BREAKING NEWS: Running a half marathon in the middle of winter with no training is a dumb idea
About two months ago I signed up for a half marathon, figuring it would be a great way to jump-start a midwinter exercise program.
I figured wrong.
The holidays came and went in a tryptophan trance and in all of the commotion I accidentally didn’t run at all. In fact, the entirety of my training consisted of a couple random ski trips and binge watching “Succession.”
A smart person would have skipped the race, admitted failure and embarked on an earnest (and age-appropriate) training program designed to slowly get themselves back up to speed. Avid readers know I am not a smart person, thus my decision was more of the “fuck it” variety; I figured that since I’d already paid the entry fee, it would be a waste not to run the race. This is called the “sunk cost fallacy,” and it’s why you have 22 rotten bananas in your freezer.
I’m normally a pretty active person who up until this past spring had been keeping myself in pretty decent shape. I’m an avid Chugach hiker and regularly participate (note I didn’t say “compete”) in mountain and trail running races in the Anchorage area, but this spring I took a job out of town that required me to work extremely long days. For nearly two months I worked nonstop, focusing entirely on the project and abusing my body by feeding it a steady diet of stress and sodium.
This trend toward laggardism led only downhill until I reached the point I found myself desperately signing up for a half marathon which I had no business running in the misplaced hope the mere act of paying an entry fee would magically transform me into Steve Prefontaine.
The race was the “Frosty Bottom” and it’s run in conjunction with the wildly popular fat tire bicycle race of the same name that follows the same municipal trail system in Anchorage. I’d never run a winter half marathon before, but I regularly run on the heavily trafficked Coastal and Campbell Creek trails where the races are held and know them to be normally hard-packed. And the cool thing was the finish line is only like a half-mile from my house, which meant I’d be able to enjoy a casual stroll home after the race.
How hard could it be?
Despite tossing and turning all night, I felt surprisingly fresh when race day arrived. I got up with plenty of time to spare and made a nice breakfast and got hydrated before getting dressed. Temperatures were ideal for running — about 28 degrees Fahrenheit — so I was able to wear relatively light gear consisting of a silk base layer and lightweight snowpants on my lower half and a long-sleeved synthetic running hoodie covered by a fleece on my upper. I also wore a light hat and my cross-country ski gloves, which were nice at the starting line but turned out to be unnecessary.
At the start I saw a couple familiar friendly faces milling around the starting line outside the Kincaid Park chalet, which helped calm my nerves a bit and make me feel comfortable that I made the right decision. Still, the realization that I was about to run 13 miles on zero training was hitting me fairly hard, so I pounded a Red Bull and hoped to God their commercials are factually accurate.
The bike race started first, and I watched and listened as a cacophony of giggles and squeaky brakes rolled past me and down the hill toward the coast, the fog of their collective breath drifting out toward Turnagain Arm far in the distance. It looked fun!
When the running races (there’s also a full marathon for the fully deranged) were about to get underway I joined a few dozen others at the start line, where we roughly arranged ourselves based on our expected finish times. I went as far to the back as possible.
The race began in light snow promptly at 10 a.m., and early on I actually felt…pretty great. That likely had a lot to do with the steep downhill nature of the start of the course — a double-edged sword that allowed me to get loose but also gave me a false sense of confidence that would prove disastrous later in the race.
The first couple miles were almost enjoyable, as I tried to settle into a rhythm and find a pace that would allow me to reach the finish line without having to call either an Uber or an ambulance. The footing was decent but not ideal, with the best traction on the snow-covered trail coming in the wide rut left by the cyclists. But I didn’t pay the trail too much mind, instead just trying to let my mind wander in order to forget what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
The course was fun and it was cool getting to run alongside cyclists as well as all the normal recreational skiers and runners out on a Saturday. It’s always amazing and encouraging to me to see so many people outdoors in Anchorage in any and all seasons.
My first inkling of trouble came near Point Woronzof, about five miles into the race. As I climbed the short hill leading up to the popular parking lot hangout spot, I could feel my legs getting heavy, and it dawned on me that I still had several miles left just to reach the city — after which point I’d still have to run halfway back across town. It seemed a lot shorter on the map.
From that point on it felt like every time I picked up my foot it grew heavier. The sugary snowpack I’d given little thought to early in the race was now my constant tormentor, seemingly sapping 10 or 15 percent of my strength with every step. Upon reaching Westchester Lagoon in West Anchorage I was ready to pack it in and hail a taxi — and I still had to run all the way to Goose Lake.
A lot of people use mantras or positive affirmations to help themselves get through difficult situations. I just call myself names and swear, and this technique was on nonstop display for the final 45 hellish minutes of the race. If you happened past me and you thought I was swearing at you, my deepest apologies. We’ll chalk that one up to runner’s Tourette’s.
Near the end of the race my main competition was a pair of women who were alternately walking and jogging. Each time I caught up to them while on their walking breaks they began jogging again and leapfrogged past me. Had anyone been watching it would have been like seeing the world’s most pathetic “tortoise vs. hare” situation play out.
Also, the hares kicked my ass.
By the time I reached the short but inhumanely steep climb to the bridge across Northern Lights Boulevard I was nearly delirious, and oddly the climb didn’t seem that hard. I think it had a lot to do with my legs being numb at that point and the constant screams of “LOSER!” going through my head helping to mask the pain. I made it…but I don’t think I could have gone 10 steps more. I was crushed.
There wasn’t a lot of joy in crossing the finish line, but there was when I got my hands on the potato chips and granola bar they handed me. I realized I was pretty hungry — a good sign. I’d made it.
I was proud of myself for completing the task but the lesson I hope I learned was it’s a terrible idea to do things without preparing for them. Sure I made it to the end, but I had a horrible time doing it and I endangered myself (and possibly others) by doing something I wasn’t truly prepared for. I was lucky not to get hurt, but had I pulled a muscle or needed medical help, that would have inconvenienced other people and forced them to pay for my laziness. Yes, I accomplished a vain goal to help stoke my fragile ego, but so what? I could have volunteered my time or read a book or taken my nephews sledding.
These were the thoughts going through my head as I processed the morning’s events and reflected on the bittersweet miles I’d trodden.
But as I wandered around the finish line catching my breath in a shameful, shaky legged daze I also reflected on how good it felt to accomplish such a difficult task, to follow through with a goal despite its challenges. I allowed myself some bit of pride and wearily took comfort in the fact that I could soon collapse onto my couch and put the whole thing behind me. And then it hit me.
I still had to walk home.
Matt Tunseth is a freelance writer and photographer from Anchorage, Alaska. Write to him at matthew.tunseth@gmail.com
