A note to Brasser: Bring it

On Sunday, five friends from college and I will run the Nike 10k Human Race. I thought it would be a nice, friendly, perhaps even encouraging way to spend Labor Day weekend. We'd run together, keep the same pace and cross the finish line smiling in one big group.

But nooooo. Not Brasser.

Brasser tells me last night over the phone that this is, in fact, a race. "Well, yes" I try to explain, "It's called a race and all, but most people just like together and have fun and…"

He cuts me off. "It's a race. I'm going to run as fast as I can."

"Ok, but do you want to run together with the group for the first 5k, then we can see how we feel? And go from there?"

No. He says he wants to run by himself, and I'm starting to get a bit annoyed. My competitive Vermeulen genes activate.

"Fine then" I say "I'm going to draft off your pace for the first 9k's then pass you on the last one."

He says "Yeah? My training is going pretty good. I'm feeling pretty good."

"What pace are you going to run at?"

He won't tell me.

It's got to be just under 10 minute miles. We've run together before, and I remember him saying something about a sub 60 minute 10k. It's a respectable pace, a step up from my 2:17 half marathon. Suddenly, I'm no longer just a dude who sometimes jogs. I'm not "just trying to cross the finish line" or "only doing this to help out kids in Africa."

I need to beat Justin Brasser.

Tonight, five days from the Nike race, my training took a twist. Normally I'm not anal about my times, but I envisioned Brasser in Grand Rapids running up and down stairs looking like a dutch Rocky Balboa, and I decided I needed to run a 10k in under an hour.

Noble to Grand, Grand to Ashland. North on Ashland from 500N, past Division, over the bridge, past Diversy to Wellington, 3000N. Touch the street sign, turn south, run home. I had calculated it to almost exactly 10K. I strapped on my oversized chunky silver watch (Yes, I really need to get a running watch) adjusted the hands to 12:00 exactly, and took off.

The first 5k's felt good. They felt fast. When I made it to the turnaround, the watch hands were at :27. Perfect. Keep pushing it. Beat (invisible-dutch-Rocky-Balboa) Brasser every single step.

When I hit North Ave, I realized it would be close. The watch hands ticked, my feet pounded the pavement. Three homeless guys under the 90/94 Metra bridge cheered for me. I was in the zone. I imagined Brasser 100 feet ahead of me, and turned on the heat. I'd have to pull a low nine minute mile to finish in under an hour. I felt good, I felt fast, I though I had made it.

I finished in one hour, one minute and nineteen seconds.

#!%&$!!

And then I remembered: Traffic lights! I totally got stopped at like 14 traffic lights! That's at least a minute!

Plus, I didn't actually map the course. It could have easily been 10.4K. Come to think of it, it felt .4k's long. Yeah! Subtract three minutes.

57:19

My iPod shuffle was out of battery, so I ran with my big iPod. It throws my arm cadence totally out of whack. Over an hour I say it adds… oh, 2 minutes and 31 seconds.

55:49

Why was I listening to Jason Mraz and Dave Matthews? That's the world's worst running music ever; it slowed me down four minutes or more.

51:49

I had to pause five times for wonderful walking citizens of Chicago who weren't quite sure if they were supposed to walk on the left or right side of the sidewalk.

51:41

If I ibuprofin like I did on half marathon day, I won't feel the tendonitis in my knee like I did tonight.

48:41

Carbo loading.

44:30

Gatorade stations.

42:30

Race day adrenaline.

40:00

Aerodynamic running watch.

39:59

Sub-60? Psh, Sub-40 is more like it. I'm confident if I take can hammer out all the other variables, there's a chance I'll win the entire race or set a world record or something.

Brasser, you better bring your A game.