The thrill of Rock 'n' Roll

By Chris Woodhouse

Lacing up my shoes, clipping on my iPod and heading outside for a long run was a routine I enjoyed, even craved.

But last Sunday morning was different. I joined nearly 10,000 competitors at the starting line of San Jose's annual Rock 'n' Roll half marathon with only one goal: survival.

This was uncharted territory.

A foghorn blast somewhere ahead signaled the start, as runners from around the world tore out of a flagged corral and into downtown San Jose.

Amid the mass of participants, my father and I finally emerged from under a banner that marked the official start of the course and bounded up the street at a smooth and even pace.

We wouldn't stop for two hours.

Wild cheers, cowbells and the dense ballads of hard rock filled the air with an energy that arched over the steady flow of runners tearing after their first mile.

Bandstands along the path were on a mission to sustain that early charge as thrill junkies and elite racers alike began to settle into a rhythm.

The course wound its way through a blend of historic downtown scenery and residential neighborhoods.

As we approached mile six, three muscular skeletons were already bearing down the other side of the road toward the finish line. Runners and onlookers cheered the men -- all from Kenya -- towards the finish, only a little more than an hour after they started.

Meanwhile, I still had over half of the race to complete. My casual training carried me through the first six miles of the race, though I wasn't sure what would carry me through the rest.

Miles seven, eight and nine passed by at a steady clip, but mile 10 was when the race truly began.

At that point, the battle came down to keeping my lungs in my chest and putting one foot in front of the other. I passed through checkpoints grabbing, gulping and dropping Dixie cups of water only to crave another all too soon.

My clean and steady pace turned into a trot and then a shuffle. Instinct took over -- I breathed because my lungs were shrieking for air, and I ran because my lower body went numb with pain long ago.

The last turn in the course gave way to a 100-yard stretch before the finish banner. I ended my race the only way I could -- I sprinted. As I gunned toward that line, there was only one conclusion I could draw from the experience:

A runner's high doesn't take over at the beginning of a race -- it keeps you going in the end.