 8:15 min/mile. Wait a second. 8:15 pace for 10-miles? That's crazy! I've never gone that fast for so far. And I got some negative splits action going on there. Impressive considering the Central Park hills. Looks like The Laminator was right: he is sending me speed vibes and that an eight-minute pace at Fairfield is becoming more and more of a reality.