A rare September Saturday morning with no soccer and nowhere to be. Most people would sleep in. No alarm clock. But not me. I made the choice to sign up for a 5K in late September, in the South. What is wrong with me? Don’t answer that.
For a lot of runners, the 5K is where racing begins. It is short enough to feel doable, common enough that there is usually one nearby, and does not require months of training just to get to the finish line.
It is also the distance that first introduced me to racing seven years ago. Since then, I have run marathons, ultras, and just about everything in between. Yet if you asked me which distance I would rather race, I would always choose a marathon over a 5K. Finishing a 5K is approachable. Racing one is a completely different thing.
I went into Saturday's race like I do most 5Ks, preparing myself for pain. The air horn went off, and I began. There is a sense of hope and confidence in that first quarter mile. My heart rate was still low. Each step felt effortless. For a moment, you feel like the fastest you have ever been.
Until you are not.
I looked down and saw a six at the front of my pace and realized I may have made a great mistake. But that is where I was now. No going back. Just push forward until I was done. I hit the first mile marker knowing I was in for some pain and began playing the usual game. Just make it to the turnaround. Then mile two. Then the water station. Whatever makes the race feel a little shorter.
At some point in every race, I question my decision to sign up. With a 5K, those questions appear early. The goal became getting to mile two. The confidence from the start was fading quickly, and my pace was going with it. I pushed, my heart rate was high, and each step felt harder than the last. The water station looked like an oasis, but what I really wanted was the second-mile marker. I got there. It was time to walk.
There is very little room for error in the 5K. In a marathon, you have time to settle in. A half marathon is a more controlled effort. Even the 10K gives you a little room to adjust. The 5K offers no such luxury. If you go out too hard, you know it within minutes. Go out too easy, and there is not much distance left to make it up. By the time you feel like slowing down, the race is almost over.
That is what makes the distance so difficult for me. You have to get comfortable with being uncomfortable and know how much effort you can sustain before things start falling apart. I am still working on that part.
The pain is almost over. Or is it? The final mile of my race was a mix of walking and mostly running. Whatever it took to get me across the finish line. Slow down, recover, move again, repeat. A yo-yo of paces. Did I mention there was a hill in the last mile? Way to kick a runner when they are down. Thank goodness for the shade.
And then there is the final tenth. It is easy to hit the two-mile mark and tell yourself there is only one mile left. An exhausted brain has the math not mathing. Then you remember this is a 5K, not a three-mile race. But that final tenth is also the best part. The finish line is in reach. The crowd is cheering you on. The pain is almost over, and somehow you usually find a little more to get yourself across the line.
I crossed the finish line. I was done. I continued to question why this distance is considered the entry-level race. But after a few steps and a sip of water, things were not so bad.
I began to think I could have pushed harder or maybe held my pace a little longer. Funny how quickly the pain and doubt fade once the watch stops. I am already thinking about the next race and another chance to get the 5K right.
The vicious cycle continues and it is exactly how I like it.