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?