and the moon has come up
and long ago
somebody left with the cup,
But he's driving
and striving...
--Cake, "The Distance"
It's Friday afternoon and I am nervously wandering the running expo held at the Utah Valley Convention Center just off of Center Street in downtown Provo, Utah. I'm nervous because tomorrow will be my first marathon ever. For the past 5 years I have been telling myself to stop being lazy and just run the 26.2, if for no other reason than just to say I actually ran a marathon. My dad ran one, and two of my sisters have run one, but I am supposed to be the runner in the family.
This is something I should have done years ago. In fact, I wish I would have run one right out of college, when I was in the best shape of my life. Then the task wouldn't feel so daunting now. But as it is, here I am, less than 24 hours from the longest run of my life.
I am going to attempt the marathon with minimal training. Though I registered for the race back in February, I only managed to get my training up to about 40 miles a week. My average training pace is 7:30 min./mile, and the farthest I have run at one time is 14 miles, which I did about two weeks ago. Still, I am confident enough to think that finishing a marathon will not be difficult. The difficulty will be getting a good time, which is why I am nervous. I don't want to take forever on this thing...memories of my high school coach blowing out both knees and coming in just over 6 hours haunt me every night.
I meander through the serpentine rows of tables and tents, engulfed in a cacophony of merchants hocking their wares and runners' inquiries into the features of all the various doodads and gadgets. What strikes me most is the selection of belts and armbands aimed at helping a runner carry things. I don't want to carry anything with me. I remember the days before cellphones and iPods...when running was much more liberating.
"Hop!?!"
I look up to see my good friend, Josh Rohatinsky, standing at one of the booths. We quickly catch up, and I find he is now working full-time for the Big Cottonwood Canyon Marathon. What a life! I now wish I was working in a field dedicated to running.
When I tell Josh tomorrow will be my first marathon, he responds, "It's a different animal...You want to run really slow the first half. You need to feel like you're dogging it. Then, you can pick it up if you're feeling strong, if not, you can just maintain your pace, and avoid hitting the wall that usually comes around mile 20-22." I let his words sink in for a moment. I don't want to run slow. I have been fighting my whole life not to run slow. But I see the wisdom in his counsel, and so, I resign myself to run very slowly the first half (around 8:30min./mile pace), and then push it the second half, because I'm sure I will be tired of running so slow. Suddenly, I'm not so nervous about tomorrow, because I have a clear plan for success. It's my first marathon, I don't need to break records, I just need to finish, and gain the experience, without hating the distance and never wanting to run it again.
I return with my friends to our hotel room, we layout our clothes for the next morning, and hit the sack about 7:30. Sure, it's an early night, but the last shuttle leaves at 4:15 in the morning, so we plan to get up at 3:30. I'm still anxious about the race, but all things considered, I sleep quite well.
I think I've prepared well for the race. I have sweats, gloves and a hat to keep warm in the cold mountain air, and we make a quick trip to the store for some vaseline, but no bandaids (I plan to avoid the bloody nipples by simply taking my shirt off) before boarding the shuttle. The shuttle ride is nerve-racking. The driver, nearly an octogenarian, manages to keep us on the road, but hits no less than 6 of the orange and white construction barrels lining the road. We finally arrive at the start of the race in Wallsburg, UT. I know I have hydrated well, as I make three trips to the port-a-johns prior to the beginning of the race. I have my new compression socks on and I relax on the grass and stretch in the heat of a nearby firepit provided by the race directors. This will be easy, I tell myself. I just start out dreadfully slow, and pick up the pace halfway through the race--this is my mental preparation for the race.
Finally, they call for the runners to assemble at the starting line. It's not as cold as I was expecting, but I decide to wear my beanie and gloves, just to be safe. All my other gear goes in the bag that I will claim somewhere after the finish line. This is it. I'm 26.2 miles from glory. 26.2 miles from joining a very elite group of millions of people across the globe who have finished a marathon.
"5...4...3..." I hear the man with the bullhorn countdown, "...2...1...Go! See you at the finish line!"
And we're off. I start my watch as I trot across the start line.
It's a bit crowded. I relax, move to the left, and pass several runners. One of the reasons I think this race will be so easy is the course. It's almost all downhill. And so, when I cross the first mile marker, I am only slightly shocked to see my time.
Mile 1--6:30. Six minutes, thirty seconds. What!?! So much for running intolerably slow at the beginning. I try to relax. My legs are not working that hard...I think. For the most part, everyone has settled into their pace, and there is not much change in the runners around me. I slow down to a comfortable pace...
Mile 2--6:34/13:04. Yes, I slowed down to 6:34 pace. I question myself now. Sure, the race is all downhill, but can I maintain this pace? No. I am certain I will slow down. Should I just stop and walk now, so that I can revert to my plan so eloquently stated yesterday by Josh? "You need to feel like you're dogging it." I do feel like I'm dogging it...but do I want to walk when I know I can run? Besides, there are women around me...I think I can hang with them. And there's a guy wearing long pants in front of me. Long pants.
Mile 3--6:39/19:44. Still not out of Wallsburg yet. I feel good. I feel relaxed. I can't believe my pace. I know it's way too fast for my training, but I attribute that mainly to the downhill course. I still feel like I'm trotting.
Mile 4--6:45/26:29. There is the occasional group of spectators, but otherwise, the course is clear, and quiet, save for the pounding of our feet on the pavement.
Mile 5--6:55/33:24. I think this race is a metaphor. I was given good advice. I know the right thing to do. Yet, I insist on doing what I know is wrong, hoping it will somehow lead to happiness later on. I have given up trying to slow down. I maintain my comfortable pace.
Mile 6--7:12/40:37. It's all downhill. I am relaxed.
Mile 7--7:06/47:42. I settle in for an easy run down the canyon. I can see Provo Canyon Road ahead, and I take solace in the fact that I know this canyon. I practically lived in the canyon while attending BYU. So I tell myself, anyway. I will watch the miles click away as I see the familiar landmarks leading me back to Provo and the finish line.
Mile 8--7:38/55:20. A small hill ahead, but I can still see the lead runners...
Mile 9--7:40/1:03:01. A second small hill and a glimpse of the dam. A police officer parked in the middle of the road counts the runners as they pass. I am 95. Suhweet! I could finish in the top 100. This thought spurs me on, if I have to slow down at the end, it won't be that bad. I'll slow down to 8-minute, maybe 8-and-a-half-minute pace, but still, I am on track for a decent time.
Mile 10--6:54/1:09:55. The reservoir is close now. I have been running in the sun for the past twenty minutes, but realize as I near the canyon it might get chilly, and I am glad I haven't ditched my beanie and gloves yet.
Mile 11--6:56/1:16:51. The dam looks different. I had forgotten about the construction done years ago. Clearly, I am not focused on running, my mind is all over the place.
Mile 12--7:23/1:24:15. There are people around me, but I don't pay them much mind. I am just enjoying the descent into familiar territory.
Mile 13--7:07/1:31:23. This is the halfway point! As a point of reference, in January I ran a half-marathon (again without much training) and finished in 1:34. My best half ever is 1:29. Sure, it's all been downhill, but my mind has been trained not to consider this. When running, one must find every reason to hope for the best. Focus only on the positive. That is my mantra. Just as I hit the halfway point, I hit the port-a-john. I haven't seen any suitable sites for a pitstop at the water stations, and I don't expect to see any more, so I figure this is my chance to rid myself of excess fluids.
Mile 14--8:04/1:39:27. The extra thirty-second pitstop hardly takes a toll on my pace. I'm still clicking along (way too fast).
Mile 15--8:07/1:47:35. Still feeling good, but I have now resorted to walking at the water stations. I know I need the fluids. I was getting water at all the stations before, but now I get both the Powerade and the water. This is officially the farthest I have ever run at one time. I am in uncharted territory, as they say.
Mile 16--7:28/1:55:03. This pace still feels good. I am on track for nearly 3 hours. And here I was, dreading come in slower than 3:30:00. What was I worried about? I am going to rock this marathon...I hope.
Mile 17--7:49/2:02:52. Though I slow down by about thirty seconds, and I can feel a couple of blisters beginning to form under both of my big toes, I am still confident I will finish the marathon way faster than I originally thought. Bring on 3:15:00.
Mile 18--7:58/2:10:51. My toes are only slightly sore, but otherwise, I feel good. A couple of runners have passed me, but I still manage to maintain a good pace.
Mile 19--8:35/2:19:26. Yes, I am slowing down, but I was expecting this. I just ran the fastest half-marathon of the year, and I am almost 25 minutes faster than my goal time. Running one or two minutes slower per mile for the remainder of the race will not kill my time.
Mile 20--9:42/2:29:08. My right leg is starting to tighten up; I feel a slight pain in my knee each time my foot strikes the ground. No worries, I can hobble in to the finish and still feel good about my race. Sure, I am upset that several runners have passed me. In fact, it is a steady flow now.
Mile 21--9:27/2:38:35. See? Fifteen seconds faster than the last mile. I can do this. I think it is awesome that the water stations now offer Powerade, water, energy gel packets, and vaseline (on a popsicle stick). Yes, I am still walking at the water stations.
Mile 22--10:14/2:48:50. This is officially the farthest I have ever run in my life, and this is as far as I can run. My legs are starting to cramp. I shove my compression socks down to my ankles to ease the strain on my calves. I am slowing down, shuffling my way along the course as an ever increasing number of runners pass me. Now out of the canyon, I am cursing this part of the course--the gentle curve with a slight uphill before the long straight stretch into downtown Provo.
Mile 23--14:31/3:03:21. I can barely walk. I'm only three miles from my goal, and yet, just ten miles ago I saw the very real possibility that I would be finished by now. What a fool I was! Why didn't I listen to Josh? Why didn't I stop and walk at the beginning? Had I done so, I would not be moving so slow now. I stop and retie my shoes hoping that tightening them will ease the pain of the blisters. I try to shuffle along, but my calves keep threatening to cramp up. The guy in long pants catches up with me. "These last three miles are really going to hurt. I can barely run," he says to me. "You're doing good, man. I can barely walk," I reply.
Mile 24--20:12/3:23:34. I am in pain. My legs have quit, and I am almost certain I will have two bloody toes when I finish. I want to collapse in the grass, roll over on my side and weep. Every step I try to run, jog, or even shuffle, I feel my calves silently threatening to seize up on me. They tell me this is as far as they will run, and I must walk to the finish. It is so close. I hate my calves. I hate my blistered toes. I hate my twitching knees, and the fact that my compression socks either hurt my calves or cut off the circulation around my ankles, so I have to keep moving them up and down. Should I take them off? My whole body aches in exhaustion...but that is not the worst of the pain. The worst is the humiliation. My conscience burns with the knowledge that I am no match for this race. Though the course was all downhill, and though I felt comfortable with my pace at the beginning, I am not prepared for this. The woman holding the 3:45:00 pace sign passes me, with her group of runners who will most certainly finish well before me. I want to quit, and I hate myself for wanting to quit. The only thoughts that keep me moving toward the finish line are the people I will have to face later. Although my body begs me to drop to my knees in tears and just rest on the grass, wait for a medical vehicle to come pick me up and take me to the finish and give me an IV or a really good massage, and although a large part of me wants to do this--needs to do this--I know that my friends and family will inquire regarding my endeavor. I will have to tell them that I could not finish. That I quit; that I did not finish; that I failed. This thought alone keeps me trudging toward Center Street. I fight back tears and walk on.
Mile 25--24:07/3:47:41. Passing my old apartment, there is an ATV-truck with a cooler and a bunch of water bottles on the back. As they slow down to deliver some water to one of the policemen guarding the road and directing traffic. I shuffle up and beg the woman for a bottle of water. She agrees, and as I reach for one she says, "Grab one from the cooler, if you want one that's cold." You are a saint, lady. May God rain down blessings from Heaven upon you, and your children. I keep walking. This is by far the slowest I have ever walked a mile. I resign myself to at least finish the marathon, though I stopped running long ago. My only consolation is that I pass a woman in a pink shirt. She is the last of the half-marathoners. I actually pass one person in my last two miles of the marathon...
Mile 26--15:45/4:03:27. My legs feel better? Perhaps it is simply that they send the end is near, but I will them to pick up the pace. With only a half-mile left, I am shuffling, I am walking, I am shuffling, I am walking. I am not crying.
Mile 26.2--1:43/4:05:10. The last .2 miles I start to jog. I am kicking toward the finish line almost as fast as a baby crawling across the floor towards a favorite toy. And then, I cross the line. Finished. Finally. I finished.
