What exactly is balance? I am not sure. This concept was raised again today at track. I try to teach my kids this novel idea of balance and things in moderation. We eat mostly healthy, but we allow ourselves treats, too. We get to purchase fun things, but we are on a budget, too. I want them to understand what it means to do things in moderation, but how can I expect them to follow through when my favorite saying is, "All things in moderation except exercise?" I cannot say no to a workout.
It is not even that I have guilt, so much, if I skip a workout. It is more that I feel as though I want to come out of my skin if I haven't sweat profusely for the day. I feel ancy and irritable and have less patience for things if I have not had my time to exercise in the morning. Yesterday I woke up with swollen lymph nodes and felt achy and generally flu-like. I got up, dragged myself into gym clothes and stood at the door for what felt like an eternity before I gave up on the idea and climbed back into bed. Hubs had already moved into my spot (read:dominated the whole bed), so I elbowed him back to his side and fell into the duvet. I drooled on the pillow, feeling pretty lousy, until almost 7 am! I can't remember the last time I slept that late? Of course, life as a mom doesn't stop for illness, so I still had to get up and take care of kids.
By 3 o'clock, I felt okay, and because the day was so beautiful, I put the kids in the double jogger and ran them to the library, park and back, about 8 1/2 miles total. So, even on a sick day, I could not shake the feeling of wanting to move my body. I needed it. I needed to get out and feel my legs over the pavement. Is this nuts? I didn't think so, until I heard the warning at track this morning.
"You need to rest. There is no reason you should not have run a 3:15 marathon the way you were trained..." Help me on this one. The way I was "trained" I thought prepared me to go fast, yes? But this particular friend of mine brought me to tears when she said again that I could have had a fast marathon had I taken more recovery and more rest, more taper. I felt like I did everything right. I think that is why it brought me to tears. The tears sprang to my eyes with raw emotion, as raw as I felt shortly following the race. It surprised me how sad I still apparently am over the whole thing. I cannot let it go, try as I might. Every one of my friends, all of my track buddies , my husband, too...they all think I am capable of a 3:15 or 3:20 marathon. That is right about where the charts put me, as well, based on my half marathon times. So why can I not pull it off?
"Rest" she says to me. "Balance", she lectures me. I need hobbies and more intellectual things to do apart from just exercising in my free time, according to her. This is coming from a retired pro triathlete. Is she crazy? Is this the kettle calling the pot black? I was completely befuddled and I am sure I looked at her sideways. Are we not all obsessed with this sport? Do we not all think it is totally fun to kill ourselves doing repeats of one kind or another? Yes, call it compulsive, but I love the routine I keep, week in and week out. I love climbing the hills, running the miles, and lifting the weights. I am almost coming to appreaciate a small affection for lap after lap in the pool (until I realized just how many laps translates to a Half Ironman distance swim). How could she tell me I need to rest??? How could she pour salt in the raw wounds of the marathon and insult me like that? How could she, of all obsessive people, lecture me about taking a day off? My mouth was agape, when it was not quivering from crying. I felt like a child in her presence. Was it because maybe I felt she could be on to something? I still do not want to face that possibility. Tonight, I still cannot tolerate that thought. I love the sport and I love to workout in any form. I cannot bear the idea of "time off" from something I crave so much, every single day.
Tonight I am looking at a training program a different friend of mine followed for a Half Ironman program and it seems it is not as much as I am doing even now. The time on the bike is more than I am committed to at the moment, but, in general, I think I have a pretty good base. So, here I am, questioning my whole routine, my whole exercise philosophy, my core being. Am I training too much? Am I not resting enough? Is a 50K a bad idea so closely following a marathon and 8 weeks in front of a Half Iroman, which is 10 weeks in front of another marathon I hope to do? How am I so shaken now? I thought the plan was brilliant and yet words of warning spoken to me this morning have rattled me completely. I want to be smart. I want to be injury free. I want to be a good mom and role model to my kids. I want to be a healthy and giving wife to my hubs. Where exactly is the balance? Am I in the thick of it like I thought, or am I kidding myself? Is balance simply a state of mind and we all have different definitions in our own? How does my place of moderation compare to my next door neighbors? They think we are psycho for what we do. I would like to think we are striving to be better than we once were. Exercise makes me better at everything I do. It motivates me to be better in every arena of my life. I am driven. My workouts are the gauge of this. So, am I obessed? Sure. I know I am. I guess I will have to live with that and know my marathon times will not be what they "should" be until I am willing to alter the program to something I am not ready to sacrifice for just yet.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Sunday, June 18, 2006
The Runner's Wave
So, hubs had his first career win....the Tri Club Aquathlon last week on Thursday night. I was so completely impressed with both his run and swim times. More than that, I was thrilled he got to experience his first "first" because I know how hard he is on himself. He subscribes to that school of thought that dictates "second place is the first loser". I don't think I am quite that hard on myself, perhaps because I know I cannot compete anywhere near his class of athletes. The fact remains that he is amazing and I love watching him perform. One little part of me is always jealous and ancy, as I juggle the kids and chase them on the sand. But, the truth is, I am not near the athlete he is, so it is nice for me to let him have the limelight and win!
I have been running extra miles to prepare for the 50K we have settled on. It is kind of a bummer, we discovered, that the race is sandwiched in between Kindergarten orientation and the first day of school for our little girl. The weekend will not be as leisurely for running a death march in the hot sun as we had hoped. Anyway, I ran 9 miles this morning to start with the group and then added 5 more miles on my own. I felt good. Not as good as when I ran Friday morning for 2 hours, or even yesterday, pushing 2 kids in the jogger for 45 minutes. But, I felt reasonably good.
One thing I couldn't help but ponder was the lack of the runner's wave. That is, I was out a little later than my usual 3:30 am wake up call (we started at 6am), so I saw many more people out on the road. There were tons of runners doing the same out and back route I was running and I couldn't help but realize not all of them were particularly friendly. It kind of bothered me. How could such fellow runners not aknowlege each other? Espicially when I would see some of them twice, once out and once back? This observation seemed to hold true consistently with women more than men. One woman running alone seemed the least likely to return a smile. Two women running together seemed a bit more likely to return the sentiment. One man running solo was a little more inclined to say hello. 2 or more men running together were the most friendly. I am not kidding. Try this experiement and see. Overall, however, there was a resounding non-response from the population at large.
It totally befuddle me that so many people would not simply give a nod, a half wave or (gasp) a "Good Morning" when we are out doing the same thing. Cranking or plodding, clipping or crusing, where is the common courtesy? I was amazed. I am used to running without passing people in the dark. It seems a solitary sport at 4 am, no doubt. But in broad daylight at almost 8 am, the lack of gestures seemed unforgivable. I guess it has been far too long since I have been out in civilization with other running strangers. Is the world becoming more and more guarded? Are we all simply too focused, too busy to extend a kind word to others who are in the same beloved sport? It rattled me a little, I must admit, that time after time I raised a hand and a smile, and those gestures were returned by a downward glance or a blank stare. So many people coming my way would quickly look away. Was I running naked? These people were almost embarrased to look my direction. I suddenly felt as though I were in LA again. This was the predicatable response when I would run up North, as a general rule, in the land of self-absorption and austentatiousness. But here in San Diego, are we not more civilized than that?
Runners of the world, kindly raise your hand. Cherish your sport and aknowledge others who do the same. Do not contribute to the pollution of rudeness and aloofness. Rise above and raise a kind word to the runner coming your way. Get out of your own head for the moment and maybe be brazen enough to throw out a "nice pace" or "good job". Can that really be a bad thing?
I have been running extra miles to prepare for the 50K we have settled on. It is kind of a bummer, we discovered, that the race is sandwiched in between Kindergarten orientation and the first day of school for our little girl. The weekend will not be as leisurely for running a death march in the hot sun as we had hoped. Anyway, I ran 9 miles this morning to start with the group and then added 5 more miles on my own. I felt good. Not as good as when I ran Friday morning for 2 hours, or even yesterday, pushing 2 kids in the jogger for 45 minutes. But, I felt reasonably good.
One thing I couldn't help but ponder was the lack of the runner's wave. That is, I was out a little later than my usual 3:30 am wake up call (we started at 6am), so I saw many more people out on the road. There were tons of runners doing the same out and back route I was running and I couldn't help but realize not all of them were particularly friendly. It kind of bothered me. How could such fellow runners not aknowlege each other? Espicially when I would see some of them twice, once out and once back? This observation seemed to hold true consistently with women more than men. One woman running alone seemed the least likely to return a smile. Two women running together seemed a bit more likely to return the sentiment. One man running solo was a little more inclined to say hello. 2 or more men running together were the most friendly. I am not kidding. Try this experiement and see. Overall, however, there was a resounding non-response from the population at large.
It totally befuddle me that so many people would not simply give a nod, a half wave or (gasp) a "Good Morning" when we are out doing the same thing. Cranking or plodding, clipping or crusing, where is the common courtesy? I was amazed. I am used to running without passing people in the dark. It seems a solitary sport at 4 am, no doubt. But in broad daylight at almost 8 am, the lack of gestures seemed unforgivable. I guess it has been far too long since I have been out in civilization with other running strangers. Is the world becoming more and more guarded? Are we all simply too focused, too busy to extend a kind word to others who are in the same beloved sport? It rattled me a little, I must admit, that time after time I raised a hand and a smile, and those gestures were returned by a downward glance or a blank stare. So many people coming my way would quickly look away. Was I running naked? These people were almost embarrased to look my direction. I suddenly felt as though I were in LA again. This was the predicatable response when I would run up North, as a general rule, in the land of self-absorption and austentatiousness. But here in San Diego, are we not more civilized than that?
Runners of the world, kindly raise your hand. Cherish your sport and aknowledge others who do the same. Do not contribute to the pollution of rudeness and aloofness. Rise above and raise a kind word to the runner coming your way. Get out of your own head for the moment and maybe be brazen enough to throw out a "nice pace" or "good job". Can that really be a bad thing?
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Anything but Down
This week has brought a lot of exercise in the pool and a little bike time. Mostly, I think the time was used for exercise in soul-searching and self-analysis. I was supposed to run today, but I felt sick and completely achey. I think some of it is post-marathon paralysis, like my immune system is completely stripped, but a ton of it really is post-marathon blues.
It happens everytime, so I am not sure why I am still taken off guard. A week or so after the race, I feel completely depressed. I cannot totally blame a disappointing race time for this phenomenon. Yes, my hubris was checked at the door by mile 16, but there is so much more going on, I think. The emotional battle I waged with my sister this week, the complication of all the relationships in my life, added to the fact that I ran exactly one mile in the last 6 days, was a recipe for disaster. It all came to the surface Friday night. Lying in bed, recapping the week with hubby, I felt the tears sloshing around inside me, rising up to my eye balls, threatening to seap out and reveal my fragile state. I tired pushing them back down, but it was a losing battle. "I am totally exhausted......." were the only words I could make audible before the breakdown came in sobs. In analyzing the emotions, the bottom line is this: I need to choose another race-fast! Yes, there are a few on the books, but I want another long running race. I think the Bulldog might be the answer. What better way to comfort myself than with a 50K?
Today, my head is pounding and my body aches all over from flu-like symptoms. I cannot really put my mind around the distance. But in some sick and twisted way, it sounds like so much fun. Even on trail, which I typically dread, it almost sounds really appealing. Really, I hate nature and bush-wacking through tick country, but the race is in my mom's backyard, so babysitting is one less thing I have to think about. It is so convenient in so many ways. Drive up to LA, drop the kids with grandma, and run a 50K, some strange distance I have never covered in one shot. What the heck. Why not? Perhaps I don't need that anti-depressant perscription, after all.
It happens everytime, so I am not sure why I am still taken off guard. A week or so after the race, I feel completely depressed. I cannot totally blame a disappointing race time for this phenomenon. Yes, my hubris was checked at the door by mile 16, but there is so much more going on, I think. The emotional battle I waged with my sister this week, the complication of all the relationships in my life, added to the fact that I ran exactly one mile in the last 6 days, was a recipe for disaster. It all came to the surface Friday night. Lying in bed, recapping the week with hubby, I felt the tears sloshing around inside me, rising up to my eye balls, threatening to seap out and reveal my fragile state. I tired pushing them back down, but it was a losing battle. "I am totally exhausted......." were the only words I could make audible before the breakdown came in sobs. In analyzing the emotions, the bottom line is this: I need to choose another race-fast! Yes, there are a few on the books, but I want another long running race. I think the Bulldog might be the answer. What better way to comfort myself than with a 50K?
Today, my head is pounding and my body aches all over from flu-like symptoms. I cannot really put my mind around the distance. But in some sick and twisted way, it sounds like so much fun. Even on trail, which I typically dread, it almost sounds really appealing. Really, I hate nature and bush-wacking through tick country, but the race is in my mom's backyard, so babysitting is one less thing I have to think about. It is so convenient in so many ways. Drive up to LA, drop the kids with grandma, and run a 50K, some strange distance I have never covered in one shot. What the heck. Why not? Perhaps I don't need that anti-depressant perscription, after all.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Humble Pie
I am eating it. There is always a pearl that comes from a race. Some experience, some thought, some personal epiphany. Today was the day. The lesson I will take from today is never feel overly confident going into a race. All week long I have suffered from self-doubt and a terrible sore throat. All week long, just thinking about the marathon, I could have had a panic attack. It was beginning to feel totally surreal. Thursday night's dinner out was so fantastic and hanging out at the press conference near all those elite athletes was a runner geek's dream come true.I started to think it was going to be okay...like maybe even a perfect race. I was dead wrong.
The day started when we met our little VIP shuttle at the race end and made our way to the start. I was so nervous, I could have puked on that Trolley (or maybe it was the stale smell of BO and old food in there?). I really hate public transit. Anyway, we reached the VIP tent and began to partake in all the special novelties of beverages, breakfast, even the hand sanitizer and private biffies. That was golden. I saw all my buddies, even some people I knew from track a long time ago were in the VIP area and that was super fun. We were called over to meet our cyclists who were going to follow the 5 of us on the Footlocker Challenge team. They were all guys from some sponsored team, decked out in all the gear and on phat bikes. Our guys were super nice and carried all of our water and nutrition for us. This experience has been awesome, but that was worth it in and of itself. One guy bragged that he was the cyclist who followed Opah the year she ran AFC here in San Diego. Are you impressed? Thought so. Anyway...
We got final instruction from Jeanine Zocks, the woman heading the operation from Footlocker and we headed to corral 2. My hubs told me later that the guy he started with was surprised we were in that corral. He was confused and thought we were in with the Elite start. I laughed out loud. His friend was under the impression that I was like so super fast, even faster than my hubby (even more laughable). This is how the rumors start, people. So, within minutes the gun is off and we are running down Sixth Avenue.
So, the rules of engagement were that we had to hang as a "team" for the first 13 miles and then it was every man for himself. The miles flew by completely without incident. We hooked up with our cyclists just before mile 3 as instrcuted when the crowd thinned a little bit. We ran trhough downtown with the camera guy on the motorcycle following us. We were all totally jovial and laughing and enjoying ourselves immensely. One of the guys on the team kept whining that the pace was too fast. I was surprised, too, that it was just under 8:30 pace, but it felt super comfortable and I was thinking I had this race in the bag. I didn't need to win out of our five, but I wanted a respectable time, like 3:40ish. But, Jason, who is a sprinter, wanted to reel it in a little bit. We slowed to more like 8:45 pace, I think, and it felt slow. The miles flew by through downtown, 6, 7, 8 and then 9 running up the long hill on the 163 freeway. It wasn't that painful, save for the fact that the concrete was so hard and it was seriously slanted. Miles 10, 11, 12 were no problem, our friends cheered us on along the way. Friars Road is never exciting or fun, but it was still cool to be chatty with the team and move along.
Mile 13. Larry made a move and pulled out in front. I ran on his shoulder with the other 3 team members on our heels. I was thinking the pace was a little fast for Larry, an inexperienced marathoner. I was certain he would blow up. Larry, Leroy and Jason kept pushing the pace. I ran on their heels until about mile 16 when I was starting to not feel so hot. Now Julie, the other female on the team, ran along side me and asked how I was feeling. "Not so good." Was my response. I still am totally befuddled by this whole thing. We started so comfortably and here I was feeling like my legs would not move with 10 more to go. How was this possible?
I knew I was running out of gas, but my stomach was cramping so badly that I did not want to put anything into it. This is the classic problem I always suffer from: risk running out of gas or vomiting what is in my belly. It is a delimma. I chose to bonk. It was a new phenomenon: my brain was saying, "GO! GO! GO!" and my legs simply would not coorporate. It is usually my brain saying, "STOP! STOP! STOP!" and thinking a million negative thoughts with my legs still in motion. So, mile 17, I shut it all down and decided to stop looking at the clock and run happy. I saw the 3:40 pace group begin to slip further and further into the distance. I gave it up at that point. I was slowly dropping off and the team was somewhere in the distance, too. I didn't even care. My new goal was to finish with my head held high and run in a happy zone. It was relatively happy, until mile 23 when I just wanted to be done.
My brain started thinking all the self-defeating thoughts. "How could this be? How many training runs did we do at sub 8 minute pace and it was not a problem? Only one 22 mile training run did I feel like I needed to vomit and I had held it all together." I thought about hubby, already at the finish, waiting for me to cross. I am not even sure what the clock read at that point, I was kind of delirious from the heat. We had cloud cover the whole way, but it was Florida humid and the air hung on us like an afgan blanket. It was disgusting. I have never seen so many casualities on the side of the road. There were runners everywhere stopping to stretch out, some lying face down on the grass, ambulences running this way and that. It was crazy. My hamstrings began to seize, another first. I drank more water (the only thing I could injest the whole race), but my stomach would cramp miserably after I did. I kept running. I never stopped. I knew that would be a recipe for disaster. Mile 23 brought an incline of a bridge over the freeway that felt like Mt. Everest at that point. I kept shuffling my feet. Miles 25 and 26 were a blur, really. I just wanted to finish the stupid race. I remember thinking at mile 25 there was no way I could run a couple of 4 minute miles to get in under 3:40. The 3:45 pace group had pulled away. It was lead by an Elvis. My legs were lead.
I crossed the line just after the pacer Elvis guy (who was off pace) at 3:49. It was not even of consolation that I broke 3:50. Jason had won the team challenge in 3:42, with Leroy and Julie in after him by 15 seconds each. Larry was lying on the side of the road, apparently (I never saw him), one of the many heat casualities at mile 24. They had him in the medical tent moments later and then carted him off to the hospital for the IV drip. The thing that kills me is this: I ran the same freaking time at Long Beach, my death marathon in which I went out too fast. How did I start so conservative in this one, feeling great and end up with the same time? It was a huge disappointment. Perhaps I talked too much in the beginning. Maybe it was the heat or the fact that I ate nothing. I am not sure. Maybe I need to owe the idea that the marathon is simply not my distance, that I will not run sub 3:30s anymore. It is all a mystery to me, and I think that is why I keep going back. Since having 2 kids in the last 5 years, I have run DNF, 3:59, 3:49 and 3:49 marathons. I guess I should be grateful they are whittled down a little in time, but still! The marathon is a beast that cannot be conquered in my mind. That is why I go back for more and more suffering.
I headed for the VIP tent and found hubby, drinking beers and toasting with friends over their successes. He ran a 2:57 and deserved all the glory, for sure. He did just about exactly what he wanted to do and I was thrilled for him. His buddies were happy with their times and happier to be drinking beer on this hot afternoon. I was not talking much, feeling sick and moving slowly. They called us over as a team for one last interview, and as they were presenting the award to Jason, I had to dash (out of view from all of the cameras) to the nearest trash can and empty the contents of my stomach. It was all water and a few sips of coke, truly disgusting. I made it back to cameras to answer a few more questions and then I was fine.
What I would repeat about this day: wearing a hat and lots of sunscreen, using tons of Glide and eating a bagel in the morning. Be thankful I only vomited once and it was not on film.
What I would do differently: try to eat some kind of nutrition on the course, as much as my stomach hates it, talk less and conserve more energy. Try to dig deeper into that inner athlete and really want the race.
Some Wheezer song was running around my mind around mile 20 and the lyrics were these: "If you want it, you can have it, but you've got to learn to reach out and grab it". That is what I need more of. It seems all my training should have been indicative of a better race time, but I guess that is where the Humble Pie comes in. I need to respect the distance a little more, I guess. There is always the next one, right?
The day started when we met our little VIP shuttle at the race end and made our way to the start. I was so nervous, I could have puked on that Trolley (or maybe it was the stale smell of BO and old food in there?). I really hate public transit. Anyway, we reached the VIP tent and began to partake in all the special novelties of beverages, breakfast, even the hand sanitizer and private biffies. That was golden. I saw all my buddies, even some people I knew from track a long time ago were in the VIP area and that was super fun. We were called over to meet our cyclists who were going to follow the 5 of us on the Footlocker Challenge team. They were all guys from some sponsored team, decked out in all the gear and on phat bikes. Our guys were super nice and carried all of our water and nutrition for us. This experience has been awesome, but that was worth it in and of itself. One guy bragged that he was the cyclist who followed Opah the year she ran AFC here in San Diego. Are you impressed? Thought so. Anyway...
We got final instruction from Jeanine Zocks, the woman heading the operation from Footlocker and we headed to corral 2. My hubs told me later that the guy he started with was surprised we were in that corral. He was confused and thought we were in with the Elite start. I laughed out loud. His friend was under the impression that I was like so super fast, even faster than my hubby (even more laughable). This is how the rumors start, people. So, within minutes the gun is off and we are running down Sixth Avenue.
So, the rules of engagement were that we had to hang as a "team" for the first 13 miles and then it was every man for himself. The miles flew by completely without incident. We hooked up with our cyclists just before mile 3 as instrcuted when the crowd thinned a little bit. We ran trhough downtown with the camera guy on the motorcycle following us. We were all totally jovial and laughing and enjoying ourselves immensely. One of the guys on the team kept whining that the pace was too fast. I was surprised, too, that it was just under 8:30 pace, but it felt super comfortable and I was thinking I had this race in the bag. I didn't need to win out of our five, but I wanted a respectable time, like 3:40ish. But, Jason, who is a sprinter, wanted to reel it in a little bit. We slowed to more like 8:45 pace, I think, and it felt slow. The miles flew by through downtown, 6, 7, 8 and then 9 running up the long hill on the 163 freeway. It wasn't that painful, save for the fact that the concrete was so hard and it was seriously slanted. Miles 10, 11, 12 were no problem, our friends cheered us on along the way. Friars Road is never exciting or fun, but it was still cool to be chatty with the team and move along.
Mile 13. Larry made a move and pulled out in front. I ran on his shoulder with the other 3 team members on our heels. I was thinking the pace was a little fast for Larry, an inexperienced marathoner. I was certain he would blow up. Larry, Leroy and Jason kept pushing the pace. I ran on their heels until about mile 16 when I was starting to not feel so hot. Now Julie, the other female on the team, ran along side me and asked how I was feeling. "Not so good." Was my response. I still am totally befuddled by this whole thing. We started so comfortably and here I was feeling like my legs would not move with 10 more to go. How was this possible?
I knew I was running out of gas, but my stomach was cramping so badly that I did not want to put anything into it. This is the classic problem I always suffer from: risk running out of gas or vomiting what is in my belly. It is a delimma. I chose to bonk. It was a new phenomenon: my brain was saying, "GO! GO! GO!" and my legs simply would not coorporate. It is usually my brain saying, "STOP! STOP! STOP!" and thinking a million negative thoughts with my legs still in motion. So, mile 17, I shut it all down and decided to stop looking at the clock and run happy. I saw the 3:40 pace group begin to slip further and further into the distance. I gave it up at that point. I was slowly dropping off and the team was somewhere in the distance, too. I didn't even care. My new goal was to finish with my head held high and run in a happy zone. It was relatively happy, until mile 23 when I just wanted to be done.
My brain started thinking all the self-defeating thoughts. "How could this be? How many training runs did we do at sub 8 minute pace and it was not a problem? Only one 22 mile training run did I feel like I needed to vomit and I had held it all together." I thought about hubby, already at the finish, waiting for me to cross. I am not even sure what the clock read at that point, I was kind of delirious from the heat. We had cloud cover the whole way, but it was Florida humid and the air hung on us like an afgan blanket. It was disgusting. I have never seen so many casualities on the side of the road. There were runners everywhere stopping to stretch out, some lying face down on the grass, ambulences running this way and that. It was crazy. My hamstrings began to seize, another first. I drank more water (the only thing I could injest the whole race), but my stomach would cramp miserably after I did. I kept running. I never stopped. I knew that would be a recipe for disaster. Mile 23 brought an incline of a bridge over the freeway that felt like Mt. Everest at that point. I kept shuffling my feet. Miles 25 and 26 were a blur, really. I just wanted to finish the stupid race. I remember thinking at mile 25 there was no way I could run a couple of 4 minute miles to get in under 3:40. The 3:45 pace group had pulled away. It was lead by an Elvis. My legs were lead.
I crossed the line just after the pacer Elvis guy (who was off pace) at 3:49. It was not even of consolation that I broke 3:50. Jason had won the team challenge in 3:42, with Leroy and Julie in after him by 15 seconds each. Larry was lying on the side of the road, apparently (I never saw him), one of the many heat casualities at mile 24. They had him in the medical tent moments later and then carted him off to the hospital for the IV drip. The thing that kills me is this: I ran the same freaking time at Long Beach, my death marathon in which I went out too fast. How did I start so conservative in this one, feeling great and end up with the same time? It was a huge disappointment. Perhaps I talked too much in the beginning. Maybe it was the heat or the fact that I ate nothing. I am not sure. Maybe I need to owe the idea that the marathon is simply not my distance, that I will not run sub 3:30s anymore. It is all a mystery to me, and I think that is why I keep going back. Since having 2 kids in the last 5 years, I have run DNF, 3:59, 3:49 and 3:49 marathons. I guess I should be grateful they are whittled down a little in time, but still! The marathon is a beast that cannot be conquered in my mind. That is why I go back for more and more suffering.
I headed for the VIP tent and found hubby, drinking beers and toasting with friends over their successes. He ran a 2:57 and deserved all the glory, for sure. He did just about exactly what he wanted to do and I was thrilled for him. His buddies were happy with their times and happier to be drinking beer on this hot afternoon. I was not talking much, feeling sick and moving slowly. They called us over as a team for one last interview, and as they were presenting the award to Jason, I had to dash (out of view from all of the cameras) to the nearest trash can and empty the contents of my stomach. It was all water and a few sips of coke, truly disgusting. I made it back to cameras to answer a few more questions and then I was fine.
What I would repeat about this day: wearing a hat and lots of sunscreen, using tons of Glide and eating a bagel in the morning. Be thankful I only vomited once and it was not on film.
What I would do differently: try to eat some kind of nutrition on the course, as much as my stomach hates it, talk less and conserve more energy. Try to dig deeper into that inner athlete and really want the race.
Some Wheezer song was running around my mind around mile 20 and the lyrics were these: "If you want it, you can have it, but you've got to learn to reach out and grab it". That is what I need more of. It seems all my training should have been indicative of a better race time, but I guess that is where the Humble Pie comes in. I need to respect the distance a little more, I guess. There is always the next one, right?
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