If you think you can't. . . well, sometimes you still can

The Lost Dutchman Marathon began for me days before the gun would sound.  I had my carbohydrates all lined up and ready to become fuel.  I had packet pick-up figured out.  I had looked at weather, and I knew it would be a rainy weekend.  I had set my goal of 3:50, and planned my pacing strategy so I didn't start too fast like last time. 

Things started falling apart days before the race.  My father, who was going to give me a ride out there, and support me at the finish line with my two beautiful pups was not going to be able to go out there because of back problems.  My friend who was going to tag along with my husband and cheer me on at the finish could not make it either.  I found out that my husband's friend and his wife, who was going to run her first marathon that day, had to attend a funeral.  All the positive feelings the race had once generated were almost completely deflated. 

The night before the race, I could not fall asleep.  I tried every trick being a night shift employee had taught me except drugs; I wanted to avoid feeling groggy.  When I wished I'd taken something, it was too late for any medical intervention.  I finally gave up at 1:30 in the morning.  I put on a movie, and stretched/foam-rolled.  I ate my breakfast, and packed a snack for before the race.  I drove out in the dark to catch a bus to the start of what was sure to be my worst marathon yet. . .

The bus dropped me off in the middle of the desert with campfires burning.  I found a nice spot in front of one to sit down and drink a cup of hot tea which had been provided for the racers.  I enjoyed the warmth of the fire, and the anticipation of the race.  I told myself to start out slow, and not burn myself out too quickly.  There would be hills, and while I had trained for them, I knew they could sap my energy.  Strangely, I didn't feel sleepy.  I chatted with some of the other women warming up by the fires.  One woman was running her first marathon, and was hoping to beat Oprah's marathon time :-).  I thought that was a great goal.  I shared with her my goal to beat 3:50, all the while hoping I wouldn't just pass out at mile 12.

The gun went off shortly after sunrise.  I started off pacing myself well, I thought (8:30).  I was going to keep myself at this pace for the first 6 miles, and then let myself speed up a bit after that.  I did not keep that pace.  My second mile felt easy at 7:58, so I decided to pace myself a little faster.  After 6 miles, I was anxious to see what additional speed I could muster.  I started going at an 8:10, and felt pretty good.  That's when I ran into an old friend.  She was hoping to beat a 4 hour marathon time.  Seemed too easy for her based on the way she was freely chatting with me.  I was having a tough time talking at the pace I was keeping.  Eventually, I had to stop to use the port-o-jon, and she raced on.  I caught up with her again at mile 15, and she was not feeling like going any faster.  I had another 3 miles of pushing myself before I figured I would just go into 10 min/mi shuffle.  I kept myself moving, but energy stores were getting drained too fast, and I was late getting my gu fix.  I slowed to a 9 min/mile crawl. . . I didn't think anything of it.  I was going to make my 3:50 goal, and my body was not going to be pushed any harder.  Then, my friend passed me.  4 hour marathon, my ash!  That sandbagger.  The competitor in me took over, and whether it was good for me or not, I pushed myself back up to a sub 8:30 pace.

Mile 20, I had no idea where my sandbagger friend had gotten off to.  I spotted a new challenge.  The woman ahead of me had an ironman logo tatood on her calf.  "I am Ironman"  I thought to myself (or I might have said it aloud, at this point in the race you really have no control over such things).  I had to keep up with this girl. . .I had to beat this girl.  She was a tough target, and I thought I might loose her, as I could barely make out the tatoo.  I searched for some remaining energy, and pulled out a little extra I'd been saving.  I could see the IM symbol again, and felt like I would relax, and keep pace behind her until the final mile.  Then, she stopped at a water station.  I was off!  I had beaten her, and I was ready for the last 2 miles of the course.  I kept pushing myself, trying to find a little more to give.  I wanted to see what my pace had been, but didn't dare look at my garmin, lest I get my hopes up for a Boston qualifying time (which was of course, impossible). 

The last mile. . . I couldn't speed up.  I tried, but could only maintain a faster pace for seconds at a time.  The woman next to me was grumbling at herself to beat me.  Someone was trying to beat me?  At the time, I thought she was being kind of mean, but now that I think about it, I'm flattered.  I was worth competing with :-).

The finish line in site, I gave it my all.  I saw my husband and my dad!? at the finish line.  "10 seconds!" Steve yelled.  10 seconds for what?  Holy crap, Boston!  By the time I realized why he'd yelled it, I was already at the finish line.  I posed for a race photo, and grabbed my medal before stopping my garmin, but it said 3:40:46, much better than 3:50, and, as it turns out, a Boston qualifying time :-).   It turned out to be a great race, and my dad was able to be there with my puppies and my husband at the finish line! 

The Marathon (PFC)

The night before a marathon is rarely a restful one.  For a person trying to sleep at 8PM when she normally wakes at 3PM to start her day, sleep is an unweildy devil.  I had set my alarm for 4AM, but paranoia and troubling dreams lead me to hourly clock checks and no faith in the technology to wake me.   A nightmare of missing the race woke me at 1AM, and checking the clock (again), I reassured myself that I was not late for the marathon.  By 3AM, it was enough.  I got out of bed, and started getting myself ready.  My breakfast was already chosen for this morning when I signed up for the marathon in November.  It was just oatmeal with honey when I woke up, followed by 1/2 a peanutbutter sandwich and a banana a couple of hours before the race.  The morning ritual was comforting.  I felt like I knew my purpose for the day, and there were no decisions to make or a list of things I needed to get accomplished.  Just one thing to do.  Run.