Cherry Blossom 10-Miler
A non-runner looks back
I am not a runner. Okay, in my twenties, I jogged a little. Later, I even trotted down a few trails in the wilderness, after day hiking a tad too far, then hustling back to beat the darkness. I did run longer distances in high school and should have kept at it. I wasn’t half bad, I guess, running six-minute miles without feeling exhausted. I went all out once and managed a mile in five and a half minutes. But that was the pinnacle of my mobile athleticism, given that I have short-ish legs and the approximate gait of a corgi.
While living and working in the Washington, D.C. area for several years, I learned of the annual Cherry Blossom Ten-Mile Run held early spring in conjunction with famous bloom fest. I’d had the notion of running such a race for some time, with the idea that the training would make a fine strategy for good health generally, as well as getting myself back into shape for hiking. I was also curious if I could even run the first mile.
Notwithstanding some unplanned minor injuries, I finally made it to the starting line for the annual Cherry Blossom 10-Mile Run on April 7, 2013. I hadn’t run ten miles since my 20s. While I had also made the lottery for the 2012 run (a lottery because the event can’t accommodate all who would like to run), I contracted the flu the day before the race and had to bail at the last minute. No such calamity in 2013.
Through my rigorous training regimen (not that rigorous), I’d built up the stamina to jog five miles without collapsing. I figured I’d save the other five miles—and my knees—for race day. It’s worth noting too that the race is multi-divisional, with the fastest runners pretty much smoking the rest of us.
When we arrived at the National Mall shortly after 7:00 am, runners by the thousands were ambling or shivering or dancing around in their poly-skivvies trying to warm up in the crisp air. Some danced in very long lines in front of a battalion of porta-potties, doing a hopping up and down thing, but perhaps not because they were shivering.
The race began in waves, with the world-class (think Kenya) and world-class wannabe runners departing first, of course. Each wave—around 2,000 runners I think—congregated in their appropriate zone by color. I was with the green bibs in the next to last wave, immediately after the orangies, but ahead of the purplies.
When the loudspeaker finally announced it was the greenies’ turn, our collective mass of runnerly humanity oozed forward a few inches, then an actual foot or two, before accelerating to baby steps and slow shuffling. The crowd was that heavy. I probably could have read the comic section of the newspaper by the time we achieved a normal walking pace, which was soon followed by an almost brisk walk. Perhaps a minute or so into the “race,” we cleared the official start line and launched into an actual jog.
We were shoulder-to-shoulder and toe-to-heel by the thousands for the first couple miles past the Jefferson Memorial and over the Memorial Bridge and back. Then it was up the river toward the Kennedy Center, a leg which seemed to drag on and rekindle my pre-existing doubt about even finishing the race. Finally, we made a u-turn and passed the marker for Mile 3, almost a third of the way. I pretty much stayed with the crowd, all of us cruising along at a 10-minute mile pace, give or take.
By mile 4, some us eased up a little to save some juice for the second half. Then suddenly I was at Mile 6. Whoa, how’d that happen? While the first three miles had seemingly taken forever, the next three had gone by in a flash and I was still upright. Six miles without a rest was my best effort in decades and I thought, holy cow, maybe I can do this.
At a water and Gatorade station near the Potomac Golf Course, I gave myself permission to slow to a fast walk while I drank a little, then kicked it into gear again for the final third of the race.
There were several race clocks along the route and I calculated my pace to determine what I would need to do to finish in under two hours, which was my own loose target for the race. Not exactly a pace to be discussed in public, but good enough for me anyway.
At a water station around Mile 8, it was apparent that I was not going to break the two-hour Ken barrier, so I slowed again to be sure I’d have enough left for the jog down the home stretch. The main thing was simply to finish. Nonetheless, I felt pretty good still and my body by then was just doing its thing. It’s funny how I was so focused on the miles earlier in the race, then let my mind wander to other things as I plodded along on autopilot.
Then someone on the side of the road yelled “Only a half mile to go!” and I thought they were kidding. Yet up a short hill and around the bend, there was the finish line. And a few yards before it, Kris was there to cheer me on and snap a couple photos of the historic occasion. I showed off a little by semi-sprinting to the finish, then had to instruct my body to stop running.
It was over. I’d done the thing in just under two hours and three minutes. That was plenty good enough for me. I’d left more than a thousand other runners in my dust—never mind the 16,500 who left me in theirs. But watch out. Next time, I’m going for under two hours and a top 15,000 finish. And I’m gonna leave 2,500 shaking in their shoes.
You’re essentially too late to join the 2024 Cherry Blossom Ten-Mile Run on April 7th, but to enter the lottery for 2025, find all the details here.
Next year I might try to race you
This was such an endearing, hilarious read. Loved it!