As I write this race report, I am sitting on the steps of the “Octagon House” in the Denali Mountain Morning Hostel. Bill and I couldn’t get a room here, so we’re staying in a tent tonight, which is not my thing… but it’s only one night. Wish me luck that I stay warm and don’t get too cranky.
As for the race: Sunday morning we awoke at 6:30 – only because the sun rises so early here in Alaska – and took our time readying ourselves for the race. By the time we left the hostel at 8:00, I was concerned to see that fog lay heavy all around the city and didn’t seem to be eager to lift.
We easily found a parking spot in downtown Anchorage and walked the few blocks to the starting line. The race promised to take us through the downtown area and then out on a beautiful portion of the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail along the Cook Inlet waterfront (where Captain Cook looked in vain for the Northwest Passage in the late 1700s). We wouldn’t get to see much of the water in the early hours of the race, I figured.
The first event of the day was a 2 kilometer non-timed run for kids. Bill and I hung around the starting area and watched as dozens of children and their parents crossed their finish line, which was a big inflated dinosaur. Bart Yasso was there to call out encouragement to the kids as they passed by.
Finally, we marathoners, along with all of the half marathoners, lined up to get ready for our races. As the gun went off, we made our way around the city and then into the thick mist near the bay. The route of Humpy’s had one out-and-back turn around nine-and-a-half miles on the Coastal Trail and then another one near the end of the course at a popular Anchorage park. When Bill and I both run a race, I like the out-and-back format because we get to pass each other. If we timed it right, we’d see one another twice during this race.
The course started by descending slightly on the main trail. My plantar fasciitis was quiet for the moment. I’d been resting my foot the best I could for the past several days. Now I was hoping I wouldn’t be slowed too much by pain in my arch and heel. I couldn’t see the Cook Inlet because of the weather, but my body felt good. For the first half of the race, as we ran through thick northern rainforest, I moved strong and happy. When Bill and I passed at about mile 8 (for me and mile 11 for Bill), we were both smiling – sometimes (not always) a bad omen at the beginning of a race.
As we intersected, Bill said to me, “Hey, you’re just a little bit behind Jeff Galloway!” Jeff (an Olympian at the 10K distance in 1972 and a marathon training guru) had been at the pre-race pasta dinner and had told attendees that he would be running with his wife in a 30/30 (30 seconds of running/30 seconds of walking) format. I knew he and his wife were just ahead of me; I’d said hello to them as they’d passed.
By the time I hit my first turn around, the fog was lifting and I was pleased to see that the sun and the water were making appearances. Cook Inlet was at low tide and so there were vast sandbars raised in the water and families with children poked around on shore looking in tide pools and overturning rocks to see what was underneath. At mile 13, my time was good. I hit the half-way mile-marker at 2:29 and, although I knew I would slow down in the second half, I still estimated my finish time around 5:15.
After mile 16, however, with ten miles left to go, I started to feel the pain in my heel. The course was right at sea level and fairly flat, the inclines were few, gradual and mild, so I’d hoped the pain I’d been fighting wouldn’t be stimulated by anything in particular on the course. But the hours took their toll.
Bill and I crossed paths again at mile 17 (for me). He was at mile 23 and near the end. Our passing occurred at an aid station so we both slowed to grab water and had a moment to exchange a few words. He was tired. But he’d also seen a moose and her calf at mile 19, so he was excited for me to meet up with her too. We were both soaked to the skin from the mist. I was chafing badly under my bra in the front and starting to feel the skin rub off with every limping step I took. With a final “good luck” we each carried on in our opposite directions.
The last nine miles of the course for me was painful. I watched my time continue to decrease, and I felt I could barely keep my body moving. There weren’t many spectators out on the course, though it was well-marked and well-supported by at least one high school cross country club, several volunteer groups at the aid stations and the Anchorage Police, who were not only efficient, but friendly and encouraging.
When I finally turned the bend that allowed me to see the finish line near Humpy’s Great Alaska Ale House, my stopwatch said I’d been running for 5 hours and 30 minutes. It took me two more minutes to run the few blocks to the finish line. Bart Yasso, true to his word the night before, was still there, announcing the name of every finisher and I heard him call me out: “Cami Ostman representing Bellingham, Washington.”
I slowed to a stop and allowed the volunteers to remove my timing chip. Bill was waiting for me and followed me beside the chute as I wound my way out of the recovery area. When he finally embraced me he said, “Do you want to cry?” I guess my face was screwed up into a pre-cry expression, and I did want to cry. But I was just too tired. Not my best race, but certainly not my worst, either.
A nice Alaska Stout would go a long way toward making me feel better….
