********

I show up to the starting line. Nerves eat at me. I look around and see people who appear far faster than I am. I begin to wonder if I’m in the right starting group. This is the first time I’ve qualified for second seed. It’s just behind the elites and just before where I feel I probably should be. I check my bib. Nope, I’m in the right place.

I warmed up and stretched earlier so now I just attempt to keep my muscles and lungs ready for the race. I’ve got the remnants of a cold, but hope it doesn’t slow me down too badly. I dance around to the beat of my elevated heart rate and nervously count down the minutes until the gun goes off.

The race is Bloomsday in Spokane, Washington. It’s just me, 12 kilometers, and just over thirty-nine thousand of my closest friends. The atmosphere is one of positivity and it lifts me up as the final seconds count down. To get my mind off my nerves, I open my phone. I attempt to prep my workout tracker to help me with pacing, but the app won’t launch so I give up and decide to go manual on this one. I’m aiming for a time under forty-eight minutes and it’s going to take a little strategy on my part.

We line up (or crowd together, rather) and, before I realize what’s happening, the race is underway. In years gone by, I started in a wave of more casual runners. This year, I race against a more competitive breed. Though there aren’t as many of us, the crowded first mile is a jostling fight for position. I find my stride and navigate through the mass of runners. I started relatively far back in the group and find myself weaving in and out, passing many people as I go.

Up ahead, I spot the first mile marker. I glance down at my watch. Good. Six minutes. I’m on pace and feeling strong. I carry on. My form is on point and my stride unwavering. Even my cold doesn’t seem to be bothering me at all.

After several more minutes of pounding the pavement, we come to the first considerable hill and my lungs express their great displeasure. My cold joins their complaints and exacerbates the issue.

“Just hold on to that cadence,” I silently tell myself, “This hill isn’t the big one yet. And anyway, this is a relatively short race. It’ll be over before you know it.”

I manage to reign in my respiratory system and get my pace back under control. Hopefully. I missed the second mile marker so I actually have no idea what my pace is at this point. The time reads just over sixteen minutes in.

“I’ve got to hit the third mile at eighteen minutes,” I muse. I decide to hold my current pace and reevaluate as I finish mile three. I redouble my efforts in attentiveness, scanning either side of the course for signs of the third mile marker.

I see it! Mile three is just ahead. Time to see what the damage is. I check my watch: just under eighteen minutes. Still on pace. Perfect.

********

For the next mile and some change, I find a point of stasis. I’m maintaining (roughly) six-minute splits, which is exactly where I want to be. But I’m coming up on mile five and that means I’m coming up on Doomsday Hill: Bloomsday’s signature challenge to its participants. The prior hills have really done some damage. My lung capacity is weaker than I want it to be for a race this fast and my muscles are feeling the fatigue of a body hampered by a cold.

The road turns and leads us down a hill. To a new Bloomie (read: Bloomsday participant), the sudden declining roadway is a welcome break. But I know where we are. I know what’s coming next. I know what’s hidden just around the next corner.

I stride out down the hill. This is my last chance to gain a little momentum to carry me up Doomsday. I pass several people, but know they’ll likely catch me before too long. Even now, I can feel my lungs screaming in protest and we’re still in the relative calm before the storm.

“Alright,” I think, bracing myself as I reach the base of Doomsday, “Here we go.” And the ascent begins.

The struggle to keep my physiology in line is immediate. Doomsday, on any other run, is honestly not that intense. It’s somewhat long, but it’s not all that comparatively steep. Its moniker is still well-earned, however, because it doesn’t appear until the latter half of the race and is preceded by many smaller hills. This year in particular, I really feel the full force of its name.

About halfway up the hill, I can feel my stomach beginning to churn. My stuffy ears and sinuses throw off my equilibrium just enough to induce some mild nausea. This, combined with my compromised lungs, creates perfect conditions for pain and suffering. And I find plenty of both over the next several minutes.

If my cold were even the tiniest bit worse, I would be walking. It’s all I can do to keep my legs moving at a pace that resembles something like running. More than once I fear I’m demanding more of my body than it is capable of delivering. And yet, somehow, defying the doubt, I reach the top. Doomsday is vanquished.

********

Now is not the time to get cocky. The worst hill may be over, but I still have roughly two and a half miles to go. I was far too busy staving off bodily civil war to check my watch at mile five. I hope Doomsday doesn’t get the last laugh after all, victory from beyond the grave.

I carry on, grunting audibly when the pain is bad enough, which, sadly, is not a rare thing at this point in the race. Out of the corner of my eye I see the sixth mile marker. This time, I manage check my split. Thirty-seven minutes and some change. I’ve got ten minutes left to finish if I am to meet my goal. Damn the torpedoes! Cold or no cold, I’m finishing in under ten minutes.

What that means, though, is I really have to focus. My body is doing what I tell it to for now, but at the first sign of weakness, the first failure to pay attention, I know exactly what will happen. First, I’ll get a side ache, then my lungs will give up, then my legs will realize they can’t carry the team on their own, then my arms will say, “If the legs are quitting, so are we,” and then the brain will just resign his command, knowing that he failed.

Thus, at all costs, I must have focus. The hills are effectively over so now I merely have to find a stride I can maintain for a mile and a half. Easier said than done, of course, but at least the race is simpler now. At the start, conservatism was crucial. Now, it has no place. I’m on pace to finish with the time I want, but I don’t have a large margin for error. If I’m going to make it, I need to race like I’m behind.

And I do. One mile left. I pick up the pace. I don’t check my time. It would only slow me down and, if I’m too far off to hit my goal, I don’t want to know. I drive my body harder during that last half mile than I have for a long time. I’m close. I know I’m close. I can feel it.

A few spectators compliment (mock?) my ponytail bouncing through the air. I simply give them a silent thumbs up as an acknowledgement. I can offer nothing further. My earlier nerves are catching up with me and only grow stronger as I near the finish line.

I do my best to keep my eyes on the road ahead of me and not at the ground in front of me. I can see the final corner before the final stretch. The theme from Chariots of Fire plays as I round the corner. Literally. They always play it on the last few hundred meters of Bloomsday and it’s awesome. But you’ve heard it. You already know it’s awesome.

I careen down the slight hill to the finish line. I feel like I’m sprinting, but I know I’m not. I’m in too much pain to really sprint. Even so, I pass a few more people as I bound my way towards the finish. With mere feet to go, I feel my stomach and gag reflex contract. This happened a week ago at my last race too. It must be my new thing, I conclude.

I cross the line and stop my watch simultaneously, but before I can look at my unofficial time, I fall to my knees. I can fight the urge no longer and I regurgitate what little my stomach had to offer. The medics pull me off to the side of the course and give me some nice, cool water.

I thank them and then take a look at my watch. 46:17. So this is what success feels like. Damn, it hurts. And yet, I know I’ll be doing it all over again next year.