26.2
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
This past Sunday I completed the Cellcom Green Bay Marathon.
Note the choice of words -- not "raced in," not "ran," but "completed." It was a "completed" kind of day.
Those of us who were doing the marathon and half-marathon -- seven of us in all -- checked the weather reports in horror on Saturday afternoon. We learned that temps were supposed to plummet to the low 30's the next morning. They were predicting a high of 50 for Sunday afternoon.
Before the race, our group -- my friend Melanie from Washington, D.C., my sister, my brother-in-law, one of his best friend's, Shug, Shug's girlfriend Christine, and my Chief of Stuff -- huddled in the Lambeau Field atrium to try and stay warm. It was 80 degrees when I packed for the weekend, and nearly 80 the day before. It was hard to believe that we were about to set out on a run in 30-degree temps, and even if I had known, I don't know that I could have believed it long enough to pack correctly.
In any case, shortly after 7 a.m., we headed down to the starting line and split off. (All the boys did the half-marathon, while the girls were all doing the marathon. However, the half used the marathon course for all but 2 miles.) Lindsey, Melanie, and Christine were going to run together and aim to finish under 5 hours. Tommy and Shug were running together, and Chief-of-Stuff and I decided to run as much as we could together, as we were shooting for a sub 2hr/4hr race.
Everything went well for the first half. We stayed right on pace -- between 8:45 and 9:00 -- and at mile 10.5, Aaron took off ahead to pick up some time in the last two-or-so miles of his race (he ended up finishing in 1:59 -- a huge accomplishment seeing as though he hasn't even been able to train the last few weeks due to IT-band issues).
But suddenly losing my running partner, even though we were both listening to music and not talking, was a bit of a mental adjustment. There was no one left to "keep me honest" except me. The course wasn't enough to keep my interest (it was a lot of winding through nondescript residential neighborhoods), spectators were few and far-between -- although we all had a great support staff of friends and family -- and I was starting to get painfully-cold.
At mile 16, everyone headed over the DePere bridge and ran into a wall of wind. My sister asked how I felt at that point -- I told her that I had two thoughts: 1) I'm so glad I'm not on my bike right now, and 2) I'm still on pace to break 4 hours and I feel good. That was exciting. But not long after, the route turned onto the Fox River Trail.
On nice days, the Trail is a fantastic place to run. It's asphalt path follows the Fox River from DePere to downtown Green Bay, and it has wide gravel shoulders to give your legs a rest. There are beautiful homes on the right-hand side and the calming flow of the river running past you on the left. On nice days.
This wasn't a nice day. The Trail on Sunday had turned into a wind tunnel. The spectators thinned out even more than on the rest of the route, to the point of almost being non-existent. It started to feel like I was doing a really cold, windy training run. And then the thoughts started.
The day before, I had bought a book at the runner's expo, The Extra Mile, written by fellow Yooper (who knew?!) and more notably, ultramarathoner-extraordinaire, Pam Reed, in which she talks about how running hurts after a while, and the difference between her and other people is that she acknowledges that and keeps going. I decided that's what I needed to do. More mental toughness. Less listening to my body...or at least, indulging it.
My mantra falling asleep that night, and through 17 miles the next day, was "This is going to hurt, and you are not going to stop. You will break 4." I repeated it over and over again.
And it did hurt, almost from the beginning -- the cold, my aggravated left ankle. But I was on pace, and it was a hurt I could handle. Temporary hurt. Almost to mile 17, I let myself tell myself that I had less than 10 miles to go. Mistake #1.
For almost a half a mile, I felt as though I had old angel/devil on the shoulders conversation going. "More than 1/2-way done!"... "But 10 miles is a whole training run. You're still going to have to put in 6 more miles than the longest run you've done so far this year." And on, and on (won't bore you with more internal monologue). Eventually I got the devil under control, and started repeating the mantra -- "This is going to hurt, but you will not stop."
My hands had already lost feeling, and my legs were quickly going the same way. Then, somewhere past mile 17, things fell apart. My right calf started to cramp, and then my quad. I stopped to stretch, but I could feel the other leg following suit. So I tried to start running again. More cramping in my right leg. So I tried walking. This helped in the short term. The cramping seemed to go away, and I started running again, pumping my arms in an attempt to will my legs into at least a 9:15 rhythm. More cramping. I slowed to a shuffle, which is largely where I stayed for the remaining 7 miles, walking through the water stations until even walking became too uncomfortable, and giving up my 4-hour goal.
At mile 22, passing over the Walnut St. Bridge, I saw Lindsey's amazing friends, Katie, Kevin, and Deneen. There was no one else on the bridge, and for good reason -- it was bloody cold up there. But they cheered and cheered, and I -- I tried to smile at them, tried not to cry. Last time I had seen them, it was all thumbs-up and waving. This time, I was beyond miserable, in what felt like a cold, windy version of hell.
We all discussed afterwards what miles really are the toughest, and decided, almost unanimously, that mile 20 has earned an unwarranted reputation. It's not mile 20, but those that follow -- at 22, 23, and 24 -- that are unbearable. You want to be done more than anything in the world during those miles, but you're not close enough to the finish to be able to pick up your pace. So you just put your head down, put one foot in front of the other, and will the time to pass more quickly than it does.
I had one brief pick-me-up during those miles. As I rounded the corner after mile 22, the strong beats of The Dropkick Murphy's (a recent playlist addition) oozed through my headphones, just as, up ahead, Irish Dancers did their thing in front of St. Brendan's Inn. A stupid coincidence? Sure. But at that moment, it was just enough.
From miles 23 through 24, I had a hobbling race with a woman next to me. The pain in my ankle was screaming through the numbness in my leg, but with the cramping on my right leg, it was difficult to know which leg to favor more. Then, of all things, my bicep started to cramp -- seriously. But this woman, though, was in rough shape. She was limping so badly, apparently because of a faulty knee joint, that she couldn't put her whole foot down. She'd put down only her left tip-toes, and then shift her weight immediately to the right leg. We'd trade places back and forth, until mile 24, when she pulled ahead of me (although I still don't know how that happened).
Mile 25 was glorious for one main reason -- the heated tunnel leading into Lambeau. The warmth almost felt like an assault, but for me, it was a welcome one. My legs heated up enough for me to pick up a respectable pace. Van Halen's "Right Now," playing on my ipod when I emerged from the tunnel into the stadium, was also blasting over the stadium speakers. I shut off my ipod then to just take things in, jogging around the perimeter of the famed field and looking up at the numbers that had been retired there. The whole field seemed smaller from down there, and I wondered if the novelty of playing at Lambeau wears off after a while.
Back through the tunnel, the .2 miles to the finish was difficult. Because of the ankle, yes. But also because of the yellow numbers staring back at me. 4:26. (Official chip time turned out to be 4:24). I had had 4:00 in my sights, and it slipped away from me. All of that training and speedwork and time put in for a 4:26. Frustrating at best.
I staggered through the chip-cutting area after, crying. A little because of the ankle, but more out of frustration. I must've looked in rough enough shape that one of the volunteers kept steering me toward the medical tent. Soon, though, I was surrounded by my friends and family, and not long after that, we all took shelter from the wind behind a row of porta-potties (you know it's cold when...) to cheer on Melanie, my sister, and Christine.
And this -- this -- is really the start of what the marathon experience is about. Mel finished first, in 4:51 (4:49 chip time), and Linds and Christine ran hand-in-hand across the finish at 4:52 (4:50 chip time). For the rest of that afternoon, and well into the next day, we all talked about the experience -- the mile markers, the memorable fans, the dark moments, and the highlights. We shared our stories to fill one another in on what had happened while we were each duking it out with our own personal struggles on-course: How Lindsey's friend, Jenny, signed up for the 5k, missed a turn, and ended up running a half-marathon. How Mel turned to her dad at mile 17 and said, "Don't ever let me do this again" (By yesterday, she was already considering what future marathons might be "fun" to tackle). How I was weirded out by the Civil War reenactor-cheerers in full get-up at one of the Fox River Trail spectator spots, as apparently, was everyone else. And how we all noticed the temperature, at nearly 1:00 that afternoon driving home, hadn't risen above 43 degrees.
Last night as we were continuing to discuss the hours we spent running on Sunday morning, my sister said this about her experience: "It's not about 26.2. It's about one more, and one more, and then, maybe, four more. And it's about all the training in my basement on the treadmill, in the morning, in the dark, leading up to it. It's about me learning I am strong."
She added, "I feel like my f-ing legs are going to fall off. But I feel good."
Amen, sister.
Posted by Erin 7:24 AM
Way to go!
Wisconsin weather is so unpredictable, glad you worked past it.