I knew better than to drink the Gatorade. I really did. But there Henry was, in all his cycling glory, at mile 12 offering his help and support. He biked ahead and got me some orange Gatorade around mile 14, and it was the best thing that ever passed my lips, until it hit my stomach and the syrupy slime sat in my belly like a rock.
Gary and I had started off together with Tracy in the same corral. Trace left us almost immediately, and we bid her farewell. He and I talked and laughed about life in Vero, his troubled history with his wife of sorts, and how San Diego is the best place to live. We ran through downtown together until we reached the climb out on the 163. He fell back and I didn't want to wait, so I charged ahead, a decision I would later regret. More on that...
Down the backside of the freeway, free falling into some kind of pace, though I had a stitch that viciously chewed away at my right side. By the time I saw Eric at mile 11, I futilely nibbled the pretzels he handed me. I knew it was a training run at that point. My legs were tired. Henry rode up next to me shortly after that point and hung on my shoulder until mile 21. We chatted like not a day had passed between our training runs, as if Florida had never come between us. He told me he is training for St. George and talked about his long runs about to begin. I couldn't really focus on what he was saying because I was feeling so bad between the stitch and then the stomach cramping that was starting. I felt nauseous, dizzy, out of sorts. I really felt light headed and tired. Mile 18 brought more friends from track. They were a welcome distraction from the pain as they cheered wildly for me. I stopped to chat for a while and it was heaven to simply stop running. On to mile 19 and I saw my friend Jody. She handed me a banana and I immediately handed it off to Henry. It was offensive to even look at that fruit, much less think about eating it.
I walked the water station at mile 19 where I was reunited with Gary walking through it, too. "I'm done, Quad," he told me. "My soleus is toast and I am done for the day. Let's take this one mile at a time." I told him my GI issues were back with a vengeance and he offered some kind of encouragement. I was in so much pain, I didn't even care. His words were meaningless, but his company was welcome. I think those earlier ambitious miles had caught up with me. I wasn't even looking at the clocks anymore and I really did not care what they read. We ran on with Henry chatting it up with Gary, since I had nothing to offer to the conversation anymore; I was out of air and out of witty things to say. I wanted to die, really. Then Theresa popped in around mile 20 plus. She was fresh and chipper, dancing around us, but I was so spent, I could barely muster a grin for her. I wanted to be anywhere but on that Ingram Bridge. I had not felt this bad since Long Beach Marathon years ago, and it was painful to relive it. I knew Marc was following me online and I knew he would be worried to see I had fallen so far off pace. I was worried I was not going to make it back to my kids, waiting for the report at Nana and Gramps' house.
Mile 21 and Gary grabbed my hand and lifted my arm as we passed under a photo opt. I had nothing. I told him I needed to walk and I wanted him to leave me. "I'm worried about you, So. Cal. I'll stay with you, really." I begged him to leave me and let me suffer in solitude because all I wanted was to walk in silence, so he did, reluctantly, leave me. I watched him trot out ahead and that was the last I saw of him that day because I literally walked every last step to the finish. I got to mile 22 and thought about pulling into a medical tent, but I knew they wouldn't let me continue. I couldn't go home without a medal or Owen would never let me hear the end of it. I felt as though I could literally lay down and take a nap...I was sleepy, tired, dizzy. I really wanted to take a power nap, but I couldn't very well do that roadside.
Mile 23 I thought I couldn't feel any worse, so I decided to open the Sports Beans I had in my back pocket. My head was spinning and my legs were sore. I ripped into the package and the smell about put me over the edge. I managed to put one, literally one, bean into my mouth and started to dry heave. I was wrong about not being able to feel any worse, because there I was at mile 24, pulled over and vomiting everything out of my stomach into the street with tons of spectators to witness the demise. As embarrassing and horrifying as this vomiting experience always is (though you think I would be used to it by now), I felt so much better. I actually really wanted to run the last two miles in, but every time I tried to move my legs in that fashion, my stomach would cramp so violently, I knew it was not a possibility. I continued my death march all the way to finish 4:36. Sadly, a new all time slow record. Before this, my worst marathon was 3:57 and I think that was shortly after giving birth to baby number two. Seeing my picture at the finish, I am hunched over in pain, because my stomach felt like the lining was being ripped out of it; to jostle it even a little when I skipped under the final clock was pure agony and sheer torture.
What went wrong? Well, I don't want to make any excuses for myself. I ran too hard coming out of the gates, I was not properly hydrated, and I put the nails in my coffin when I drank that sports drink. What was I thinking? I was thinking that my body felt tired, depleted, and I could not get my legs to fire. Really, I felt like I had no turn over at all, so I was hoping for a miracle in that drink. The miracle never came, only the GI distress.
What did I take away from this experience? I have great friends, a great husband who was cheering for me all the way, and a great town to experience it all in. What do I care about the time? I am a slacker, remember? When Abbe called me for the report that afternoon and I gave it to her, she chirped, without ever having read this blog or known of its existence, "YES! You are one of us now!" So what? I am happy to be in So Cal, even here now in Malibu, Home of the Freakishly Skinny, Land of the Botox. I love LA.
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