| Issue #31, October 27, 2006 |
The "Y" Factor with Christian McLean
Shelter Island 5K
So it happened. After months of training, I ran the Shelter Island 5K. My initial goal when I started training back in January was to complete it in 21 minutes. It was an acceptable time. Nothing ground-shattering, but I figured breaking seven-minute-miles would be a good showing, especially for my first time. When I realized the race was only weeks away, I decided to get my act together and train a little harder. I ran the course about a month ago and completed it in 20 minutes and 20 seconds. I realized that I could probably break 20 minutes if I really tried.
The day before the race, I received a message from a friend on my voicemail. He said something terrible had happened, and that he couldn’t explain it in a message. I called him back, but couldn’t get in touch with him so I left a message. His mother had been battling brain cancer for the past few years, and I figured the worst. I walked around in a fog all day. Then, at one point, I realized that although I had gotten pledges and told everyone that I was running the 5K, I hadn’t actually signed up. I didn’t know any of the details about registration, so I met up with a friend who volunteered for the race committee. In our conversation, she said that she thought I could complete the race in 19:30, something about adrenaline and getting caught up in the action; but shaving fifty seconds off my time seemed impossible.
Around six p.m., the phone rang. It was my friend finally calling me back. The horrible news was about his mother. So here I was, the night before I was supposed to run a race to raise funds for breast cancer, and my friend’s mother passes away from brain cancer. That made me realize something. These awareness months are great, but this can’t just be a one month effort. The realization that cancer continues after the 31st was made glaringly clear.
A combination of concern for my friend and his family, and anticipation for the race, left me with a restless night of sleep. And when I woke up, his mother was still on my mind, but I had a race to run and I was already running late.
I registered with only 20 minutes before the start. People were everywhere. People in serious-looking running gear. They were stretching and cracking jokes about marathons they had run. I thought I was over my head, that I had signed up for absolute failure, that I was going to get my ass handed to me by professional runners. But, unlike in other sports, I was really only racing against the clock. I knew, or at least thought I knew, my time. I had even convinced people to sponsor me $1 for every second under 21 minutes. I figured, at the most, they’d be shelling out sixty bucks.
At the starting line, they started singling groups out. Runners who averaged 6 minute miles, runners who averaged 7 minute miles, etc. I moved up toward the front with the 7-minuters. I cannot remember if there was a starting gun or a horn or a bell, but suddenly the race had begun and I was in the lead. For the first half-mile, I actually thought I had a chance of winning the race. Then people started passing me. One guy, then two, by mile one I was in fourth place, completing it in 5:50. Around mile two, I started feeling the effects of running too hard, too early. My legs felt heavy, my lungs were tight, and I trailed farther behind. I know it sounds cliché, but I started thinking about my friend, and his mother, and about how awful and painful fighting cancer must be. I realized how trivial my pain was compared to that, and I focused on keeping a good pace.
The clock at the second mile marker read 12 minutes. I started screwing around with my iPod, trying to find a good song, and someone else passed me. I was five back from the front and my lungs were burning. I picked up my pace, overtaking the guy who had just cruised by me. The final 1.1 miles was ahead of me. I kept at it with I had music blaring in my ears. God bless “Mr. Brownstone.” In the last half mile I was passed by one man and then a woman. When I crossed the finish line my official time was 18 minutes and 56 seconds. Not only had I broken 20 minutes, I had broken 19.
But when the adrenaline wore off and I gained my breath, reality set back in. My friend’s mother was still dead from cancer, and while I had raised a nice bit of money for the North Fork Breast Health Coalition, people were still dying. The disease is something that you must stay vigilant about. Maybe that’s why they do these races. They challenge you to be dogmatic, to realize that finding a cure isn’t a sprint, but eventually, with the right spirit and motivation, the will be an end in sight.
Though the 5K is over, support and donations are still needed. For more information on how you can help, contact the North Fork Breast Health Coalition (631-574-4269, www.northforkbreasthealth.org) or the North American Brain Tumor Coalition (630-325-2619, www.nabraintumor.org).
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