Running two 5ks in a single weekend!

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Short enough to not necessarily require any dedicated training but long enough to still be considered an accomplishment. Best as I can figure, that is the appeal of your favorite charity’s favorite event to organize, the 5k. Covering 3.1 miles in imperial units, most recreational runners can complete the race in roughly half an hour. As a rather recreational runner myself, this was appealing to me. 

Particularly since I had just completed a 10K two weeks prior. The Cooper River Bridge Run is a Charleston staple. This year’s event was the 47th overall. However, despite being born and raised in Charleston, it was only my 2nd time taking part in the festivities. In fact, those two races represented my only road race experiences. Unsatisfied with a roughly 50-second improvement in my time, I decided I needed more road race experience. Not necessarily more 10k experience though. Enter the 5k.  

As luck would have it, two were taking place on back-to-back days. It almost wasn’t fair. They were essentially giving me two days to complete a 10k based on my awful math. Now, I had reason to believe that my semi-10k training would be useful in this endeavor, I had another issue standing in the way of me and 5k immortality: my body. Specifically, back muscles that had seized up out of nowhere a day or two post-Cooper River Bridge Run. 

I had picked up a number of injuries when I was actually an athlete, the most severe being an Achilles tendon rupture, but was mostly pain-free as I transitioned into being a weekend warrior. Whatever was going on with my back was as surprising as it was debilitating. It also limited my running leading up to my 5k weekend. I also had to seek the best medical attention I could afford in this glorious healthcare system. Thus began a daily routine of stretches and exercises assembled from a variety of YouTube videos. 

In addition to preparing my body, I also prepared my mind by listening to podcasts about 5k race strategy. What I heard was music to my ears. The consensus seemed to be to pretty much bust your ass as long as you could, then try to hold on. As someone who has struggled with the concept of pacing for as long as I’ve run, this was a concept I was unintentionally quite familiar with. 

Now, this advice did come with a warning about something we will call the “Wall of Death.” If you were to follow this strategy in an effort to run your fastest possible race, there would be a point somewhere between the 1.5-mile mark and the 2.5-mile mark where you hit the “Wall of Death” and question your ability to not only finish the race but live. It would hurt, you would feel like you could not continue on, but, as my podcast experts explained, you could run through the wall and live to tell the tale. In fact, you would most likely end up with a PR. 

My first-ever 5k was to take place at 8:15 on Saturday morning at Folly Beach. I woke up at 5, had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some coffee, showered, and then did some of the best back warmup exercises YouTube has to offer. I hopped in my car, put on a ‘90s and ‘00s R&B station, and off I went to pay too much for parking. 

Outside of lower parking costs, what more could I ask for? The weather was beautiful with a temperature in the low to mid 70s. I got there with more than enough time to continue my warmup. Life was great. The only slight issue that arose was my sudden realization that 5ks are social events and I was there alone. Luckily, I was raised as an only child and have a lifetime of experience doing things that are typically group activities, like going to the movies or to a restaurant, alone. The flash of self-consciousness as others mingled with friends and strangers while I did dynamic stretches eventually disappeared into the ocean breeze. 

Finally, it was time to line up and race. The crowd appeared to feature a decent mixture of running skill levels, some walkers, and some children. Most notably, it was a fraction of a percent of the size of the Cooper River Bridge Run, which meant I wouldn’t have to navigate through a ton of traffic. I lined up towards the front third of the pack in the hopes that some of the faster runners up there would pull me along while I also gained some easy confidence by passing some overly ambitious children whose underdeveloped cardiovascular systems and musculature were no match for mine. 

We were all half a step slow as we tried to start our fitness trackers as we crossed the starting line, but I settled into a nice rhythm quickly. I mentioned that a good recreational runner could complete a 5k in about half an hour and I am a recreational runner. However, I was out to prove that I was an ELITE recreational runner so I had set a goal of finishing in under 24 minutes. This would require a pace of 7:42/mile. As we hit the first-mile marker, I glanced at my watch and saw 7:28. Well ahead of where I needed to be and I was feeling good. 

As expected, the competitive runners were ahead of me. Luckily, they were so far ahead that I had not even a hint of competitive desire to try to keep up with them. Even better, I had passed every single child in the race. When we are born, we are carefree. Nothing but hopes, dreams, and belief in ourselves. We hold onto this naivete tightly as long as we can until finally, one day life’s harsh realities pry it from our tiny little hands. For those children in that race, that day had come. 

As I approached the second-mile marker, the elite group was nowhere to be seen. It was me and a middle-aged gentleman. More middle-aged than me. I was warmer than anticipated, so I grabbed what had to be the world’s tiniest cup from the water station and dumped it on myself. The relief was minimal. Again, I glanced at my watch. 15:06. A 7:33/mile pace through 2 miles. I couldn’t start jogging, but a sub-24 finish was well within my sights. 

The middle-aged gentleman, presumably more experienced in 5ks than me, began to pull away. I had a thought to try to keep up but pushed it down. My body temperature was steadily climbing and any increase of pace felt too risky. I was also unfamiliar with the course so I had no reference for how far I had left and sometimes checking my watch too much can psyche me out. Better to just focus on hanging on. 

Especially since I had not yet hit the wall of death that my podcasts had talked about. I was right in the range, running a pace that felt challenging, yet, other than being hot, I felt okay. 

Then, I heard it. 

A low rumbling that was slowly but surely getting closer and closer behind me. It was a familiar noise, but I struggled to place it. A Razr scooter? I hadn’t seen one of those in decades. Was I hallucinating? Was this what the “Wall of Death” was? A descent into psychosis that would lead me into abandoning the race altogether to instead walk directly into the ocean never to be seen again?

Worse. It was a woman pushing a baby stroller. I had not accounted for a child using its mother’s superhuman strength to overtake me. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise. The motivation I needed to finish the race strong in the form of a child who was no doubt cheating. I dug down as deep as I could, summoning whatever strength I had left to not only blow past my goal time but also take down this unsuspecting child. 

And immediately hit the “Wall of Death”. My preoccupation with the child left me vulnerable and I had flown into it like a bird into an impeccably cleaned window. Slowly, then quickly, my pace slowed to a crawl and a stabbing pain radiated along the side of my torso. Through my sweat-stained eyes, I could see the finish line for the very first time as I staggered around a corner. It didn’t matter. I had to walk and regain my composure. 

After a couple of deep breaths and applying intense pressure to a golf ball of muscle, tendons, and whatever the hell else just below my ribcage, I was able to continue on. I crossed the finish line at 24:34. On this day, the “Wall of Death” and that one child had won. 

I gingerly made my way back to my car, my confidence in the following day’s race slowly receding like the very tide that was a mere football field away. I had known heading into this that focusing on reco/very between race 1 and race 2 would be of the utmost importance. But now, after struggling in the race I was freshest for, I wondered if there was a level above “utmost.”

On the way home, I spent half a beach parking spot’s worth of money on every electrolyte-replenishing drink on the market, determined to fill the hole where my confidence once was with faintly fruit-flavored salt water. At home, I scarfed down a waffle, eggs, and a protein shake before making my way to the couch to lie down with my loyal companion, Kobe, and watch TV.

Late afternoon, I decided to take an inventory of how I felt. My ego was still slightly bruised, but physically I felt pretty good. My podcast experts had also advised a little bit of active recovery to get the blood flowing and loosen up the muscles, so my girlfriend and I walked Kobe to the field in our neighborhood so I could do some short, medium-effort sprints with him. 

There are few things I enjoy as much as running in the field with Kobe simply because there are few, non-food-related things Kobe enjoys more than running in the field. He takes off, bounding like Secretariat through the grass and clovers, his leg muscles the only place in his body where tension can be found. The rest of him is a mixture of floppy beagle ears and a tongue dangling outside of an open mouth all being jumbled around violently. Every so often, he’ll glance back at me smiling like Ed from The Lion King, as if to say “Isn’t this AWESOME?!?” It is both awesome and quite a sight to behold. 

A short cooldown walk around the neighborhood later, and I was ready to begin my evening prep of dinner, more electrolyte drinks, and stretching. I was feeling good and had time on my side, as the location of 5k #2 was closer and the start time was an hour later. I made a mountain out of pillows at the foot of the bed so my legs would remain elevated, and set off to take advantage of every moment of sleep available before my 6 o’clock alarm. 

I woke up at 3:34 thanks to a tidal wave of nausea. Panicked, I began frantically googling whether or not I had completely destroyed my body with the previous day’s events. Would I even be able to run in this next race without risking certain death?

Eventually, logic began to take over. I had done a great job at rehydrating. I had eaten plenty of calories. I had most definitely replenished every last microgram of salt. The odds of my body breaking down after running a race that was shorter than most of my everyday runs seemed highly unlikely. It was most likely a random gastrointestinal occurrence that would pass without incident. At worst, any effects would fall short of death. 

Buoyed by my new lease on life, I started my pre-race warmup routine. I followed the same steps as the previous day, except I switched out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich for some toast with peanut butter. I started off this sentence ready to make fun of myself for such a silly thought, then googled it and it turns out that there’s a lot of evidence that supports my thinking. Toasting the bread makes it easier to digest. My content is nothing if not educational. 

Again, I hopped in my car and made the trek to the race site. A touch cooler and noticeably less humid, the weather was somehow more perfect than the previous day’s. Best of all, parking was free! 

I later learned that this was the first 5k that this particular charitable organization had put on, which resulted in even fewer participants than the day before. I began my pre-race warmup routine, including avoiding the prerequisite mingling sessions going on all around me. My stomach was feeling much better and I felt no physical remnants of the previous day’s race. The only potential issue was a large swarm of gnats, which I decided would be a great motivator to run even faster. 

During pre-race announcements, I gave some thought to my race strategy. Should I stick with the plan of going all-out and confront the “Wall of Death” when it finally reared its ugly head? As much as the thought terrified me, I couldn’t think of any other way around it. I had to come away with a sub-24 time, and I was well on my way to doing so if not for the side stitch from hell. And, despite my fears, neither the “Wall of Death” nor its accompanying side stitch killed me. As much as I hated it, I was able to run through it after the briefest of respites. 

It was settled. I’d stick with my previous day’s strategy. The only new promise I made to myself was to keep running no matter how my body betrayed me. As the saying I just made up goes, “Better to die running a 5k than to live walking it.”

Once again, we lined up. I briefly scanned the crowd again. Runners of all ages and skill levels, but not a single stroller in sight. Perhaps today was my day. Off we went, as I once again settled into a sparse pack behind the elite group. Similar to the previous day’s race, it was relatively uneventful for the first 2 miles. In fact, my pace was actually faster, clocking in at 7:16 for the first mile and 14:51 as I crossed the second-mile marker. The cooler temps and lower humidity allowed me to bypass the water station altogether. I was in a groove. And I was waiting. Waiting for the “Wall of Death.” 

Suddenly, just as I passed the arrows drawn in flour that marked the course path at the 2.25-mile marker, the wait was over. However, there was no cramp this time. Simply a feeling that overtook my entire body inside and out that kept screaming, “Where is the motherfucking finish line?!?” I fought to retain my running form, determined not to walk, but I could feel my pace slowing with each step I took. 

Then, I saw it. A proprietary blend of exhaustion-induced hallucination and divine intervention, right in front of me within a leash’s length were the unmistakable floppy auburn ears of the world’s goodest boy as he trotted along ahead of me. He looked as real to me as the words on this screen. 

Before I could question my sanity, I told myself, “Just keep up with Kobe.” And that became my focus. Stride for stride, step for step, my two legs synced up with his four and we ran together as we had done a million times in the field. And, just like in the field, he turned to flash me his goofy, tongue-flopping smile that said, “Isn’t this AWESOME?!?”

And it was. 

The shrieks from my lungs and my legs had stopped. The only noises were the rhythmic sounds of my breaths and the crunch of the ground beneath my shoes. I had run through the “Wall of Death” and lived to tell the tale. 

The finish line came into sight, and where I stopped to walk the previous day, I began to kick furiously. I kicked and kicked all the way through the finish line. Race volunteers were yelling out times as runners crossed. “23:12!” they shouted as I broke the plane. A sense of pride washed over me. I grabbed a complimentary water to go along with my cache of drinks I brought and hopped in my car to head home. My thoughts were filled with other races I should run and how low I could get my times. 

But first, I had a dog to see.