Wreck Runner: Notes from a race run way off pace

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When I started running three years ago, all I wanted was to kick a few bad habits and get myself off the couch. I didn’t think I’d ever run a race, much less a marathon. I wasn’t competitive; I was what you’d call a rec runner. And I think I still am.

The running community is an overwhelmingly positive crowd. But among a small subset of competitive distance runners, rec runner can be an almost pejorative term. It’s the sort of elitist attitude that you can find in anything, really – a small but vocal minority who seem to think that mass participation, or the non-competitive pursuit of a personal benchmark, somehow lowers the overall standard for athletic achievement.

You know the type: they’re the ones who complain about charity runners in the Boston Marathon, or the ones (ahem, Steve Jones) who hand-wring about how a four- or five-hour marathon doesn’t really make you a marathoner. This crowd despises people like John “The Penguin” Bingham, the champion of ordinary, non-competitive marathoners the world over.

I abhor this type of narrow thinking.

For one thing, I think that this burning need to draw a line in the sand between competitive elites and the “ordinary” runner is bad for the sport.

It’s true, only a fraction of athletic greats come up through the ranks of the rec runner set. But those that do have more than proven their mettle. Krista DuChene, who will represent Canada later this year as part of our first Olympic women’s marathon team in two decades, debuted in the marathon at an inauspicious 3:28. Pan Am marathoner Catherine Watkins ran her first road race for fun while in her mid-thirties. And Newfoundland’s David Freake, who in 2015 ran to an impressive fourth-place finish at the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Half-Marathon, regularly competes at an elite level which belies his humble rec runner origins.

To write off the tens of thousands of ordinary marathoners in a race as “not really athletes” is to risk losing out on the development of powerhouse athletes like Watkins, Freake, and DuChene. But there’s more to it than just the untapped potential of the rec runner rank-and-file.

Running is hard. But rec runners know how to make it fun. They don’t always run after PBs – sometimes, they’ll run entire races side-by-side with a pal, focused on completion over competition. They dress up in costumes, and high-five spectators. They coordinate their shoes with their shorts, and take “runfies” (that’s running selfies, for the uninitiated). They organize beer runs, and make funny signs, and come out to man the cheer stations for races they’re not running. And while it’s easy to cast aspersions at those who run solely for completion, theres something to be said for the fact that rec runners almost never DNF; good race or bad, they always make it to that finish line.

Rec runners are the beating heart of a sport that can easily turn from a beloved pastime into a lonely, thankless grind. They’re what got me into this sport in the first place.

This year, my training has become far more rigorous than it used to be. My 2016 is a long, tough prelude to what I hope will yield a sub-3:00 marathon finish in 2017. It’s a tall order – and by no means a foregone conclusion. And though I’m enjoying the process, I have to admit that it’s changed the way I experience races.

I’m constantly gunning for times that are just outside the margins of my capability (and for the most part, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the results). But the trade-off is that I don’t get to quite savour the race the same way that I once did.

So this weekend, when my 10K race fell spectacularly to pieces over the space of less than two minutes, I had an opportunity to fall back into the old rec runner race experience. And it was incredible.

Heading into Ottawa race weekend, my initial goal was to recreate my recent sub-40 10K time on a more challenging course. But with temperatures in the mid-30s, my time goal (along with pretty much everybody else’s) went out the window. Cold, wind, and rain don’t much bother me in a race, but heat will get me every time. And get me it did.

I held onto my adjusted goal pace for the first 3.5K, but shortly after the 4K mark, the wheels came off. I staggered to the side of the course, and threw up. By the time I had dragged myself back onto the road (about 90 seconds later), I knew that even my adjusted time goal was out the window. I felt like hell, and badly wanted to step off the course and call it a day.

The thing is, I’ve never dropped out of a race. It’s a weird point of pride with me. I know there are plenty of very good reasons for throwing in the towel; I expect that one day, one of those very good reasons will compel me to do just that. But it’s never happened yet – and when it does, it’s gonna take a lot more than just the heat.

So there I was, not quite halfway through my shambles of a 10K, stuck between no prospect of a respectable time, and a stubborn unwillingness to DNF. And with nothing else to gun at in my sights, I decided to just run the damn race, and relish it – rec runner style.

I high-fived spectators, and laughed at their funny signs. I ate a freezie that a kid handed me from the side of the road. I cheered on my fellow runners who were labouring through the race. I actually slowed down, kept my eyes open, and took in the experience. I did all the things that running after rigorous marks leaves you too busy to do – all the things that made me fall in love with running to begin with.

My time in the Ottawa 10K wasn’t anything I’m proud of, but my experience on that course was incredible. And though I’m still determined to push myself to exceed my own expectations, I’m grateful that I was given a moment this weekend to remember what it is that I love about this sport.

You’re gonna get knocked off pace once in a while. You might as well enjoy it when you do.

Chase big dreams.

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Fog on the English Channel: Victory, defeat, and the limits of vantage point

1455848_723840074440_3398969491830786328_nI’m going to tell you a story that’s almost certainly untrue.

I like to joke that I read history in university because I was trying to make sure I’d grow up to be fully unemployable. But in reality, I believe that history matters. I believe that serious, methodological research into our collective past serves a crucial function in the shaping of our future.

As a consequence, I have a deep, abiding distaste for pseudo-history, for those widely-circulated pop-cultural myths that endure absent of evidence or legitimate scholarship. But right now, in the service of inspiration (and frankly, because I doubt that the readership of a running blog is especially concerned with the particulars of the Battle of Trafalgar) I am going to tell you a story that’s almost certainly untrue.

Let’s rewind about two hundred years, to the height of the Napoleonic Wars: Britain and France are at war. The spectre of a French invasion onto English soil, and a subsequent conquest of Britain, looms with a foreboding urgency.

The Battle of Trafalgar was the decisive exchange of this conflict – the fate of England hung precariously on the success of British Admiral Nelson’s fleet as they faced down Napoleon’s naval forces in the waters of the Atlantic, just off the coast of south-western Spain. And at home, a tense and fearful England waited to for the news, which came across the foggy English Channel one morning, spelled out by naval signal flags:

NELSON DEFEATED

Across the island, panic and despair spread like a menacing wave. The French invasion was imminent. The star of the British Empire was all but poised to fall.

But then something happened – something at once very ordinary, and yet on this particular day, completely extraordinary: the fog on the English Channel lifted. The simple, two-word message that had appeared to spell England’s doom revealed itself in full:

NELSON DEFEATED NAPOLEON

This story was told to me a long time ago, by someone far more concerned with the romance and inspiration it held than with the factual accuracy of the tale itself. It’s a tidy metaphor, isn’t it? Altogether too tidy for the often ragged edges of history.

The truth is, there’s likely very little truth to this story. But just because something isn’t true doesn’t mean it isn’t valuable. There’s a reason the story stuck with me all these years, and a reason I’m called back to it now.

I’ve written a lot on the theme of resilience – on how setbacks and difficulty can help to shape us into the people we need to become. I’ve explored this theme over and over because being an athlete, ultimately, isn’t about being able to work – it’s about being able to fail.

Failure is valuable tool, calling attention to the myriad weak points or blind spots we all carry. But there’s another side to failure that I haven’t explored quite so thoroughly; that is, sometimes what looks like failure simply isn’t.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can attest to the truth in this. The greatest race of my life was the direct result of one of my most devastating personal failures. That’s a very different thing than simply finding motivation or inspiration in the experience of failure. It isn’t that I “made the best of it” – the failure itself was the mechanism.

This spring, my training has been fraught with tiny disappointments – the kind of small struggles that, one by one, don’t feel like very much. But taken all together, the discouragement is palpable.

But before I abandon myself to despair or self-pity, I consider for a moment the limits of vantage point. If I can’t find the lesson in my failures, perhaps I’m reading them wrong. I’m reading them through the fog. I might have the message right, sure. Then again, I might have it wrong.

So I wait, head up, for a change in the winds, for the fog on the English Channel to clear.

Chase big dreams.

The Long Road to Boston

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Photo credit: Canada Running Series

Today, more than 30,000 runners are poised to make a long and storied 26-mile journey from the narrow country roads of Hopkinton, to the din of a spectator-lined Boylston Street. It will mark the 120th running of the Boston Marathon, a race known the world over for its notoriously challenging course and rigorous qualification standards.

Boston has evolved over the decades to become more than just another big-city marathon; for the ordinary marathoner, the race holds a prestige and significance not unlike the Olympic Games. Never mind the actual running of the race – for many, simply achieving the qualification standard (the ever-elusive “BQ”) represents a lofty goal in and of itself.

Every runner who makes it to the start line in Hopkinton carries with them their own testament to the distance – a testament to countless hours on country roads or city streets, to early mornings chasing splits on a track, and late nights logging those extra miles. It’s a testament to blisters and blown knees, to sunburns and windburns, to worn-out shoes, and too-warm gels, and endless piles of dirty laundry. Perhaps most of all, those runners in Hopkinton each carry with them the memory of a moment – incredible, transcendent, and hard-won – when those laborious hours of preparation carried them to a qualifying marathon finish.

It’s little wonder the Boston Marathon has come to represent so much more than just a foot race. The Boston Marathon, you see, is a pilgrimage…

Read the full story on the Canada Running Series blog.

Hill Seeker: How struggle makes you strong

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Conventional wisdom holds that favourable circumstances foster favourable outcomes. As a runner, I can’t count the number of times I’ve found myself praying to the racing gods for flat courses, low winds, or mild weather. And while it’s true that circumstance plays a pivotal role in determining performance – whether we’re talking about athletics, academics, or professional success – it’s also worth noting that, counter intuitive though it might seem, there is also tremendous value to be found in the experience of struggle.

This week, I had the pleasure of chatting with Josh Bolton and Lauren Simmons, two inspiring Canadian distance runners, about the struggles and setbacks that have made them strong.

You can read the full story here, on the Canada Running Series blog – and join me for Race Roster Spring Run-Off this April!

Chase big dreams.

Make It Memorable: The marathon wisdom of Wesley Korir

38d2198032d970ec36d5af1f16a91d40The week before I ran the Toronto Marathon last fall, I was terrified.

I get nervous before every race, even the ones I might not feel terribly invested in. But this one was different. Six months of gruelling, time-consuming, toenail-destroying training was about to be called into question, and the task in front of me suddenly seemed impossible.

And so, with less than 24 hours to race day, I did something a little crazy: I changed my race goal.

I had been gunning for a 3:20 marathon, a time that was both comfortably within the Boston-qualifying window, and also close enough to put me within shouting distance of my much-faster older sister. But the night before the marathon, I tossed this goal aside. I no longer wanted to run a 3:20. Instead, I wanted to run like Wesley Korir.

Let me explain:

Wesley ran his debut marathon at Chicago in 2008. A former collegiate track runner with no previous experience in the marathon distance, he was deemed ineligible for inclusion in the elite field that year. So Wesley paid his own entry fee and started his debut marathon with the masses, a full five minutes behind the rest of the elites.

image2I had the pleasure of meeting Wesley last summer, at a fundraiser to benefit the Kenyan Kids Foundation, a charity he co-founded with his wife Tarah McKay (an accomplished Canadian distance runner in her own right). He spoke about his experience running his debut marathon in Chicago. Though he had hoped to earn a place on the elite start line, Wesley was unfazed by this setback. He knew that the marathon was going to be difficult under even the best conditions. So his aim was not to run for a goal time or place. His primary goal, he explained, was to make a good memory.

What happened next was truly remarkable. Wesley got clear of the mass start and quickly found himself running alone, taking in the Chicago sights and high-fiving spectators along the course. Feeling no pressure to perform at an elite level, his pace was controlled, even, and relaxed.

So relaxed, in fact, that he almost didn’t notice as he began to overtake the elite field. He ended up posting the fourth-fastest time on the course that day.

Going into my marathon last fall, I resolved to run like Wesley Korir. That is to say, I resolved to make a memory with the marathon. No matter what happened out on the course that day, I wanted to focus on enjoying the experience.

I like to see results when I train; I’d hazard a guess that most of us do. PBs, podium finishes, and Boston-qualifiers are all supremely satisfying, and can motivate us to push on, and to train harder than we otherwise might. Having goals is a good thing.

But sometimes it’s important to remind yourself that, as great as all those things can be, they are not the reason you run.

This past week of training was particularly hard on me, culminating in an interval workout that I walked away from uncompleted. I’ve never done that before; even in the face of some major personal crises, I’ve never failed to complete a workout once I started. But this week, it all just fell apart.

So on Saturday morning, I got out of bed, shook off my self-doubt, and resolved to run like Wesley Korir.

I laced up my New Balance 1500s and set out for some long, slow distance – far and away, my favourite type of run. I placed no expectations on myself, my time, or the distance I would cover. I was running for one reason alone: to remind myself what it felt like to run happy.

Wesley Korir’s emphasis on running for intrinsic value helped me to overcome my paralyzing self-doubt on the eve of the Toronto Marathon. And this week, it helped me once again – this time, to reevaluate my circumstances outside of racing.

As a runner, I have the right to work my ass of in pursuit of my goals. But I don’t necessarily have the right to the fruits of that work. In the marathon, and in distance running in general, a lot gets left up to the gods, to chance, to the whims of fate.

I came here to chase big dreams. But there’s no guarantee that I’ll ever catch them. So I’m doing my best to enjoy the journey, and to make it memorable.

One bad week at a time.

Chase big dreams.

The Case for Selflessness: How empathy and compassion make you a better runner

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Photo credit: Inge Johnson | Canada Running Series

This weekend, 366 of America’s toughest, gutsiest, most formidable distance runners hit the streets of LA for the US Olympic Trials marathon. And while the men’s race was dominated by 29-year-old Galen Rupp, who cruised to a 2:11:12 victory in his marathon debut without appearing to so much as break a sweat, the real standout performance of the day came from women’s champ Amy Cragg.

Cragg, who scrapped her way to a heartbreaking fourth-place finish in the 2012 Olympic Trials for London, ran the race of her life on Saturday, clocking a solid 2:28:20 in the punishing heat to carry the day. She ran the bulk of Saturday’s race alongside training partner Shalane Flanagan, a three-time Olympian who was favoured for the win. But with about 5K to go, Flanagan began to struggle, and soon after, to falter.

Rather than seizing this late-in-the-race opportunity to open up her lead and drop Flanagan along with the rest of the field, Cragg hung back, coaxing Flanagan to keep going, assisting her through the last aid station, until a surging Desi Linden forced her to finally take off.

“I don’t think I can do this,” the distressed Flanagan cried out.

But she did – collapsing across the finish line into Amy Cragg’s arms, having clung desperately to her third-place position to secure a spot on the 2016 Olympic Team.

Amy Cragg pulled off a redemption marathon of epic proportions on Saturday. And though her time ultimately carried the day, she doubtless could have run an even stronger race had she not clung with such stubborn, unwavering loyalty to a struggling Shalane Flanagan over the final miles.

And Cragg is hardly the first elite marathoner to display this extraordinary level of concern for a competitor. In the 2009 New York City Marathon, Ethiopian Derartu Tulu stunned onlookers by slowing her pace to encourage her longtime rival Paula Radcliffe, who had fallen off the back of the elite pack.

“Come on,” Tulu called out as the pair traversed the Queensboro Bridge. “We can do this.”

Tulu, too, was all but dropped by the surging elites while she repeatedly attempted to coax a flagging Radcliffe back to life. She ultimately caught up to the leaders, overtaking her competition to win the day in 2:28:52. When Radcliffe, injured and in tears, struggled to a fourth-place finish minutes later, Tulu simply embraced her.

Both Derartu Tulu and Amy Cragg demonstrated uncommon compassion for their competitors, ostensibly risking their own races in the process. And these remarkable episodes don’t represent a one-off, for either runner. When asked about Tulu’s behaviour following the race, Radcliffe remarked, “That’s just Derartu. She’s always lovely like that.”

It is tempting to write off an overgenerous disposition like that of Cragg or Tulu as a liability in an elite athlete. But in reality, runners who invest in the well-being and performance of their fellow competitors often outperform those with more individualistic values over the long term.

Which might explain the dominance of athletes like Rachel Hannah, who took home the Canadian title in the 2014 Half-Marathon Championships after defending champ Krista Duchene fractured her femur in the finishing stretch of the race. But Hannah, at the time still a relative up-and-comer on the national scene, declined bask in her post-win glory. Instead, she rushed to the side of the injured Duchene, ignoring requests for post-race pictures and interviews until she could be sure her fiercest competitor got the care she needed.

And the athletic predisposition to an altruistic mindset isn’t limited to elites, either. Both seasoned recreational runners and newcomers to the sport alike can attest to the tremendous benefits of running with a club, team, or crew. Running might be an individual sport, but there’s an undeniable energy and momentum that can be drawn from a collective mindset.

So why do compassionate, team-oriented runners tend to perform so well? The benefits are twofold:

First, running is tough. And marathon running, even tougher. A common (and particularly effective) strategy for pushing through the gruelling miles is to mentally “switch off” – to turn your attention away from your own discomfort and onto literally anything else. So when an athlete’s mind is preoccupied with concern for the well-being of a competitor, it becomes much easier to ignore their own discomfort and push on.

The fact that Amy Cragg or Derartu Tulu were able to win their races, while also mustering the necessary energy to encourage and cajole their struggling competition, is undeniably remarkable. But the strength these women drew upon to pull off such victories existed, at least in part, because of their concern for the well-being of others. Altruistic acts have the effect of drawing us out of ourselves – whether we’re volunteering for a cause, donating to charity, or encouraging a competitor – in turn making us more resilient in the face of pain, hardship, and personal distress.

Second, no matter how hard you train, you are bound to have a bad race here or there. Setbacks and failures are an inevitable part of competition – the devastating lows that make the experience of victory that much sweeter. So when you spend your time encouraging the efforts of others, your own internal monologue – what psychologists call your “self-talk” – becomes correspondingly more positive and encouraging.

Long-term success in distance running depends, more than anything else, on consistency and dedication. Which makes your framework for handling failures and setbacks of critical importance. When we offer encouragement or consolation to a struggling fellow runner, we are also sharpening our own internal coping skills. We teach ourselves resilience by nurturing it in others.

Altruism, as it turns out, has a very practical silver lining.

Like Derartu Tulu or Rachel Hannah, Amy Cragg’s tremendous display of empathy, camaraderie, and sportsmanship in Saturday’s race demonstrates once again the wisdom of that hard-worn proverb: shared joy is twice joy, but shared sorrow is half sorrow.

Chase big dreams.

Hired Guns: A brief history of the pacer

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Any discussion about pacing in distance running is bound to ruffle a few feathers, so let’s start this off with a statement on which we can all agree: Steve Prefontaine was a goddamn legend.

There are few, if any, runners that have attainted status in the sport’s collective psyche quite like Pre. But whether we attribute this universal renown to his undeniable dominance in American collegiate running, or to the ways in which his life so closely interwove itself with the the early lore of Nike, the core of his legend doubtless lies in the way that Pre ran.

Pre was a front-runner, and a relentless one at that. His racing style eschewed tactical running, opting instead to go out aggressively, from the gun, stubbornly refusing to relinquish the lead. “No one will ever win a 5,000 metre by running an easy two miles,” he was quoted as saying. “Not against me.”

What makes Pre remarkable isn’t the fact of his front-running – front-runners are a dime a dozen in this sport – but the fact that he was a front-runner who was actually good. More than good, really. He could talk a big game, run a balls-out race ostensibly devoid of strategy, and still manage to win by a wide margin. There was a romance, and a purity, to his approach to distance running.

It’s easy to love Prefontaine.

But the fact is, most runners are not Prefontaine. Most runners, regardless of talent, grit, and preparation, run better when they run tactical races. They hang in the pack. They respond to the movements of their fellow runners. They draft off of each other, expending a carefully calculated level of effort, and wait patiently for the ideal moment to throw in a surge and drop the competition.

In short, most runners run best with the aid of pacers.

Pacing is a controversial practice in distance running. Heavy-hitters in the sport, individuals and institutions alike, have by turns encouraged and denounced the employment of elite pacers in road racing. This debate has grown increasingly heated in recent years, and reached a boiling point in 2011 with the IAAF’s controversial ruling that it would no longer recognize women’s marathon world records that were set in mixed-gender events.

The decision effectively nullified Paula Radcliffe’s blistering 2:15:25 world record (London Marathon, 2003) in favour of her third-fastest performance of 2:17:42 (again in London, though this run in a female elite field that started 45 minutes ahead of their male counterparts). But while the London Marathon’s separation of the male and female elite fields attempted to generate more compelling coverage of both races, the IAAF contended that their own controversial ruling was designed to address concerns that male pacesetting of female elites conferred upon the women an “unfair advantage”.

And it’s true, the benefits of pacing in distance running are substantial. Over the marathon distance, women run an average of two minutes faster when paced by men – a statistic that IAAF supporters and distance running purists made much of in the heated debate that followed.

Physiologically, it is far easier to run within or just-behind a pack of runners than it is to lead one. And though the advantages of drafting in distance running aren’t quite as pronounced as they might be in a higher-speed sport like cycling, they certainly play a role, especially at the elite level. There’s also a psychological edge to be had in running from behind; most runners would sooner chase their target than be someone else’s.

All of this adds up to a significant advantage in running with a rabbit – though just how significant varies, depending on who you ask. Distance running pop culture has been known to play fast-and-loose with the figures. In the Prefontaine biopic Without Limits, Bill Bowerman memorably explains that “it takes eight percent more energy to lead than to follow” while imploring his prodigy front-runner to modify his signature racing style. Former U.S. and world champion David Krummenacker put the figure even higher, at fifteen percent.

But in any debate over the advantages of pacing (unfair or otherwise) these figures become of critical importance – particularly when the result of said debate has the effect of writing an incontrovertibly dominant record like Paula Radcliffe’s out of the history books.

So just how much of a benefit does drafting confer on a runner? Sweat Science’s Alex Hutchison explored this question, breaking down a 1971 study by physiologist Griffith Pugh (full text can be found here) in which he examined the oxygen consumption of a solo runner in controlled conditions, versus that same runner in the same conditions, this time running one metre behind another runner.

Unsurprisingly, Pugh’s calculations suggest a measurable energy saving from drafting, one which grows progressively more substantial at the higher speeds typical of short- or middle-distance racing. In the marathon, though less palpable, the benefit is certainly still there. Hutchison puts the ballpark figure as running about one second faster per 400m at 2:48/kilometre pace with the same oxygen consumption. “It’s pretty clear that there’s a big energy saving from drafting,” Hutchison concludes.

Haile_Gebrselassie_beim_Berlin-Marathon_2008Numbers aside, there’s plenty of anecdotal evidence to persuade a distance runner to tuck in behind a rabbit for the early miles of the marathon. When Haile Gebrselassie shattered his own world record at the Berlin Marathon in 2008, he did so with the help of no fewer than four pacers, running behind a veritable wall of marathon talent to bring home a blistering 2:03:59. (Since Geb was over 35 at the time, his now-bested mark still stands as the masters marathon world record.)

But it was Mary Keitany’s 2011 half-marathon performance at the Ras Al Khaimah half-marathon in United Arab Emirates that is rumoured to have raised eyebrows at the IAAF, eventually leading to their controversial women-only ruling. Keitany became the first woman to clock a time under 66 minutes in the half, and set a new world record of 1:05:50, running from gun-to-tape behind a male pacemaker.

The crucial distinction between the use of pacers by Keitany and Gebrselassie, according to the IAAF, is that any of Gebrselassie’s four pacemakers could have decided at any point to stop pacing, and start racing. By virtue of the fact that they are all male, and therefore all in contention for the same placing or records, they are by definition competitors.

The notion of an assigned pacer blazing ahead to victory is unusual, yes, but not entirely unheard of. Paul Pilkington entered the 1994 LA Marathon as a rabbit, only to find the elite field incapable holding his blistering pace. “I did my job by getting out fast, nobody came after me,” Pilkington said in a post-race interview with the LA Times. “I figured as long as I was out there and feeling good, why stop?”

Rather than dropping out at the 25K-mark as planned, Pilkington decided to go for the win, forfeiting his $3,000 payout as a pacer-for-hire, but ultimately pocketing a winner’s purse of more than $15,000. His decision was not well-received by his fellow competitors, but Pilkington insisted that the move was legal. “In every race, the rabbit always has the option of staying in the race,” he explained. Race officials agreed with him.

Mary Keitany’s pacemaker, on the other hand, had no such option. Men and women, though they may compete alongside one another, are not actually racing each other. Keitany’s pacer need not drop out at any point to insure she crosses the finish line first, because he is in contention for neither her placing nor her record. Therefore, Keitany – or any woman running the entirety of a race tucked comfortably behind a male pacer – is given an unfair advantage.

Under the IAAF’s new regulation, women’s times would no longer be eligible for world record consideration if they were run in mixed-gender events. While this precludes the use of assigned male pacemakers, it also removes from consideration any event in which the men’s and women’s elite fields start together, even in cases when female elites only use assigned female pacesetters.

While the ruling places the IAAF squarely in the camp of the distance running purists, who regard elite pacemaking as fundamentally unsportsmanlike, other major institutions have stood in staunch opposition. The ruling was contested by both the World Marathon Majors, as well as the Association of International Marathons. Together they issued a joint statement calling the IAAF regulations confusing, unfair, and not representative of the history of the sport.

paula-radcliffe-london-skyline-history-stands-t-shirt_3397933The ensuing controversy extended far beyond the ire of the World Marathon Majors, igniting a social media firestorm, and garnering public criticism from marathon heavy-hitters like Deena Kastor and Kara Goucher. Radcliffe, for her part, appealed to the IAAF to revisit their decision, while her sponsor Nike mounted an advertising campaign imploring the federation to “let history stand”.

Following a council meeting in November of 2011, it appeared that the IAAF was prepared to kowtow, at least in part, to mounting external pressure. It issued a clarification stating that the new regulation would not be applied retroactively, but only to those records set going forward. Radcliffe’s 2:15 mark would be allowed to stand.

Although the World Marathon Majors disputed the ruling as it relates to world record consideration, race organizers for the Majors remain divided on the use of pacers in their own races. Both the Boston and New York City marathons do not allow elites to run with assigned pacers, a rule that the Chicago Marathon also adopted this past year. The Berlin Marathon, on the other hand, is famous (or infamous, depending on who you ask) for using teams of pacesetters to pull the elite field along to breakneck finish times. And not without reason; out of the last ten marathon world records, seven have been set at the Berlin Marathon.

For all its attendant controversy, elite pacemaking is hardly anything new. The annals of athletic history are littered with stories of these mercenaries of distance running. In fact, pacemaking played a pivotal role in what is arguably the most mythologized moment in distance running history – Roger Bannister’s four-minute mile.

Sir Christopher Chataway dies aged 82When Bannister clocked the first sub-four-minute mile at Iffley Road Stadium in 1954, he did so with the help of not one but two pacemakers, Chris Chataway and Chris Brasher. Bannister’s use of pacers to break the elusive four-minute barrier reportedly miffed his long-time rival, Australian John Landy, who regarded the use of pacers as contrary to the spirit of competition. But Bannister’s world record ultimately failed to ruffle feathers in the athletics community the way that Mary Keitany’s half-marathon record did some 57 years later, in part due to the fact that Landy managed to better Bannister’s mark less than two months later.

The problem with pacing is that, at it’s very core, the practice is impossible to fully regulate. One might object to the employment of formal, assigned pacemakers, but in their absence, the line between tactical racing and informal pacemaking – one teammate pacing another to within striking distance of a goal time, the sacrificial lamb on the altar of calculated splits – begins to blur.

Athletic performance will always depend, at least in part on the performance of one’s competitors – on the pace of the pack, and the variable willingness of one runner or another to take the lead. And yes, there will always be the staunch purists who, like Prefontaine, regard tactical drafting as something akin to a less-than-honest race effort.

But like it or not, pacing – both the physiological advantage of drafting and the psychological relief of mentally “checking out” for a few miles – is a part of distance running. The question that the IAAF, and the athletics community more broadly, is trying to answer with attempts to regulate pacesetting is – how much should it be?

Interestingly, there is an argument to be made that mixed-gender pacing actually confers a slight disadvantage on female elites, compared to their male counterparts. Male rabbits pacing male elites typically run directly ahead of their charges – see Gebrselassie’s 2008 performance in Berlin – cutting the headwinds and allowing the athletes to mentally “check out” for large parts of the race.

But pacesetter contracts for female elites often prohibit male rabbits from running out in front, to avoid their appearing in televised coverage of the women’s race – effectively negating any of the benefits of cutting the wind. Which throws into question the notion, so central to the IAAF’s regulations on pacing, of whether female elites paced by men really do have an unfair advantage at all. Does the benefit of side-by-side accompaniment over 25 miles really outweigh that of ducking behind a wind barrier for 20?

This off-to-the-side pacer stipulation may not be characteristic of all pacing contracts, but it has certainly been a salient factor where the women’s world record is concerned. It was certainly the case for pacer Weldon Johnson, who escorted Paula Radcliffe through 25 miles of the Chicago Marathon in 2002, where Radcliffe set her first world record. Rather than leading Radcliffe, Johnson ran alongside her, following her lead as she knocked off splits far quicker than the pre-race agreed-upon pace. “I very consciously ran alongside (him) rather than ever behind,” Radcliffe later recalled.

With Radcliffe fighting wind resistance and hitting her splits relatively unaided, one is tempted to ask what, exactly, was the benefit of running with a pacer at all? Johnson puts it down to camaraderie. “Twenty-six miles by yourself can be very hard,” he says.

And therein lies the critical challenge posed by the IAAF mixed-gender pacing rule; women in the marathon – and especially at the elite level – are relatively thin on the ground. The depth of field for women’s marathon running pales in comparison to the men’s, and the resulting dearth of both female pacers and competitors means that any woman wishing to chase after Radcliffe’s mark must either run with the boys, or go it alone.

The arrangement, disadvantageous though it might be, is not entirely unwelcome among leaders in the women’s running community. Kathrine Switzer, who famously outran the ire of race director Jock Semple in 1967 as the first woman to officially compete in the Boston Marathon, likens the situation to the subsequent struggle to establish a women’s Olympic marathon. Throughout the late 1970s and early 80s, Switzer helped to organize women’s-only marathons in response to the IOC’s refusal to recognize performances by women in mixed-gender competition.

“I felt very strongly, and I still do, that women need the challenge and the forum to accept the responsibility to run a race on their own,” she explained.

Just how swiftly the reigning women’s marathon elite will rise to this new challenge remains to be seen.

Chase big dreams.