Race Report: Presidio 10K

To say I was not prepared for this race was an understatement. I hadn’t run more than a 10k (let alone consistently run or train) in months. My longest run was five miles the weekend before where I complained the whooooole way.

Was I trying to make up for the height I lost standing in a hole with my hat?

I spent most of the week leading up the race worried. My feet were bothering me, so much so that I would dream about not being able to run at night. I wasn’t sure if I should even run. My mom had signed the three of us (herself, my brother, and me) up for the race months ago, and I couldn’t imagine not even crossing the start line. Especially since we were going to start at Crissy Field and run across the Golden Gate Bridge.

I decided to risk irritating my feet even more and run the race. I knew I could take a few weeks off and still have plenty of time to build my mileage up before I need to start training for my summer half marathon.

The weather was amazing. There were actually times when I wished I had worn shorts. Shocking for San Francisco, especially over the Golden Gate Bridge. We couldn’t have asked for better weather.

For the first mile and a half, I thought about stopping. My feet were killing me, and I couldn’t imagine running another 5 miles through it. Thankfully by the time we had reached the start of the bridge, my plantar fascia had warmed up and my calves had loosened. I started to settle into our slow and steady pace, and I stopped worrying about turning back before it was too late.

Someone’s excited

By the end of the race I was feeling pretty great. My brother decided we should push it for the last mile, so we did the nice thing and dropped our mother so we could pick up the pace (sorry, mom!).

In hindsight, it wasn’t my best decision, but I don’t think I would give a different answer if I could go back. I desperately needed to feel the speed of my legs. I needed to know that I still had it in me to drop below an 8 minute mile. I needed to know I still had a kick in me. That I still had the ability to push through, even when I want to stop and throw up.

And push it we did. We dropped our pace from an average 11 minute mile to a 9 minute mile for mile 6. For the last quarter mile, I gave it everything I had to pull off a 6:25. I can’t put into words what that final kick felt like. My legs were strong and I was flying. I wanted to throw up and smile at the same time (it was confusing).

When we finally crossed the finish and started to run around I knew the pick-up (and especially the final kick) had done me in. My calves and arches were protesting, and they continued to bother me for a few days after.

But I don’t regret it at all. It actually gave me hope for this summer’s half marathon and my time goals for the year. It reminded me that I was not always an injured runner. I won’t be injured forever.