Sunday, March 10th I participated in the Prickly Pear 15k, a trail run in San Antonio. This was my first real race in over six years, and only my second trail run since an 8k race in Government Canyon back in November, 2014. Had the race taken place in late December, or had I not been sidelined with a couple of injuries the past two months, the outcome might have been different.
The race was capped at 600 runners, split between three distances: 5k, 15k, and 50k. I signed up four days before the event, as participant #600. In other words: the last possible person to enter the event. The only available spot was for the 15K; had the 50K been the only spot I would have passed on that opportunity.
After the event, in scanning the results, I only found 496 finishers. If that was the case, then just over 100 runners didn’t show up, and more than 15% of the runners did not even start (DNS). Maybe the weather was to blame. The temperature at the start was a cool 48 degree Fahrenheit, though it warmed up quickly and turned out to be fantastic throughout the course. Perhaps some runners were delayed by the change to Daylight Saving time, which started that morning?
As for myself, I was guilty of a DNS once before. A few years ago, when I was in far better shape, I’d signed up for the same race. The week prior to the race, the rains were heavy in San Antonio. I showed up that morning, looked at the waterlogged trails, and turned around without toeing the starting line. I don’t mind running in wet weather, but I hate slogging through mud. I don’t think I would have enjoyed even 5K in knee deep water.
This time around I ended up as a last-minute entry. Overall, it wasn’t an ideal race. The prospects were not great: due to some injuries a few months prior, I was undertrained. Also, I’m not a trail runner. Lastly, I’m a few years older since my last race. My body doesn’t respond like it did back then. I thought I could handle the distance, but the lack of miles in my legs the past two months had a greater impact than I anticipated. I’d hoped to finish around one hour-twenty minutes, based on training runs. That goal seemed manageable, not too ambitious, and at a much slower pace than my last long runs back in December. A few months ago I regularly ran 10 plus miles, until sidelined by a couple of injuries in early January. After some rest and physio, I’d picked up my training again, but the long miles weren’t there yet. Not having raced in years, I also failed to properly fuel along the course. I ran with a water-bottle and some fuel, but hardly used the former and never touched the latter.
My first hint of disaster came at mile four (out of nine!). Mentally I thought I already was at mile six, and did not believe my otherwise trusty GPS watch. Maybe the tree cover affected the GPS, I thought. The same doubt persisted throughout the remainder of the course, so at each subsequent mile I told myself, “Only two more miles.” I said this over and over again, to no avail.
The trail was mostly narrow single track, winding in a serpentine fashion through McAllister Park. At times the trail was smooth, before switching to a rocky river-bed surface, then smooth again, but always winding so I never really knew where I was in the park. The gradient was mostly flat, with a small rise along an earthen dam, then dipping down and up when crossing dry river beds. At times I hear someone on a speaker, but it could have been at some baseball fields, not necessarily the race announcer.
The last time I ran this trail was nearly ten years ago, and then I ran it as an easy jog with some friends. Racing is different, something I didn’t appreciate due to the length of time since my last race. There’s the pressure of people behind you, the thrill of passing someone, and the agony of getting passed. As far as my own race, the wheels came off just before mile six, and from then on it was a matter of survival. At the end, I finished more than 12 minutes off my goal, which was a bitter disappointment. There were many times that I considered quitting and walking somewhere else, anywhere else, as I became focused on my injury and lack of will to keep running instead of stepping to the side and walking. It was, overall, a humbling experience.
Yes, there were prickly pears on the course, some which I almost touched as I passed a runner. There also was prickly pear flavored beer from Shiner (the brewery) at the end. I barely tasted that beer, as I sat off to the side with my head between my knees wondering where it all went wrong.
Runners are rarely satisfied with their results. Like fishermen who focus on the one that got away, runners tend to think, “If only I ran a little faster, I could have shaved some seconds/minutes off my time!” On the positive side, I try to think of this as my first race in over six years. Six years in which I’d quit running because I thought my ankle no longer could handle the training. Six years in which I thought I’d done everything I wanted in terms of running, and no longer needed to prove anything. But I missed it. I missed the thrill of the race, the agony and despair that went with each step.
Still, I enjoy running.
I truly do enjoy running, even though there’s pain, doubt, and misery. I just don’t think I like trail runs. It’s too narrow, too winding. The rocks and surface require more patience and caution than I have.
Will I run that course again? I don’t know. Maybe, if I don’t have other plans I might try it again, but only if I’m not injured. Maybe, if the weather cooperates, and if the course is dry, I’ll lace up my trail shoes and give it one more shot. The 50K would be nice, in terms of a goal. Maybe…
