At last

Marathon Day came and went on Sunday October 20th, 2013. I've had a few days to digest some thoughts as to what transpired.

I arrived the day before, checked into my hotel, attended the expo, picked up my packet, bought some running bars and a new belt with zipper-pouch, and had a brief acupuncture session on my right foot. That evening I had a modestly-sized bowl of spaghetti and a glass of wine from a nice restaurant.

I didn't sleep well the night before, in my hotel room. I tossed and turned, nervous about the day and anticipating the pain and exhaustion. Would I succumb to it, or sail through like I did before? I had no idea. I kept waking up on the half-hour.

At 6:00 am, I drove downtown and boarded the first shuttle bus to the university. It was in the mid-thirties, so I kept my sweatpants and hat on. Warming up consisted of standing leg stretches and just a little bit of yoga (the ground was wet and cold- impractical for staying warm if my butt was soaked).

When it came time, I lined up with the 5 hour Pace Runner (the last of the semi-organized groupings that would ensure the crossing of the finish line in that time). I was more nervous than excited- the fanfare was substantially less than my last marathon over 3 years previous. Maybe it was my tight hat gripping my ears, but I didn't even hear the starting gun. The group started the inevitable ebbing and flowing towards the arches.

As cold, rainy and grey as the day was, it was a decent day for a run. After the first few miles of hanging right with the 5 hour pack, I began to lighten up and enjoy it. The rural routes mirrored what I trained around, the townspeople gathered to encourage us, and the smattering of cowbells were welcome. A young woman named Niki was pushing her handicapped brother Mike in a stroller, much to the delight of family, friends and supporters. That was inspiring, but I have to admit that I grew increasingly disconcerted that they kept passing me by, even after making pit stops. She was definitely powerful that day, and none of it rubbed off on me.

By mile 11, I noticed something was wrong. My energy was depleting. My stop and walks at water stations grew longer and longer. At the 13.1 half-marathon marker, both of my feet hurt, I finished a Clif bar I had been gnawing on, and slowed my pace. I wasn't tight in the legs or cramped up; I just lost my endurance. For the next half, I ran a few blocks, and walked probably even longer. It was grueling, using sign markers and cowbell-toting supporters to help propel me on a little further. Without them, I may have quit altogether; it was very tempting. I was too tired to get introspective or be disappointed that I wasn't carrying myself the way I thought I should be.

I ended strong, coaxing a young woman along that had been in my vicinity for the last few grueling miles in the final stretch. We both ended at about 5 hours and 45 minutes. I should be entirely happy that I finished the race and didn't drop out.

But I'm not. Not completely, anyway. I am not proud of my performance, and that's only because I had an expectation in my head that I would carry myself better for the last 6 months. I did the long training runs, bought the supplements, and took care of myself the way I knew how to. I am glad, however, that I completed- I most definitely needed to do this.

I was so strong 3 years ago, and so happy to be sailing along with my big goofy grin. I completed that marathon in 5 hours and 4 minutes (I attribute a delayed bathroom break at mile 16 to my loss of 4 minutes- I couldn't catch up to the pace runner after that). I saw the official clock ticking along the way and kept right on track, pushing on through. I was exhausted, sure, but there was nothing to stop me; no aches or pains or doubts. It was a beautiful day that ended with a smile on my face- I have the pictures to prove it.

Maybe it was the grey day that eventually got to me and depressed my performance, or even the self-defeating expectations that I slowly realized were not going to come to fruition. Maybe I lost sight of the original reason I set out to do the marathon in the first place. Maybe it was that I weighed 15 pounds more than I did 3 years ago. Maybe it was because I am 3 years older. Maybe I'm too hard on myself.

A coworker shared with me that after childbirth, a hormone is released into the brain that attempts to help the new mother forget the excruciating pain and discomfort she just experienced. "Oh, I could have another baby." she might think, her body cursing the procreative mammalian instinct. Now, I really cannot equate the two, but I'm thinking that I've been self-induced with something similar in order to forget the lousy run I had a few days ago. I may be destined to revisit the experience at least once more.

Shed some winter fat, eat better, consciously increase my speed and use a running group as a perpetual sounding board. The 5 hour mark still eludes me, and I may or may not be at peace with that.