Islands marathon, scheming

Saturday was the GMAA Green Mountain Marathon in South Hero and Grand Isle. Cold, beautiful day for race, with bright orange and red leaves still hanging on to the trees on South Street. I had never volunteered at a race before and it was pretty fun to drive water around to water stops and yell maniacally for the runners on back roads where spectators were few and far between. I was at the finish line with time to kill before the first finishers would arrive, so I went for a jog down to Langdon Road, and followed the race course for a couple of miles. I cheered wildly for the first few runners who came by far ahead of the rest with lots of space between them. And then realized that I better start running back to the finish area before the pack comes through -- it would be right to be 'out for jog' among people who are trying to finish a race. (Not to mention super embarrassing to get passed by people who've already run 25 miles.)

Good fun to see Chad and Thao (hi guys!) who both had spectacular times -- 3:05 and under 4:00:00, respectively. And this was just a training run for them! (Jerks.....) Have great races in Philly, both of you!

I had considered running the Islands race to redeem Montreal. I did 16 miles two weeks after the Montreal marathon and had a good schedule of weekday runs. But I got sick that following week and ended up at Dr. Hobbs office the following Saturday morning. Even the teeny, tiny office of Keeler Bay Family Practice has Saturday hours, AND they have rapid Strep tests. Impressive. Dr. Hobbs was jubilant when he announced I did not have strep and I should go home and wait it out. "If you aren't better in a week, come on back and we'll take a second look. And watch that swollen lymph node." Actually the better answer would have been, "Yes! Strep throat! And here are the antibiotics to make you right in no time flat."

I stayed home, and rested, I drank fluids, and waited. The scheduled day for my last long run (20 miles) came and went, and still I felt crummy. All that pissed off, fiery, "I need one more chance!" determination I had after Montreal disappeared into the pile of Ricola wrappers strewn around the house.

The current plan is too keep in shape this fall, maybe run a 1/2 marathon and begin training for Vermont City Marathon in January. I'm going to hit 2010 in the best start-of-training shape I've ever been in. Boo-ya.

Busted

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....

Welcome to the '80s, Saucony

As I have written about before, I am devoted to Saucony Triumph running shoes. I have purchased several pairs, from Progrid 4-6. On a few occasions, they've had ugly colors, but if you ask and look around, you can avoid the drab gray mesh with drab gray trim. I have run in the white and sparkly blue, white and light green, white and bright red, and currently white with black and pearly green. All lovely.

I also really like buying shoes at the Fleet Feet store near my work. They are smart, friendly people, they keep track of the shoes and sizes I've bought (not difficult, I suppose, when you always buy the same shoe in the same size) and they give good discounts and coupons.

But today, my allegiance was tested. I went to Fleet Feet ready to buy the shoes that will take me through the last weeks of training and through the race, and I left the store with a pair of socks as consolation.

My dear sweet Saucony: how in the name of all that is decent can a team of your designers look at a running shoe that is trimmed in silver as shiny as aluminum foil, accented with purple the color of grape Hubba Bubba and detailed with reflective black plastic and say to themselves, let's do it! No. No, no, no. This is not a running shoe. This is a bedazzled '80s nightmare.

The shoe fits right, it feels so cushy and springy. And when I ran through the parking lot I could squint enough that the shoe looked fairly normal as I glimpsed it mid-stride. But back in the store, as I adjusted the laces, I couldn't get over it. These shoes are UGLY. I can't get inspired by these aerobicized Cindi Lauper oddball colors.

I know this shoe is available in other, more humane colors - just not at Fleet Feet. (Maybe I should lend my services to the Fleet Feet buyer: "Ugly, ugly, ugly, ooh -- that's a nice one, ugly, ugly...") . So now I begin to scour the city for my shoes in other stores. Wish me luck.

Update:

I found my shoes... somewhere else. They are identical to the white-pearly-green-charcoal trimmed shoes I've been running in for most of the summer. I feel at peace with Saucony again, and I hope I can get back in the groove with Fleet Feet soon.