Wednesday, October 04, 2006
On Obstinance
That little Lakefront Marathon occurred this past Sunday. It was a nice, cool day. Pretty. Dry. Clear.
I was nervous the day before and the day of. I kept thinking of how I dropped out of Pittsburgh in '99 with major knee pain (among other problems). It was the only option, but it still bothered me, having never dropped before. I had underestimated the marathon, and didn't want to do that again.
The game plan this time around -- with a very vague guess that I could put up with a 3:10-3:15 pace, was to run a very slow start, then settle into my happy 7:00 clip until 16. Then at 16, I would sort of perform a gut check (with the hope that the real race would start at that point).
Well, my friends, something started at that point. But it wasn't the race.
I got there on time, lined up where I wanted to be, and even calmed down enough to get excited about racing. I had my 666 BIB pinned front and center. All was well.
The gun blew and I opened with a slower-than-I-even-wanted-it-to-be 8:00 mile. I thought, "Great. No blown wad. No repeat of Pittsburgh. Good start." But looking around, I felt I didn't belong with all these 8:00-minute pacers. It felt wrong to be "racing" at a pace slower than what I run a "vanilla" run at. So, as planned, I slowly picked it up and began passing people. Many people; the crowd was very thick. And for the next 15 miles, I averaged a rough 7:00 clip. Never faster than 6:45, never slower than 7:15, but most of the miles were right in there at 7:00. Exactly to plan.
Furthermore, I hydrated at every stop. Made sure not to overhydrate, but I made sure to take time to get fluid in my system. I wanted no ugly repeat of two weeks ago. At 9 miles, I felt some wear in my upper thighs, but no tire. Just regular wear. At 10 or 11, I felt a twinge in my right knee. Not bad, and just enough to label it an ache. Certainly not tire. I could take aches and pains, just not the wall.
And all was well, I tell you. The crowds cheered. They laughed and sang at my 666 jersey, chanting my name (and the devil's). I was well up in the overall pack, but nowhere near the frontrunners. I was king of my own modest goals. And ahead of me -- there it loomed: mile 16. That fulcrum mile, in which the course suddenly veered into the neighborhood in which I grew up and began my running career.
It was as we turned onto familiar Bradley Road that I saw the bear. I looked around -- did anyone else see this? No? Just me? Apparently so, from the non-responses of my fellow competitors. Indeed, I was the only one to see the giant bear, who quickly grabbed me by the wrists and told me that I had to carry his refrigerator to the finish line. Not one to argue with a bear, I agreed.
And thus, crossing mile 16 on pace for a 3:04 marathon (keep in mind I fully expected to hit some sort of wall and finish between 3:10-3:15), I took the foot off the accelerator and felt everything move to . . . idle. I think if I could have made it to 20, I could have gutted out a 3:15, but that was not to be.
So just as I passed and passed so many people for the first 16, so did they all pass and pass me back -- most looking pretty strong -- over the last 10. I had plenty of time to watch it all happen because that last 10 took me 95 minutes. Yes. Slowest 10 miles . . . ever.
I did briefly think of pulling over at my parent's house, which was on the 20-mile mark. But I didn't want a repeat of Pittsburgh. So I threw out any remnant of pride, told myself to enjoy the nice weather, and tried not to think of my (at that point) screaming knee. Miles 17-26 reminded my of when I owned a Nissan Altima whose fuel injectors were dying. I could floor the gas, and . . . . nothing.
After mile 23, the course veered downhill, and right at the bottom of the hill, my calves began spasming. Unable to keep running, I briefly stopped, yelled out, then began cursing my calves. "Fucking work, you bastards!" I yelled, punching them with my fists, which were covered with dried gel. A few more punches, and the spasms slowly subsided. I started a ragged jog. All the sudden a runner passed me and said, "Good job." I said, "Not really, but . . . you too." He said, "Oh, no, I'm just a relay runner." At that point I wanted to ask him to leave, but . . . he was already gone.
So I ended up at 3:29 -- right in the middle of the pack of folks I started with at the first mile. But they all seemed so much more fresh than I. I guess that makes them the smarter runners, to be sure. But I don't regret the race. I never want to try a marathon in which my goal pace is slower than my training pace. I'd rather have to carry a refrigerator than lower my standards.
But the real way to do it -- if I ever do it again -- would be to wait until my boy is in school, so I can live by a workout schedule and give my legs the strength (not to mention the extra miles) they needed. Running a marathon on mere fitness is not recommended by this humble writer, please take note.
One complaint: although the course was amazing -- and filled with terrific spectators and tons of helpful volunteers -- the end of the race is awful. For 25 miles, the course is mostly a straight shot. Then for the last 1.2 miles -- the worst 1.2 of the race in my opinion -- it's left-right-left-right. So many turns. Doesn't make for an easy or exciting finish.
Otherwise, it was great and I would do it again. Although now it's a bit premature to say that since I still cannot run. The knee is still recovering (imagine how bad it could have been had I not done months of weight work to prep it for this race). Also, my quads and groin won't let me walk down stairs yet. I'm getting a good idea of what it's like to be old -- but it's getting better. Post-race, I was 105. Yesterday I was 89. Today I was 67. Tomorrow I might be middle-aged. Maybe Thursday I'll be running again.
I was nervous the day before and the day of. I kept thinking of how I dropped out of Pittsburgh in '99 with major knee pain (among other problems). It was the only option, but it still bothered me, having never dropped before. I had underestimated the marathon, and didn't want to do that again.
The game plan this time around -- with a very vague guess that I could put up with a 3:10-3:15 pace, was to run a very slow start, then settle into my happy 7:00 clip until 16. Then at 16, I would sort of perform a gut check (with the hope that the real race would start at that point).
Well, my friends, something started at that point. But it wasn't the race.
I got there on time, lined up where I wanted to be, and even calmed down enough to get excited about racing. I had my 666 BIB pinned front and center. All was well.
The gun blew and I opened with a slower-than-I-even-wanted-it-to-be 8:00 mile. I thought, "Great. No blown wad. No repeat of Pittsburgh. Good start." But looking around, I felt I didn't belong with all these 8:00-minute pacers. It felt wrong to be "racing" at a pace slower than what I run a "vanilla" run at. So, as planned, I slowly picked it up and began passing people. Many people; the crowd was very thick. And for the next 15 miles, I averaged a rough 7:00 clip. Never faster than 6:45, never slower than 7:15, but most of the miles were right in there at 7:00. Exactly to plan.
Furthermore, I hydrated at every stop. Made sure not to overhydrate, but I made sure to take time to get fluid in my system. I wanted no ugly repeat of two weeks ago. At 9 miles, I felt some wear in my upper thighs, but no tire. Just regular wear. At 10 or 11, I felt a twinge in my right knee. Not bad, and just enough to label it an ache. Certainly not tire. I could take aches and pains, just not the wall.
And all was well, I tell you. The crowds cheered. They laughed and sang at my 666 jersey, chanting my name (and the devil's). I was well up in the overall pack, but nowhere near the frontrunners. I was king of my own modest goals. And ahead of me -- there it loomed: mile 16. That fulcrum mile, in which the course suddenly veered into the neighborhood in which I grew up and began my running career.
It was as we turned onto familiar Bradley Road that I saw the bear. I looked around -- did anyone else see this? No? Just me? Apparently so, from the non-responses of my fellow competitors. Indeed, I was the only one to see the giant bear, who quickly grabbed me by the wrists and told me that I had to carry his refrigerator to the finish line. Not one to argue with a bear, I agreed.
And thus, crossing mile 16 on pace for a 3:04 marathon (keep in mind I fully expected to hit some sort of wall and finish between 3:10-3:15), I took the foot off the accelerator and felt everything move to . . . idle. I think if I could have made it to 20, I could have gutted out a 3:15, but that was not to be.
So just as I passed and passed so many people for the first 16, so did they all pass and pass me back -- most looking pretty strong -- over the last 10. I had plenty of time to watch it all happen because that last 10 took me 95 minutes. Yes. Slowest 10 miles . . . ever.
I did briefly think of pulling over at my parent's house, which was on the 20-mile mark. But I didn't want a repeat of Pittsburgh. So I threw out any remnant of pride, told myself to enjoy the nice weather, and tried not to think of my (at that point) screaming knee. Miles 17-26 reminded my of when I owned a Nissan Altima whose fuel injectors were dying. I could floor the gas, and . . . . nothing.
After mile 23, the course veered downhill, and right at the bottom of the hill, my calves began spasming. Unable to keep running, I briefly stopped, yelled out, then began cursing my calves. "Fucking work, you bastards!" I yelled, punching them with my fists, which were covered with dried gel. A few more punches, and the spasms slowly subsided. I started a ragged jog. All the sudden a runner passed me and said, "Good job." I said, "Not really, but . . . you too." He said, "Oh, no, I'm just a relay runner." At that point I wanted to ask him to leave, but . . . he was already gone.
So I ended up at 3:29 -- right in the middle of the pack of folks I started with at the first mile. But they all seemed so much more fresh than I. I guess that makes them the smarter runners, to be sure. But I don't regret the race. I never want to try a marathon in which my goal pace is slower than my training pace. I'd rather have to carry a refrigerator than lower my standards.
But the real way to do it -- if I ever do it again -- would be to wait until my boy is in school, so I can live by a workout schedule and give my legs the strength (not to mention the extra miles) they needed. Running a marathon on mere fitness is not recommended by this humble writer, please take note.
One complaint: although the course was amazing -- and filled with terrific spectators and tons of helpful volunteers -- the end of the race is awful. For 25 miles, the course is mostly a straight shot. Then for the last 1.2 miles -- the worst 1.2 of the race in my opinion -- it's left-right-left-right. So many turns. Doesn't make for an easy or exciting finish.
Otherwise, it was great and I would do it again. Although now it's a bit premature to say that since I still cannot run. The knee is still recovering (imagine how bad it could have been had I not done months of weight work to prep it for this race). Also, my quads and groin won't let me walk down stairs yet. I'm getting a good idea of what it's like to be old -- but it's getting better. Post-race, I was 105. Yesterday I was 89. Today I was 67. Tomorrow I might be middle-aged. Maybe Thursday I'll be running again.
