Sacramento Satisfaction

Well, it’s over, and if you’re reading this blog you know I managed to pull out a 3:16 at CIM, a minute shy of my goal time of 3:15.  I’m happy, because I really worked for this PR, and left it all out on the course.

The buses to the start left at around 5 a.m., so I was up by 4 a.m. cramming oatmeal, two scoops of Heed and one cup of Peet’s French Roast down my gullet (I always bring my own coffee).  When I first started marathoning, I never ate anything before the race, and if that’s you, I highly recommend you force feed yourself 2-3 hours beforehand.  It makes a big difference. 

I showered, slathered my legs and arms with petroleum jelly, bundled up in layers, decided not to risk putting my first cell phone (I’m a cell newbie) in my sweat bag, and headed out to find George for the ride to Folsom. There’s something delightful about getting on a big yellow school bus with other excited adults.  Runner camaraderie always seems so automatically abundant, and everyone was cheerful and hopeful, with hints of anxiety.  Pre-race arousal, they call it.  It’s good for you; gets your blood going. 

I had planned to stay on the bus to keep warm, but it really didn’t feel too chilly at about 38 degrees.  I hopped off and went for a little jog to warm up a bit before stowing my sweats.  Fashion report:  I did wear a skirt, and I’ll never wear anything else in a marathon.  It had leggings with pockets under the skirt, where I stashed 4 packets of Gu within easy reach.  Amazingly comfortable, which is why I chose it. Yeah, right, I can hear you saying. It’s the truth, I swear: no chafing, no bunching, no mid-race creeping.  Available in multi colors at Joe’s store.  I also wore a throwaway long-sleeve top, polyester for easy removal, a Law Day wool cap (I had two), and these really cool Mizuno gloves I got as a freebie at the Twin Cities expo. They heat up with moisture.  I jettisoned the top and cap after a few miles, but kept the gloves on for most of the race.  I also had my inhaler stashed in the back pocket of my singlet, just in case. 

Since wind was predicted, I tucked in with the 3:15 pace group for protection.  I spoke briefly with the pace leader who assured me he would run even splits. I planned to hang around on the periphery and join them if the wind picked up. We lined up fairly close to the start, so it only took me 13 seconds to cross the mat.  I needed to run a 7:25-7:27 pace for a 3:15 finish.  I’d planned to go out 10 seconds slow for the first few miles, especially since it was cold, so it didn’t alarm me when our first mile was 7:40.  But the pace group picked it up to 7:14, 7:15 and 7:10 (!) for miles two, three and four.  Whoa!  I knew I would pay for those fast miles later, especially on a rolling course, and was ready to let the group go, but the pace leader settled in after that to run remarkably even splits.  I ran as planned, mostly a few beats ahead of them for several miles, and tucked in when the gusts started picking up.  

I passed the halfway mark in 1:37:08; good–a 22 second cushion.   Up to that point, I was feeling very strong and able.  The pace seemed easy and all systems were go.  My calf injury of several weeks ago didn’t bark at all, and some niggling adductor pains that had haunted me off and on for a few weeks were nonexistent.  I enjoyed the rural scenery, complete with horses, cows, stables, red barns, and rednecks out for a look at these crazy half-naked people running down the street. We ran past pastoral enclaves, suburban residential neighborhoods, condo complexes, and the rustic village of Fair Oaks, where the whole town turned out to cheer us on.  I was on pace and confident.

When we turned south after the half, the wind hit like gangbusters.  I wouldn’t call it a driving gale, but our favorite webmaster’s diction–”mild headwinds”–doesn’t do it justice.  I mean, I saw small branches downed. That’s real wind. I nestled into the pace group then, and had a few hard but good miles.  My breathing got very labored at one point, unnaturally so, and I was thankful I’d brought along my inhaler, which opened me up immediately.  We chugged along in the gusts, which became considerable at times, and traded places to give people a rest from the brunt of it. The running was good:  hard but do-able.

And then, at mile 15, unbelievably, the pace leader dropped.  He handed his 3:15 flag over to the runner next to him, said he’d never dropped from a marathon before, encouraged us to stay together, and then he was gone.  He must really have been suffering.  I felt for the guy.  Well, no problem–I’d stick with my little wind shelter as long as I needed to.   Unfortunately, without a leader, the group sped up to a pace I knew I couldn’t hold.  Miles 16 and 17 were 7:18 and 7:19, so I reluctantly let them go, just as the wind picked up and the running turned into an epic battle.  I held pace through 18 and 19, but at 20, I started to slow, paying the inevitable price of those too-fast early miles and the struggle with the wind.  

I slowed progressively, at mile 22 reading 7:59 on my watch, with horror.  That galvanized me, and I was able to pick it back up into the 7:40 range, but I was hurtin’.  My quads were totally shot, and I was running in slo-mo.  The negotiating process began, and I began to calculate how fast I’d have to run to salvage my 3:15:00 finish.  I had to let that go, and then focused on running under 3:15:59. My heart was there, but my screaming, aching legs rebelled.  I was literally running as fast as I could, and was barely breaking 45 seconds faster than easy pace.  Now, my goal became: “under 3:17.”

Somewhere in mile 25, June, Rusty’s wife, came into my myopic vision.  She jumped in and ran with me for a few blocks, comforting me and egging me on, an angel of mercy.  I was in gallumphing mode now, my awkward lope a far cry from the quick, efficient metronomic steps of just one short hour ago.   But the countdown was on, and I knew it would soon be over.  When Rusty saw me at mile 26, he started screaming “Open up your legs!  You can do it!  You can go under 3:17!”   Just seeing him got me going.  I mean, how can you be respectable and plotz in front of your coach? Not an option.

I  summoned every available wild impulse hovering beneath my schoolteacher facade, and clawed my way to the finish, just 8 seconds under my newly-negotiated goal, crossing the mat in 3:16:52.  Rusty met me at the finish, his hands bloodied because he tripped and fell trying to pace me.  What a guy.  I could barely walk, and smiled my way through the space blankets, the chip removal, the medal, and the sweat bag retrieval station.  Limping back to the hotel, I smiled at the blowing leaves (the wind no longer my nemesis), the guy smoking a cigarette, the police officer checking out a steaming hulk of a sedan that had just crashed into an SUV (no injuries).  

I really feel I ran the equivalent of a 3:15 marathon yesterday, but those numbers are still hovering in my future somewhere, beckoning me forward.  For now, I’m still limping, and I’m still smiling.