Initial thoughts from a demoralizing weekend:
My goal was4:55, or at least just under 5 hours. My chip time was a defeated, sad 5:50 -- my slowest marathon yet, despite being better-prepared and better-trained than ever.
There's plenty of blame to go around. First, let's take a few cheap shots at the city of Montreal:
Your race has zero crowd support, and many many miles of ugly industrial neighborhoods. Even the people in the residential neighborhoods seemed surprised that a race was going on, as I noticed several times when nearly colliding with people who were crossing the street in front of me. Also, the Expo was lame-o. A handful of sad booths advertising better races being held somewhere else. The participant packet also left something to be desired. No maps of the start area, no cool swag, and every runner got the same shirt, no matter the distance. (Did the 5K runners get that shirt too?)
Second, we examine GI ailments and a common cold making unexpected appearances mid-race:
I felt good the first 8 or so miles, when I got a side stitch. At this point I was two minutes under pace, but the cramp wouldn't subside. I took a bathroom break (I didn't know then it was the first of many, many stops at port-o-lets), and was now running right at pace. By Mile 10, at the top of steep hill, I walked a block to try to stretch out a stomach cramp. I fell apart in this stretch, running and walking, and feeling ill. I was ferociously thirsty, and it seemed like the water stations were impossibly far away from each other. When I could get water I was trying hard not drink too much, but I wanted to guzzle gallons of water and not stop. It was during these miles that a small head cold became difficult to ignore. I'd had a small sore throat for two days, but nothing more than that. After a few miles of running, I had stuffy, runny nose that wouldn't quit. I think the sniffling and post-nasal drip must have added to the churning feeling in my guts that grew worse the longer I was out there. Around the half-way point I had run about 2 1/2 hours, which should have been cause for faith but I was feeling pretty terrible by then: stomach cramps were worse than ever, port-o-lets not nearly frequent enough, a stuffy head and weird earache that felt like I was in an airplane that was repeatedly taking off and landing.
In the second half I tried to rally. "Just do what you did in the first half one more time and you'll be close to your goal." But the farther I went, the worse I felt. At one water stop, I choked on the Gatorade (sorry, "jus") and nearly threw up, much to the alarm of the volunteers there. (How do you say, "Nothing to see here, folks," in French?) By mile 18 I was calculating my finish time at different paces and realized my goal was lost but not by a huge amount. Then at mile 20 I realized I had badly miscalculated my arithmetic and I was only in a position to match my personal best.
But here's the hard truth. The rest of the blame (most of the blame?) falls with a total breakdown of will power:
I could not keep it together in the last 6 miles. I tried commanding myself to run, I tried bargaining with myself, I tried thinking about all those hours and miles of training. Ultimately, I walked. I walked hunched over with a crampy stomach, taking solace in the fact that at least I won't soil myself by running. My friends met me at the corner with 5K to go and we walked that distance together. I rallied only enough to jog into Olympic stadium and across the finish line with a smile for the camera's benefit only. Then I yelled at three pre-teen boys who were sword fighting with plastic tubes and blocking my exit from the finish chute.
There were a few highlights. Tops among them are my fantastic friends who went with me, ran their own races and cheered me on along the way. Congratulations to Liz for running her first race ever, to Maria for running even after she forgot to register, and to Nadine for a great training run before Philly. Thanks to Rhet for driving across New England to get to the race, and for making it to so many spots along the course.
Also, a runner from Dallas, whose name is either Rurford or Berford, or Murford? He ran in a Wonder Bread racing shirt, this was his 27th marathon and he finished a few minutes behind me. At some point during the race, I told him I was disappointed that I was already off of my time goal, and he told me that finishing is achievement enough. I didn't want to take too much comfort in that idea when he said it (mile 14) but later it felt reassuring.
Also thanks to the Globe and Mail newspaper, for publishing a horoscope that predicted I would stun my friends with what I could accomplish. It literally stated that I would not be able to "keep up this pace forever, but this weekend you will be a human dynamo." If only....
