the weather co-operated. I stuck to my race plan of maintaining a steady pace of 4:45 per kilometre, avoiding the temptation to speed up to catch friends who were ahead of me.
All race, I felt right on the edge between comfort and pain, as if I was pushing myself, but not so hard that it would cost me in the final few kilometres. I was right where I wanted to be.
I tried to avoid looking at my watch too often, in case it had bad news for me, or such good news that I might start to worry about burning out.
With half a kilometre to go, I saw my coach, Rick Hellard, on the sidelines. Rick had already won the race in 1:13 and was wandering back up the course. He looked at his watch.
“You’re under 1:37,” he said as I ran past. “You’ve got lots of time. You’re going to get a PB!”
Just what I needed to hear. I felt a surge of energy and picked up the pace. In the final 200 metres, I could see the clock ahead of me: 1:39:35 ... 1:39:36 ... 1:39:37. I started sprinting, surprised that I had some excess energy left this late in the race. I crossed the finish line at 1:39:51. My actual time from start to finish, which takes into account that I was at the back of the pack when the gun went off, was 1:39:17.
I hit my goal with more than forty seconds to spare. I beat my previous best time by more than five minutes. I outdid my biggest rival: my younger self.
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