26.2? Uff da!

While the distance stays the same, which for you reading at home, is 26.2 miles, no race is identical. There are so many variables: the weather, how much you’ve trained, your state of mind, that burrito you ate the night before. In the four years or so that I’ve been doing this marathon thing, I’ve also found that the lessons you take away from each experience are unique as well.

My first marathon? I was splitting from my husband, and I suppose I treated my first as a way to deal with everything that was going on. I got lost in the training runs, developed intimate relationships with certain songs on my iPod that would propel me through distances I had never run before. That first experience was by far my favorite, not only because i clocked my fastest time, but because I felt like I had really accomplished something. I was surrounded by friends who were supporting me, including my friend Emily who ran the race with me, and for a weekend, I was able to forget about all of the shit that was going on in my life. It was painful and exhilarating, and I was addicted.

I have finished six marathons to date, and I have properly trained for half of them. A method, by the way, that I do not recommend. The thing with a race like a marathon is that due to their increasing popularity among runners — serious and recreational alike — you need to sign up as far as six months in advance if you want a shot at getting in. We signed up for Twin Cities back in April or May (I can’t remember exactly when) and after dragging ourselves over the finish line in June at Grandma’s on zero training, we vowed to not repeat that dumbass mistake for TCM.

And then the summer came. And we got busy. And I was depressed and didn’t want to leave the house. ANd before we knew it, it was the end of September and the longest run we had clocked together was about eight miles. Which, if you are doing the math at home, is a lot less than 26.2. Which, as I said before, is a method of training I do not recommend to anyone.

We had every intention of giving TC a shot despite our lack of training. Because we had done the same thing at Grandma’s, and we knew that though it would be painful and humiliating, IT COULD BE DONE. And the thing is, marathon pain is kind of like childbirth pain (or so I’m told). Somehow your brain starts to forget, or at least candy-coat all of the excruciating pain. I know this because every year when it’s over, I swear it’s my last. And then six months later, when registration rolls around, I’m pulling out my credit card and deciding which size finisher shirt I’ll need.

I won’t go into every minutia of the weekend, but I will tell you that starting Thursday night after the VP debates, I started to feel ill. I joked to Scott’s parents and blamed it on Caribou Barbie, but I was seriously not feeling well. This continued throughout the weekend — through the Gopher game, through the expo, through dinner on Saturday night.

Sunday morning came and somehow I willed away the ill feelings long enough to spend six hours in rainy forty degree race conditions, at times not able to feel my fingers, making bathroom stops equal about fifteen minutes of my total race time due to having trouble negotiating pulling gear off to take a pee. Having run in 80ish humidity, I will tell you that cold and rainy is pretty damn close to being as miserable, if not more miserable at times. Everything is wet, and you know, no matter how much body glide you slather on, that you’re going to be spreading on desitin in very sensitive areas after this is all over.

I managed to keep a slow but steady pace for the first ten miles before I had to stop and walk/jog in shifts. The miles between 10 and 20 were a blur of pain and unhappiness. At mile 18 my stomach started to revolt, and I knew that it was the end of any GU intake, unless I wanted to have to take stops to hurl along the course. At mile 21 I turned the corner and a course official came up along side of me, asking me how I was doing. I told him I was fine, but really disappointed that it was possible I wasn’t going to finish in allotted time before they opened up the roads. “Why would you say that?” he asked. “The bus is still at least a block behind you.”

I turned around and saw the end of the line, the sag school bus and the police car. This is the bus that picks up runners who can’t keep up the required pace to finish in under six hours. And it was a block behind me.

Course official guy ran and grabbed a powerade and made me drink it. I still had an hour left to finish the race. At this point in the course it’s a straight shot down Summit Ave (or something) that is mostly flat with a few dips, but gentle and rolling. I knew that I had to pick up the pace if I had any chance of beating that bus.

I pulled out my contraband cell phone and called Scott, thinking he had already finished the race. “I’m at mile 21 and the bus is right behind me,” I said. “There is a good chance I’m not going to finish this race…I can’t believe it…but we’ll see what happens.”

I passed a woman handing out pretzels and mini nut roll candy bars. I grabbed both. A pretzel never tasted so good. I started to run in 30-45 second intervals, walking for 15 seconds in between. I kept an eye on the bus and made a little more space between us. I considered my options. If the bus was going to pick me up anyway, should I just quit now and save myself the trouble? I passed a few runners who looked just as sad as I did, but knew from earlier conversations that this was their first marathon, or that they had never finished a race before. I tried to be encouraging and alerted them to the presence of the bus. “They can’t make me get on that bus!” one woman cried out to me. “We’re not getting on that bus,” I assured her, and we both ran together for a few minutes.

It was at mile 24 when I knew that I was going to finish the race. I would probably be clocked in at over six hours, but I didn’t care. The fact that if my result was even printed in the paper that it would be one of the last results out of ten thousand didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I make it past the cathedral, down the chute and over the finish line.

I ran most of the last five miles of the race, which is more than I can say for Grandma’s or for my last TCM (when I actually DID train but got hosed by the weather). As I turned past the 26 mile marker I focused on the finish, finishing stronger than I ever thought possible, choking back a few tears as I crossed over the last timing mat. Scott was there to greet me and gave me a hug. It was by far, the hardest marathon I’ve ever completed on my own. Being chased by the bus was incredibly taxing mentally. So while I’m not proud of my time, or the fact that I foolishly undertrained for such an endeavor, I am proud that I was able to dig deeper than I thought possible and pull out the strength to finish. Those last five miles were some of the hardest I’ve ever run in my life.

And that’s it folks. Since 6PM Sunday evening I have been either hunched over with extreme stomach cramps or had to stay within ten feet of a bathroom. Today was no better, and I took a day off sick to stay in bed and try to sleep off whatever this is. Even typing this post is making me sick to my stomach. The legs are sore, but that’s par for the course.

I’m still glad I did it. Glad that I finished, glad that I wore a running skirt (yes, Amy the Tomboy who wouldn’t wear a skirt as a child wears one FOR A MARATHON but holy hell, was it comfortable), and glad that I’m still able to do this, even when I’m not so smart about it. I’m still able to run and learn these lessons, and I’ll keep on doing it until I can’t run any longer.

And to the woman who gave me the nut roll candy bar? I’m naming my first-born child after you.