Nike Women’s Chicago 10k Race Report

I’ve noticed in previous race reports I’ve referred to people wearing black as “a threat”, looking “menacing” etc. Personally I’ve never raced in black. I usually go for something cool, meaning light in color to best reflect the all-too-often overheating rays of the sun, something hi-viz, the better for the Team to spot me, or optimally both. Plus I don’t think I even own a black running top.
But today I had the perfect opportunity to test my theory of black at the Nike Women’s Chicago 10k.
1. We have some unseasonably cool weather here in Chi-town.
2. I’m running without a cheering section as Thing 1 is at her first overnight campout so ixnay on the hi-viz.
3. The official race shirt is black

Up ’til now I’ve never actually worn the race shirt to the race. I’ve considered it taboo–like I haven’t “earned” the right to wear it. Yet. But that whole perspective went right out the window. Because today I am going to be that “menace in black” I’ve been writing about.

To be honest, my only goal for today is to hopefully beat my course PR of 51:30. I’ve consistently struggled with going out too fast so I commit myself to 8:10 for miles 1 and 2, 8:00 for 3 and 4 and perhaps something a smidge faster for the remainder? One can dream.
Most importantly I am here to enjoy a beautiful morning on the lakefront with 3,499 of my running sisters and savor the last of my shorter races this season.

I lined up between the 8 and 8:30 markers with just a handful of whippet-thin women lined up ahead of me. Since there is a huge gap between me and the actual starting line, the race director asks us all to move up. Well alrighty then if you twist my arm . . . then it dawns on me: it must be the intimidation factor of my all-black getup. At races far smaller than this, I’d have claw my way to get a spot way up front. Apparently my villianess image has built a virtual forcefield around me, nice, it’s working for me already and the gun hasn’t even sounded. We are off, the field surges past me as usual as I try in vain to get on my pace.

Mile 1: 8:00 Here we go again, too fast. I’m sure it’s the black, streamlined and slimming. Can’t go wrong. And would ya look at the spectators–since this is an all-women race the gallery is virtually all men and kiddos–yummy!

Mile 2: 8:09 Better! I give myself a mental pat on the back for harnessing my new-found pep.

Mile 3: 8:08 Maybe stay slower this mile to make up for the too fast start?

Mile 4: 8:02 The back half of the course is new. Very winding, lots of turns and various surfaces: bike path, gravel, sand. And WTF? One big ole hill. Alyoop.

Mile 5: 8:19 We’re on half of a crowded bike path now. Lots of casual walkers, people darting across with strollers, what have you. Is this even the racecourse or did I run astray somewhere? I’m doing the bob and weave–on the path, on the grass, on the path–trying not to snap an ankle. Holy crap look at my pace! Hello? Does anyone even see the “menace in black” approaching? Where’s my intimidation forcefield? And most importantly where’s my black turbo boost and/or any other superpower I can take advantage of for that matter? Surely my black as the stroke of midnight getup will more than compensate for the fact that yesterday’s hydration amounted to two cans of diet Pepsi and my veins are undoubtedly still coursing with buttercream from the triple birthday party we attended.

Mile 6: 8:06 I manage to regain some semblance of decorum and make my way in for a strong(ish) finish that leaves me once again fighting the urge to wretch. Still fun though in retrospect I think the only one psyched by the black was me.

Finish time: 50:21, 8:07 pace. I finish to fresh flowers and a swagalicious women’s festival replete with all the Luna Bars/Moons, Powerbars, Larabars, and Muscle Milk I can muster. And I blew my old course record out of the water by over a minute. Maybe there is something to the all-in-black mystique afterall.