OK, so I’m on my own. I don’t know anyone. I don’t know what to expect. And it’s the biggest race I’ve ever been in. I keep telling myself my primary goal is to finish--but if my time is slower than what I’m hoping for, I’ll feel like all my hours of training were wasted. I need to let that go, but I can’t.
I wind up at the back of the pack at the start. Note to file: 20 minutes is not enough time for a bathroom break right before a race. But the back of the pack should be fine. That’ll force me to ease into the race instead of trying to keep up with the jack rabbits. I met a nice guy in a tutu—completely pink from head to toe. He even painted his sneakers pink. Why? Did he lose a bet? Nope. He’s in a tutu just because. Obviously, not his first race, and he wishes me well on my first marathon. I needed that.Well, the idea that starting at the back would ease me in was true. But this is too slow. I’m having trouble getting through the pack so I can find a pace that feels comfortable. But at least it means that I’m passing people instead of being passed. That helps the mindset.
The first few miles seem to take forever—this does not bode well. The first hill at about mile 3.5 is longer and steeper than I expected—bummer. By the time I reach the Brandywine Park I’m feeling OK, and I’ve run the next few miles in training, which is good. The river is beautiful—definitely the nicest part of the run. At mile 6 the big mile long climb starts. It feels good when I reach the top. I unwittingly think the next 13 miles are mostly flat or downhill—turns out I couldn’t be more wrong.
After Little Italy, the course is slightly uphill for a while before another hill—really?? I think the issue is knowing that I’ll have to face that hill again, when I’m a lot more tired. The dread is always worse. But now I get to go down the big hill. I try to encourage the racers that are just coming up the climb.
At the bottom, it’s only 2 miles and one climb to the halfway point. I jog by a guy who’s been playing drums on the roadside—we heard him earlier at the 5 mile mark. This guy's been jamming for about an hour now.
The last climb—no lie, I hated it. I’ve come to enjoy climbing hills, and I was O.K., but I couldn’t shake the premonition that I was going to loathe that hill the second time.
From the top of the hill it’s ½ mile to the halfway point—which is also the end for the half marathon. The half marathoners started later and the faster ones have been passing every now and then for the last few miles. Every time I hear someone approaching quickly I know it’s either a half marathoner or a relay racer. I still haven’t been passed by a marathoner, which is kind of a good feeling.
The crowd kicks up the energy at the halfway point. Lots of kids with signs—although the majority seemed to be signs for moms and sons or daughters. Hmm…the dads get left out.
As I go under the halfway clock, my time is 1:51. Nice. That’s ahead of pace to break 4 hours, and under the goal of 3:45. Unfortunately, I’m already starting to feel like my body is about ¾ of the way done instead of halfway. Not good.
Before the race, I thought the run along the Wilmington water front was going to be a nice run: WRONG. For some reason, it seems interminably slow. And the narrow walkway is shared with runners going both ways. I see people coming back (meaning they’re ahead of me), and I keep thinking “How is that guy ahead of me? They look like they’re running in molasses and about to die. Do I look that bad? Probably.
The wind has picked up and it seems to be against me no matter which direction I’m going. At least it should be at my back for the last mile and the last climb. But thinking about running in this wind for another 10 miles is starting to suck the life out of me.
At mile 17 (uphill into the wind) I hear two racers about to pass me, which is a first. But right now, I’m having trouble. I feel worse than I should. It just feels like one of those days where I don't have it. Oh well. I let the two pass, and they turn out to be two 30-something women. That hurts the ego a bit.
I decide I need someone to pace me, so I stay with them for a few miles. We pass two 60 year old 50 State racers. I notice the shirt on one guys says three times—yeah, he’s raced a marathon in each state 3 times. Really? I honestly don’t know how it took me until mile 18 to pass them—but they’re pretty impressive. A mile later, the one woman stops and I never saw her again. The other started to pull away little by little.
I head up the big climb for the second and final time. As hard as the climb is, it’s nice to work on finishing it, knowing that it’s the hardest thing between me and the finish line. Partway up, I see the lead marathon racers coming back down. “Lucky Dogs” is all I can think. It’ll be so nice to be headed down with just a few miles to go. As I near the top, I meet a guy who’s been ahead of me the whole race. “Yeah Baby. We’re almost to the top of this pig.” What a great feeling to get to the top. For a few minutes, it feels like everything is going to be fine now. There’s only 6 miles left.
Then the crushing reality sets in. The next six miles are grueling. I’m on empty and I just want to be done. There’s now a small group of us who are running at about the same pace. We kind of pass and re-pass each other as our paces change. Fortunately, in the neighborhoods the wind is not a factor, but I’m laboring for each step. All I can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other.
Fortunately, there are plenty of race guides to direct us at each turn. My ability to think is gone. All my mental energy is going into the fight with my legs, which are starting to revolt. Each time a volunteer sends me in the right direction, I thank them, knowing that I probably would have just kept going straight (despite the arrows painted on the road).
Fortunately, there are plenty of race guides to direct us at each turn. My ability to think is gone. All my mental energy is going into the fight with my legs, which are starting to revolt. Each time a volunteer sends me in the right direction, I thank them, knowing that I probably would have just kept going straight (despite the arrows painted on the road).
On the climb in Little Italy, one of the runners in our small pack stops. I actually felt OK this climb--OK being very relative. I encourage her as I go by. She picks it up, and within a mile, she’s back in front of me. I'm not sure why, but I didn’t really like the Little Italy section of the race. Probably because it seemed the hottest and most urban part. It was nice to get that done.
Only about 4 miles left, and one of those miles is downhill. I should be happy. But it means I still have a half an hour of running. Crud, I just want to be done. And I know there are still two climbs left. Of course, the dread of anticipating a climb is usually worse than the actual climb. I high-five one of the volunteers as I finish the final climb before the big descent. A bit awkward for a seemingly innocuous accomplishment at this point, but I needed the motivation.
The first time down the bid descent I tried to encourage the racers coming up. But as I descend this time, I had to look away. Those folks have so much more pain ahead of them—I don’t even want to think about it. And what am I going to say. “You’re almost there.” No, you’re not. You’ve got over an hour of torture left. That’s too depressing to think about right now. So I have to just stare at the ground.
Each mile is a morbid celebration at this point. I want to celebrate my accomplishment and enjoy the last few miles, but I don’t have the emotional energy. I really didn't expect that. After mile 24 it seems like forever until mile 25—and it’s been downhill the whole mile. I expect to see the marker around each bend, but no. Not yet. Then I start to hear the drummer again. Over 3 ½ hours and the dude is still rockin'. That makes me laugh. Finally. Mercifully, I pass mile 25 and there’s only one climb left. I grab Gatorade at the final water stop. Regrettably, I make the dreaded mistake of stopping to drink. I can’t re-start. My mind is yelling at my legs as my last racing partner pulls away, but my legs don't listen. I walk until about 50 yards and my legs finally listen to my brain and start running again.
Some of the finishers are looping back now and encouraging us, along with the fans on the side of the road. “Just make it to the top and then it’s only ½ mile down to the finish.” Sounds easy enough, but mentally all I can think about is this climb. As I cross each intersection, I’m amazed at how thankful I am for the police who are stopping traffic. There’s no way I could keep starting and stopping if I had to wait for traffic. I wondered what they thought as I said thank you each time.
After a seeming eternity, I reach the top. I call Lynda to see where she and the kids are. They’re still on 202—at least 10 minutes away, so they won’t be at the finish. That’s a bummer, but all I want to do is finish, so I can’t think about it right now.
As I head down the final hill I’m right behind a relay racer who sounds like he is going to die—come on dude, you’re only 6 miles in. I decide that regardless of what my body says, I’m finishing strong and well ahead of this guy. I pick up the pace. I can see mile marker 26. Just two block to go. Then it happened.
My body revolted. A sharp pain went through my side like I had just been stabbed. It literally took my breath away. My legs cramped so bad I couldn’t straighten them and I couldn’t really bend them either—this is not good.
I don’t care. I’m not walking over that finish line and I’m not letting Relay Guy ahead of me. I turn the corner and cross MLK Blvd. The cheering crowd means so much more at the finish line than at the halfway point. I can see the finish line. Just a few more steps.
As I go under the finish banner, I see my time of 3:51. They hand me my medal, and all I can think is that I’m going to throw up—literally. I’ve never wanted to just sit down so badly, but the thought of how much pain that would cause drives me to keep walking. I wander around in a daze trying to just keep moving forward. Lynda calls and says they’re a few minutes away. I decide to walk out to MLK Blvd and meet them. Now I'm forced to keep moving. After I walk the few blocks out to MLK, I try to lean against a pole to hold me up and stretch my cramping legs—no deal. I’m done. I lay down in the grass and wait for the family.They are so beautiful and encouraging. They didn’t expect to see me so sick—but then neither did I. I sit in the front seat trying to get comfortable. Not happening. Lynda encourages me to drink a water bottle even though don’t feel like it. Kristin wonders what I’ll throw up if I puke. Don’t know. Hadn’t thought about it. I’m sure it won’t be much, but I keep the window down, just in case.
Kristin, Lynda and Michael go back and get my race bag with my warm up clothes. When they get back I feel a little better. I eat a protein bar from my bag and drink two more bottles of water and surprise, surprise, within a few minutes I feel normal again. Are you kidding me? All that pain was from dehydration and lack of food. Dang it. I just can’t get that right. I was sure I drank enough. I stopped at each water station. I definitely have to get that worked out if I ever run another race—which is feeling much more likely now than it did just 10 minutes ago.
As we sit and chat I realize how wonderful this family is. They want to know all about the race, and Kristin wants to know why I got a medal. I told her I got it for coming in first in my bracket—which amazes everyone. What bracket? Racers named Etrain I say. As they laugh I realize how blessed I am.
Final numbers:
Time 3:51:33
157 of 655 (554 finishers)
21 of 49 in age bracket
Final numbers:
Time 3:51:33
157 of 655 (554 finishers)
21 of 49 in age bracket
No comments:
Post a Comment