Race Report: Bridge of Flowers 10K

The town of Shelburne Falls, Mass. (pop. 1951) doesn't seem like an obvious site for a big race, but it has the distinction of being home to the Bridge of Flowers 10K, an annual tradition that dates back to 1979. This year, the race was named the 2010 USATF-NE 10K road race championship. Although the name brings to mind pictures of smiling runners striding happily along bucolic country lanes, do not be fooled; this race is an absolute bear.

As it was a championship race, many runners from my club drove the two hours or so from Boston to compete. Terry, Kevin, and I chose to spend Friday night in Amherst, so we didn't need to leave quite so early, but by 7:30 Saturday morning we had joined the Westbound caravan of runners' cars driving along the Mohawk Trail to be in time for the 9:00 a.m. start.

I was more than a little apprehensive about the race. I knew the course was tough, with a legendary hill that wrecked the unwary, and I didn't feel race-ready, having struggled through months of desultory training that lacked both intensity and focus. My last race had been a month ago at the Stowe 8-Miler and it had not been encouraging.

But if the course was cause for worry, at least the weather was not. It was just a perfect day, with temperatures barely brushing 70, and dry air that seemed uncharacteristic of August in New England. Had there not been a race on the calendar, it would have been a lovely day to visit the town, take a stroll along the banks of the Deerfield River, take pictures of the famous Bridge of Flowers, and sit at an outdoor cafe to enjoy a scone and a leisurely cup of tea in this quaint town.

There was no time for any of that when we arrived a little over an hour before the race. Instead, we were immediately caught up in the familiar but anxious routine that -- if all goes well -- will get us to the starting line on time and ready to run. It begins with following the traffic that is descending on a tiny neighborhood never designed for the vehicles carrying a thousand runners from far off places, continues with those same runners standing in lines for race numbers and bathrooms (I skipped the former for the latter), shifts to the relative calm of a 20-minute warmup jog that doubles as a reconnaissance mission (to the base of the dreaded hill and back), and ends with the ritualistic change into racing flats for a few strides and a jog to the start, which is located on a steel bridge that crosses the river.

Once at the start, I make small talk with Gordon, who will go on to win the over-60 division and lock up the New England series championship for his age group. I ask him if he has run the course before and he says that he has, and reminds me that it was a championship race two years ago. I skipped that race for some reason, and for a moment, I feel a kind of abstract satisfaction that I am finally going to experience a race that has been a fixture on the New England calendar for over three decades and that has a reputation for being 1-2 minutes slower than a "normal" 10K.

After the singing of the Star-Spangled Banner, the race starts without a gun, but rather with a strange sound that escapes me now I try to remember it. Was it sleigh bells? Wind chimes? All I know now is that I am part of the crowd that surges awkwardly forward, trying to untangle itself as we pull away from the narrow start. It helps that the course immediately heads slightly uphill, and gradually I progress from a a jog to a careful run, and finally to full race pace, which in my case is about six-minute miles. I try to control my urge to jockey for position (the road is still very narrow) and I run without any sense of urgency or ambition. The one mile split is 6:05, which seems perfectly ok given the slight uphill. Still, my legs don't feel at all fresh, and I don't have the feeling of having to hold myself back, which typically signals a good race for me.

The second mile is gently downhill as we complete the small loop of what will eventually turn out to be a misshapen figure eight. We pass back over the bridge and turn left and then right onto Clement Street, a preliminary climb that provides a preview of the massive Crittendon Hill to come. According to MapMyRun, the course elevation at this point (1.9 miles into the race) is 433 feet above sea level. Here's a rule of thumb: when describing a course, if it's necessary to use the phrase "elevation above sea level," the race is not for wimps.

For some reason, I have it stuck in my mind that the hill is a half-mile long. This turns out to be a serious underestimate. The road rises steeply from 1.9 miles to 2.6 miles, and takes another 0.2 miles to crest. The grade averages 8.3% for those steep seven tenths of a mile, and there is one 400 meter section that exceeds 11%. All-in-all, the course climbs over 360 feet in less than a mile.

The effect on me in the race is a rapid series of adjustments to my estimate of the right pace. At the bottom of the hill, I try to keep my strides very short and quick and efficient. After 200 meters of this, I settle for short and efficient. I'm no longer aiming for "quick." After another 200 meters, I'm trying hard to keep my head from sagging to my chest and I'm adjusting my stride to make it shorter -- anything to ease the alarming distress I'm feeling in my quads. Again and again, I realize I am running too quickly and will not be able to reach the top without slowing down. Mid-way up the hill I am still able to take a little pleasure in the distress I see (and hear) from the runners around me, but as we approach the crest of the hill, I am thinking only of myself and how I have to keep moving my feet forward, without giving in to the strong desire to walk.

The end of the hill comes with a small fanfare; someone is playing an cajun music on an accordion. It's a small, but generous gesture that is, alas, wasted on me. I am way too busy at the moment wondering when my legs will begin functioning normally again so that I can lengthen my stride to take advantage of the long downhill. This is the part of the race that will produce soreness tomorrow, this long, ungainly descent on already tiring muscles. It's a long way down the hill, and my form is a mess. I neither gain ground on the runners around me nor lose any. It's as if we're all trapped on a circus ride, never changing our relative position, but no longer enjoying the fun.

Later, I'll review my splits for the race and they'll look like this:

Mile 1 - 6:05
Mile 2 - 5:52
Mile 3 - 7:34
Mile 4 - 5:34
MIle 5 - 6:02
Mile 6 - 5:49

What this doesn't tell is that Mile 4 feels tremendously costly. Although it is fast, it pounds the life out of my legs. When I hit the flat stretch at the bottom of the hill, I'm struggling to maintain a rhythm. Nothing feels smooth at this point, and instead of setting out to catch the pack in front of me, I am drifting back and fair game for the runners behind. I am a little disappointed when I hit the five mile mark and realize I haven't even been running my six-minute pace.

Into the last mile of the race, and I am caught by a pack of runners who drag me along for a while. With a half mile to go, I start feeling competitive again, but I am also unsure whether I can handle another uphill. In a good race, I feel like I know exactly how much road is left and how much energy I have to expend. But in this final 1000 meters, I'm making it up as I go along, feeling like I can push it for a 100 meters and then feeling like I have to back off because I'm about to crash. The course rolls its way down, back to the river. I begin a final push and pass the six mile mark in 36:54 before seeing the final turn that leads onto the bridge and the final sprint to the line.

I'm not holding anything back now, but I can tell I'm not going to catch the guy in front of me who is a couple of seconds ahead. Then, suddenly and shockingly, two runners pass me on either side just a few meters before the mat that records our finishing time. In the results, we will all be given the same time - 38:06, but I will be relegated to third. Worse, I know I'll be replaying that finish in my head for the next several weeks wondering if I had known they were there, could I have run any harder to hold them off?

After the race I am spent. The time is slow, and I lost out in the sprint.

Terry ran very well, finishing in 36:16. He ran the first half of the race very smart, and took good advantage of the downhill second half to catch people. Kevin also ran massively negative splits and finishes not far behind me in 38:47. We're all going to be sore tomorrow, especially after the long drive home with stiffening muscles.

Sizing up the race, I think I ran it ok, but clearly was not in shape for the challenges it posed. Uphills like Crittendon Hill are intense and require better force production than I had (showing my current lack of "strength" work), Likewise, downhills require more muscle strength and core strength to stabile the body during free fall. Bottom line: the course beat me up.

But it's good to get beat up sometimes if it motivates you to work harder where you're weak. While I don't expect to run any more road races like the Bridge of Flowers 10K this year, cross-country is just around the corner and it's nice to have a motivator to get me running harder workouts, hill repeats, etc. -- at least that's the plan as soon as the ice packs come off my quads.

Coming off the bridge at 1.8 miles, just before the hill. (Photo: Tom Derderian)