I can be an infuriatingly consistent runner. In 2004, I ran two marathons within five months, and my finishing times were 22 seconds apart: 3:22:45 and 3:22:23. If my husband Jeff is planning to watch me race, he always asks me what time—down to the second—I’m going to cross the line. He’s only partially joking.
On Sunday, I finished the California International Marathon in 3:17:15, crossing the mat 23 seconds slower than last year’s 3:16:52. Essentially, I ran the same race, with one major difference: this year, I toed the starting line with residual effects of two colds during training. They piggybacked, and then hitchhiked for 26 miles. The nerve.
I came down with the first one in mid-October, and the cough “hung on like death” (apologies to Theodore Roethke) for six weeks. I’ve had exercise-induced asthma since last season’s fires, and the condition was exacerbated by the cough. When it finally resolved, I had a week of great running, and then Wham! Another cold, 10 days before the marathon. This time it was minor, and as I wrote in a previous post, I nuked the hell out of it with a gazillion remedies. By Saturday night, I hardly felt it. But ten miles into the marathon, it was clear I wasn’t running with a full tank.
On Sunday morning, Jill, Kim and I met in the lobby of the host hotel at 5:35. We’d thought we’d have plenty of wiggle room, since the busses ran from 5 to 6 a.m., but apparently everyone else had the same idea: The line snaked around the block, and barely shuffled along. We didn’t board until well after 6, and arrived at the start with under 15 minutes to the gun. We shoved into the crowd to get to the baggage trucks, and the sight was surreal. Desperate runners were hurling bags into the trucks, sometimes missing, sometimes nailing the overwhelmed teenaged volunteers. One exuberant runner lobbed his bag on top of the truck. It was chaos, and I urgently had to pee. I peeled off my sweats, tucked into the crowd, said a mental goodbye and good luck to Jill and Kim, knowing I’d lose them, deposited my bag, and headed for the bushes. No time for a warmup today, and the temp was 39 degrees.
Somehow, with seconds to spare, I managed to position myself near the start, crammed so tightly into the crowd I was warmed from the body heat. And then BANG! We’re off. It’s dark, and cold, and silent but for the sound of footfalls; strangely comforting, as Kim later pointed out. It always amazes me no one gets trampled. Runners are so polite.
I hit the first mile in 7:32, a little fast considering the crowds. Mile two is 7:26, still a little on the slow side, which is perfect. Jill catches and passes me, looking very strong and smooth. By mile three at 7:19, I have cast off my throwaway top and hunkered down for the long haul. (I never missed it, though the temps stayed in the 40’s the entire race.) Whoops! Mile four is too fast at 7:15, and I purposely slow the next mile; 7:27. I run a fairly even pace until the half, which I hit at exactly 1:37:30, according to my watch: perfectly on pace for my goal time of 3:15:00.
But as I cross the halfway mat, I know it isn’t going to happen. I’m working too hard, and I know I can’t sustain it for another half marathon. In reality, I knew by mile six I wasn’t going to make my goal, but I also knew I could come close. In fact (cross my heart and hope to die; honest to god), at that point I knew I was going to come in around 3:17. It’s amazing how specifically your body tells you what you’re capable of that day, if you’re fully tuned in.
I knew the 3:15 pace group was near me, because I kept hearing people shout out for them. ”Go, three-fifteen!” and “Looking strong, three-fifteen!” I once made the mistake of running with my name on my bib (courtesy of the L.A. Marathon), and let me tell you, it’s annoying on a good day to have the crowd focus on you, and hell if you’re not feeling good. I didn’t want to know where the 3:15 pace group was, so I purposely ran a little ahead of them during the first half. But after the half, I joined them for a few miles, because I needed the pull of the group. Unfortunately, the pacer was uneven, mostly too slow, and so he had to pick it up the last 10K to finish under the wire. I was running my own race so I didn’t care, but he dropped lots of folks when he pushed the pace to make up time. I’m wary of pace groups, precisely because they tend to run unevenly. I let them go, and ended up passing most of the women from the group in the last miles.
I held on to a 7:30-ish pace until mile 22. (Better than last time, when I started bonking at 20!) When I kicked over into 7:40+ territory, I brought it back down for a mile, but understood by mile 24 that a PR was beyond my capacity. I was the “clown suit in slo-mo,” if you know what I mean. When a young, fresh looking, bouncy blonde gazelled by me, I wanted to kill her. ”Relay,” quipped Jill, during our post-marathon blow-by-blow at lunch. Of course.
I found out a few days before the race that somebody within a few degrees of separation has an aggressive cancer that has metastasized. I thought about him and his family during the last few miles, admiring their toughness and courage, understanding what a great gift we runners have, to be able to push our bodies and feel the discomfort of extreme physical effort.
I’m thrilled with my finish time. I essentially ran the same race one year later and one year older, with a training buildup that had more downs than ups. I may not have had an optimal racing experience, but in terms of tenacity and focus, I think it was my best race to date. As Rusty said in an email to us all before the race, “you are lucky to be as fit as you are and lucky to feel the pain…enjoy it, embrace it.”
So true.
