The clock said 1:18:23.
My right foot said something else.
The New York City Half had been the target all winter. I thought anything under 1:19 would be solid improvement. Anything under 1:17 would blow my mind. I finished at 1:18:23, averaging 5:59 per mile.
The first 5K took 18:30. I reached 10K in 37:03 and 15K in 53:34. My slowest section came later, around the 20K mark. Then the final stretch dropped back to 5:47 pace.
I had made a spreadsheet before the race with the plan, then added the actual splits afterward. This is what normal people do for fun.
The race was not comfortable. My hamstring bothered me the entire way, and the right side had to compensate. I did not slow down enough on the uphills. The downhills were better, and my grade-adjusted pace stayed surprisingly steady.
All in all, I was happy. I had wanted sub-1:19 and got it.
Then the right foot came apart.
The heel and outside arch hurt badly enough that I emailed my physical therapist the next day asking for any waitlist opening she had. I called it “blown apart,” which was dramatic but not entirely wrong.
I was supposed to take the whole week off except for PT, a massage and maybe a hot tub or Epsom salt bath. The hamstring and the rest of the right leg were sore too. I hoped all the little pings and pangs would be gone by the next Monday.
They were not.
I ran ten miles the following Saturday anyway. In the next email I described that choice as “more stupid.” Walking became difficult.
The time still counted. The race photos show me in the red PPTC singlet, black arm sleeves, a knit hat and very bright shoes, moving through the city with other runners packed around me.
I got the result I had been training for. I also bought myself several weeks of rehab.