Middle-Aged Man Meets the Mile

The 50th anniversary of the first four-minute-mile drew worldwide attention.
Even the Bellingham Herald took notice, printing an article which included the
information that Diane Palmeson had organized an invitational mile at the Civic
Stadium to commemorate the great event. Having quite rightly not been invited to
run, I only half-registered this news. The only reason why I was actually at the
stadium that fateful afternoon was to watch my son run for Sehome in the local
track meet.

Inevitably, Diane caught sight of me at the field and gave me one of her
Piercing Looks. "You Are Going To Run, Aren't You ?" she said, in formidable
tones. Yes, ma'am, I sure am. The problem was that my available running gear
consisted of the trashed running shoes, old race t-shirt and jeans I had worn to
work that day. Partial salvation was at hand, however, in the form of my son in
his Sehome track outfit. I soon found myself adorned in voluminous green
bloomers that flapped around my knees, evidently the proud handiwork of Omar the
Tentmaker. Given that I prefer to race as near naked as legally permissible,
these shorts alone featured twice as much material as I usually wear on my
entire body. Anton had already run the 800m in them, so they were delightfully
sweaty around the crotch and waistband.

There was some confusion at the start when Diane told us to line up. There was
to be an invitational mile and an open mile, but it was not clear who was to run
in which. Diane announced that anyone who could run a six-minute-mile was
welcome in the invitational race, so on the basis that I had probably run at
least one six-minute-mile some time in the last 50 years I decided to go with
the elite. Obviously I wasn't thinking clearly.

There were about ten of us on the line. I recognized some of the usual suspects,
Ed Harri and Craig Bartlett prominent amongst them. The tall dark lean guy who
proclaimed himself a distance runner but ignored my suggestion that he should
accordingly start, oh, say about 400m behind us, turned out to be Scott Jurek,
multiple winner of the Western States 100 and specially imported for the
occasion. I was relieved to see James Holgate, my weekly 10km pace man, there
too - unlike the others, he was not too far outside my pathetically slow class,
and somewhere within a decade of me when it comes to age.

Diane rang the starting bell and the madness commenced. It took all of about 5
seconds for me to drop off the back, while watching James streak off the front
like a greyhound. Maybe he was getting a little TV exposure for his sponsors. I
hung on grimly through the first 200m of near-sprint, but my fate as tail-end
Tjalling was immediately clear. By the end of lap one, with 1:22 gone, I was
already a good 20m back and beginning to hurt.

I knew there was no way I could sustain that speed, but I had to try. On trail
runs nobody sees your pathetic shuffle when you run out of gas, but on the track
there is no place to hide, so honor demanded that I give it my all. I just kept
cranking, having decided to push it as hard as I could and see whether the Wall
or the Finish arrived first. I did appreciate the vocal support of the
spectators, Armando loud amongst them, urging me to hang in there, though I
began to feel lonely with the gap ahead steadily widening. Lap two at 2:48 came
and went. I was already having to dig deep but I was halfway through, and there
seemed to be a reasonable chance that I could make it without totally disgracing
myself.

I rounded the far end of the track and beheld a miracle - James had been spat
out by the pack and was drifting back to me. The crowd roared as I pulled up on
his shoulder, most probably because the leaders had just embarked on the bell
lap a good 200m ahead of us, but I preferred to interpret it as excitement as
this tail-ender redeemed himself with a dramatic pass of the erstwhile
frontrunner. What actually happened was that I hung out by his side and we
matched each other stride-for-stride in what for us was a murderous, barely
sustainable pace. We hit the last lap with 4:24 gone. "One more?" enquired
James, in pained tones. "Yes; we can break six" I gasped back. Indeed, the
six-minute barrier remained attainable if we were prepared to suffer enough. At
least I had achieved one of my modest goals - getting round three times without
being lapped, though the winners were already pounding down the finish straight
as we rounded the first turn yet again.

That last lap was a painful blur. All I saw in my tunnel vision was the bright
red track, the gleaming chrome side-rail, and James's knees as they came in and
out of my peripheral sight. We were both going hard and breathing hard, pushing
each other to hold the pace in a bond of shared pain and focus. We swept round
the last turn to see the wide empty finish straight spread out ahead, with
nothing to distract the crowd but the fight between James and I for last place
as we oldies gave it all in the drive to the line. I was at my absolute limits,
far into the red zone with the warning light on every body system flashing
bright and the buzzers going crazy. Fifty meters out James found a final kick
from somewhere, and I could only watch him slowly inch ahead with long swift
strides as I desperately pushed to the line where Mary was calling off the
seconds: 5:58 she called for James, and then "Six!" as I lunged past the marker.
Yes; I had done it !

My heart, throat, lungs and guts burnt for hours after the race. This short fast
stuff is a world away from the long slow endurance events I usually do, and it
calls on entirely different energy and muscular systems. I felt bad, but pleased
at the same time. In my own small way I had acknowledged the grand achievement
of that first four-minute-mile, and done honor to those who broke the physical
and mental barriers associated with it.