Marathon #2

“Maybe a dab of hot glue would work,” Karen suggested.

As an elite runner in the Columbus Nationwide Marathon, I had been given the option to have my own water bottles set out on the course for me at miles 6, 12, and 18. This sounded like a great idea, I could prepare my own mix of Gatorade and water in my preferred ratio and attach a bit of fuel so I wouldn’t have to rely on snatching whatever refreshment was held out for me along the course.

In front of us we had three plastic water bottles, energy food gels “Clif Shot Blocks” that I had individually wrapped in plastic wrap, and field flags that my biology professor had suggested to use to identify my personal water bottles among the others.  The dilemma was figuring out the best way to attach the flags so they’d be visible but wouldn’t get in the way of drinking, and how to make sure the Shot Blocks would stay attached but tear them off easily while running when the time came.

All other preparations had gone smoothly. Rob and Ann, my boyfriend Eric’s parents, drove out to Oberlin from Delaware and picked us up en route Saturday afternoon just in time to get me to Columbus in the middle of the elite packet pickup from 2-4 pm. Eric’s aunt and uncle, Karen and John, conveniently live in Columbus and had happily welcomed us to stay with them the night before the race.  They accommodated my request for a carbohydrate-rich pre-race dinner with a feast of pasta and bread, after which Karen and I worked together to figure out the optimal water bottle and fuel arrangement.

When the bottles were good to go (we decided to hot glue the flags to the water bottles, at the perfect height so that I could spot them but still be able to drink from the bottle without being hit in the face)., I laid out my race outfit-- my Girls Gotta Run singlet, shorts, and sleeves and gloves for protection against the morning chill that could be thrown off mid-race when I warmed up -- and my only racing ritual, my pre-race breakfast, consisting of a bagel with honey, banana, and Powerbar.

On Sunday morning I looked at my watch. 5:29 am. I leapt out of bed.  I had set my alarm for 4:50 am in order to eat breakfast by 5 am, two and half hours before the race, but must have slept through my alarm. Telling myself that there are worse things than eating a little bit closer to race-time, I started on my banana and gulped down some water.  

Thirty minutes later I was dressed and ready and wide awake. I climbed in the car with my groggy support squad.  We drove downtown as far as the car was allowed.  Rob, Ann, and Eric dropped me off with well-wishes one block from the Athletic Club of Columbus, where the elite were invited to gather and stay warm until the race began.

The first people I saw when I walked up the stairs to the crystal-chandeliered, gold-gilded athletic club were a group of African men clustered on the floor. This seems to be a growing trend which I have observed during my travels and even read about it in the most recent issue of the American Medical Athletic Association journal.  It seems that the more non-profits that reach out to Kenyans and Ethiopians in hopes of empowering these developing runners, more they tend to participate in foreign races that offer large prize purses.  I scanned the room for African women but I didn’t see any.
I dropped off my less-than-professional but very strategically prepared water bottles.
Now what?

Still new to the marathon scene, I looked around for clues as to what I should be doing during the remaining hour before the race. My usual race warm-up includes 20 to 30 minutes easy jogging, but that was out of the question prior to a 26.2 mile race.  I figured I should still loosen up though, since I’d be running at least 6:30 per mile pace from the get-go. Taking the hint from the seated runners spread out around the hall, I decided I would just do a light jog for no more than 10 minutes.

“Just to get a sense of how it feels outside,” I told myself.

I jogged the block down to the start line and ran a few laps around the buildings alongside the course. The masses had gathered and I felt a mix of relief to not have to be out among them, trying to secure my own space in the starting corrals, and thrilled to be among so many runners all striving for the same big goal that lay ahead of us that morning. My nerves were also eased that although there was a slight chill, it would not be cold enough to make me tense up.

I returned to the hospitality suite and scanned the room.  Everyone was intently focused, sitting against a wall or pacing in a small space.  This was not a time for chatting. I was too anxious to sit, so I paced a hallway until at last it was time to go to the line.

I followed the other elites’ examples and jogged the block up to the line, then did a few quicker strides.  It was strange to me that though there would be nearly 5,000 runners in the marathon, with another 10,000 for the half marathon, I would only see the hundred or so at the front of the corral. I would never be aware of the crowds out on the course that is a signature of road races for so many of the participants.

I heard Ann call out my name and grinned and waved back to her, Rob, and Eric, positioned to cheer me through the many miles ahead. I felt my adrenaline start pumping. The last time I ran a marathon I was completely on my own, in the midst of my Watson travels.  All I could do was imagine my friends and family along the way.  This time I actually had a few with me, who seemed to be equally excited as me.  However, there were still many supporters that I knew were with me in spirit-- I tried to imagine my family members, my many Oberlin friends, all the friends I made during my travels still encouraging me from afar, and the group of teen girls in Ethiopia, one to whom I dedicated this race and was raising money to support one year of her schooling.

“When it gets tough, just think of all of the people who are supporting you,” I told myself.

Lingering in the starting corral, a young woman in a sleek blue singlet turned to me.

“Hey, you were at the North Coast Challenge!”

“Yeah! Good to see you! What are you shooting for today?”

“Honestly, I’ll be happy to run a 2:55. I haven’t run a marathon since last fall.”

“Sounds good, I’m shooting for 2:50 to 2:55.”
No more words were necessary.  We both knew that we’d be working together for the next several miles.

I cleared my watch chrono, put my finger on the start button, and took my stance.
A rock band played pump up music beside the line to energize the crowd.  A shot of fireworks signaled the start of the race and we were off, under a shower of more colorful explosions overhead.

The woman in blue and I fell into an even stride beside one another. I felt relaxed.

“Don’t think about the distance, just feel the rhythm. If you stick together, it will be easier.”

The first mile marker came quickly.  6:25. Perfect! My goal average was 6:29. A few secons quicker for the first mile wouldn’t do any harm.

We passed mile 2, 3, 4, trailing through a neighborhood with numerous spectators cheering from their driveways.  

Aid stations were plentiful along the course.  I held off for the first couple, but reached for a cup of Gatorade when we reached mile four.

“Fold and pour,” I thought to myself, following my coach’s advice to avoid spilling on myself.  I managed to get down a gulp and dropped the cup as best I could without splashing anyone around me.

I knew we had gone through the second mile in under 13 minutes, and were keeping the pace well under 6:29, each time calculating in my head that the next split should be no more than an additional 6 minutes and 30 seconds.

A series of bands and DJs lined the course playing music from Billy Jean to Sexy and I Know It.

“Girl look at that body, Girl look at that Body….I work out.”

I imagined following my friend Vibeke’s moves to her peppy Zumba routine at the health and wellness clinic, Friskvernklinikken, when I trained in Norway.

I had the sense my pacing partner was picking up the pace a bit, but told myself I was just a little tired as we ran up the ever so subtle inclined roads.  After all, at times she would fade a bit and then I would push the pace to make sure we stayed on track.

“She can’t possibly be shooting for 2:55, she was just being modest,” I thought.

“That’s okay, that means you’ll do better than that too.”

My first personal water bottle was at 6 miles. My partner had put one out too.  We both slowed a touch to grab our bottles.  Mine proved a bit awkward as I ripped of the Shot Block and tried to take a few large sips from the bottle before I threw it aside.  My partner gained a few meters on me as she sipped easily from her more convenient mini bottle and I surged to catch up to her once my hands were free again.

“If you lose her, keeping your pace is going to be much harder.”

The ideal break up for a marathon is 10:10:10.  The first 10 miles at slightly slower than goal pace to avoid burnout, the second 10 miles on pace or a little faster to make up for the time lost on the first 10 if feeling good, then the last 10km hard, like a 10km race if possible.  My coach had advised me a couple weeks beforehand,

“Just think of it as a 20 mile long run, and then a 6 mile race.”

Right.

The clock showed 63 minutes and points as we glided easily through 10 miles.

“Don’t worry about picking it up,” I told myself. “You’re well on pace. Just keep it up and if you feel good through the half, then you can think about pushing it a bit.”

We caught a couple of other women and we ran as a pack of four for a couple of miles.  My enthusiasm surged.

“This is incredible!” I thought. “I can’t remember the last time I ran with a pack of women!”

We reached the second aid station with our personal water bottles and again I fell a few meters behind.  After tossing my bottle and swallowing down my Shot Block, I committed the next mile to catching up with the woman in blue.  The other two women had also sped up, feeling the pull of the half-way mark.  Taking advantage of the downhill slope, the clock in view, I flew through the 13 mile mark in 1:23 to the cheers of Eric, Ann, and Rob.

“Okay, you’re well below your goal pace – now is the time to push yourself if you can.”

Pushing wasn’t an issue.  The woman in blue continued to run ahead. Within a mile she was beyond my reach.

“It’s okay, she’s clearly on track to run much faster than 2:50.  You don’t want to burn out,” I told myself.

I switched my focus to a man running just ahead of me. I tried to think of nothing but catching him as my stomach cramped so badly I wondered if I’d be able to continue without a pit stop.

“You could probably still hit your goal time at the rate you’re going, and you might run faster if you feel better,” I thought.

But I feared stopping, both for the time and concern that if I broke my pace I wouldn’t be able to get back on track.

The Ohio Stadium came into view as I rounded a corner, where all runners would pass through at 17.5.

“Just get to 17.5. Then go from there.”
By the time I was in and out of the stadium, my stomach discomfort had subsided. Now, another discomfort began to creep in.

“This can’t be happening. Not now.”

I had passed the 17 mile mark in 1:48. I told myself that if I kept up my pace, I would easily beat 2:50.  But “easy” would not be the word that I would later use to describe the day. My quads felt like rocks.

“Just keep going. The rest of you is fine, just move your legs.”
I wasn’t breathing hard, my calves felt no worse for the wear, but my quads had had it.
I set my gaze on the couple of runners strung out ahead of me.

“Catch them.”
For the next couple of miles I alternated between despairing and surging during waves of faded pain.  I grew closer to the runners in front of me.

“They’re hurting too.  Run with them.”
Today there would be no mind over matter.  As I passed through mile 21 I feared it was over.

“You cannot stop. Not now. You’ve come this far. You have to finish.”

This statement to myself became my mantra as I counted down the remaining miles.  I felt as though I had slowed to a trudge and feared that I would not even reach my previous marathon time of 2:59.  In the midst of my pain I lost count of the miles and looked up to see a “Mile 23” when I was expecting 22.

“Just two more miles to go!” I thought with relief. “Just get through this one and then you’ll be fine.  The last won’t be so bad!”

I passed the 24 mile marker fearing the clock. To my relief it showed 2:43.

“Okay, you can do this.  You’ll still beat your previous PR.”

The crowd of spectators grew and I began hearing cries of,

“You’re the 7th woman!”

“You’re almost there!”

“Just around the corner and you’ll be at the finish!”

The last mile seemed never ending, but at last, the finishing arch came into view.  I willed my legs to pick it up for one last surge.  When the clock was in view, I could see it was counting the seconds past 2:52.

“Break 2:53. You can. You have to. Go. Now.”

I was over the finish line.

An official was immediately by my side to guide me to the elite hospitality room. I accepted my medal with a slight grin and a nod, dazed and still in disbelief that I had made it. I found my bag against a wall and my quads screamed as I attempted to squat to open it. I struggled back to my feet and walked slowly over to the refreshment table to get another bottle of water and a cup full of grapes and strawberries.  For once my sweet tooth was not tempted by the Chips Ahoy and giant chocolate chip muffins piled on the table.
The woman in blue was gathering her things on the other side of the room,

“Congratulations! You ran well below 2:55!” I greeted her.

“Yeah, I finished in 2:47!” she glowed through the fatigue. “How’d you do?”

“I ran 2:52!”

“Congratulations!”

We chatted a bit more and I learned that she also lives near Cleveland.

“Hope to see you at another race!” I told her as I went to meet my support squad at the door, who greeted me with hugs and congratulations.

“You beat your PR by 7 minutes!”

I nodded happily. “I hit the wall hard, but at least I know I gave it my best shot!”

The car was parked several blocks away from the finish.  Now that I wasn’t running, the air was cold and after wrapping me in Ann’s Oberlin sweatshirt, I hobbled along in tow. They teased me good-heartedly as they dashed across the course at one point to get to the other side of the street, and I struggled to speed walk across behind them.

After a hot shower, the four of us rejoined Karen and John for a refueling lunch of burgers. Everyone seemed to be as pleased with my race as I was. They scanned results on their phones as we ate and excitedly confirmed that I was the 7th woman finisher overall, and second in my age group to the champion female of the race. I was 70th overall.

“So, will you be back next year?” John asked as we climbed in the car to drive back to Oberlin.

“I’d love to run it again, we’ll see where I am. I will definitely be running another marathon!”