First Marathon Race ReportHi everyone -- well I think I've been officially bitten by the marathon bug after having an awesome first marathon experience. Like many others here, this is my second running life. I ran cross country in high school, but I wasn't exceedingly serious about running, having lots of other commitments to contend with. On and off over the past 10 years I have gotten back into it in spurts, but right knee pain limited me and I thought my running career was over, and even though the idea of running a marathon one day was interesting, it seemed pretty far off and unattainable. Even running 5 miles was a challenge. I even bought a bike. This spring I got pretty serious about weight lifting again and learned how to lift for real using some great web resources (www.stronglifts.com, youtube, the book Starting Strength). Within 3 months I was stronger than I ever had been in my life, even compared to when in college as a gym rat. I wanted better shoes to deadlift in (you need flat hard shoes for this), and stumbled upon minimal running shoes (New Balance MT00s). I had signed up for a 10-miler in May, but after that started running in these. After my lower legs adapted, I found that I had no more knee pain -- all the squats probably helped too, strengthening my hips greatly. So I signed up for the marathon!! Summer training with CARA, a group of runners in Chicago, went well.
Race day was pretty surreal. I got up early and ate an English muffin with almond butter. Priscilla was still asleep, and I really struggled with defrosting the English muffin. I tried to not let that throw me off my game. I showered, got dressed, and started writing on myself with metallic silver sharpie -- the names of the people I was running in support of through the American Heart Association, and a few inspirational quotes / mantras to carry me through the race. I got dropped off at the Congress Hotel and entered the separate world that is marathoners on race day. Gear check, facebook post, saying hi and good luck to running friends. Then it was time to leave for my corral. The sun had not yet risen, and Chicago was swaddled by an ice-blue twilight. For the first time this year, I could see my breath. I made the long walk to my corral.
Once in it, I tried not to think about anything relating to the race. I knew the hype and hysteria could only be detrimental from what others told me, so I actively ignored the fact that I was about to run further than I ever had in my life. I got into the corral about 20 minutes before the start and chatted with some fellow runners. Some guy with an Australian accent. A woman with headphones rocking out. I was wearing a throwaway shirt that said Northwestern on it -- a ratty longsleeve cotton shirt I bought my sophomore year of college that I've had trouble parting ways from. I had cut the collar and wrist elastic off because I thought it made the shirt look cooler. I could think of no finer tribute to it than flinging it over the edge of the corral moments before my race. I balled it up tight and heaved. It sailed true. A good omen. My race plan was to run with the 3:45 pacer and then see how I felt. Before I knew it, the national anthem had been sung, and the marathon had started. I didn't hear the gun. But when I saw a multicolored throng of people bobbing up the gradual incline of Columbus avenue headed north, the fact that I was about to run my first marathon sank in.
The start was really not as bad as I was expecting--we were already jogging by the time we crossed the start line. I felt really comfortable and settled into a groove, and ignored all the cheering around me. People on bridges above, people on the sides, people standing in the median of the road with signs. We were a smooth flowing river hemmed in by a sea of humanity. The only extra expenditure I allowed myself was to raise a gloved fist in mute tribute to those who would support us on our way. We zigged and zagged through River North--my neighborhood--passing familiar landmarks that I did not allow myself to focus on. The crowd was intense, too intense, and I feared getting caught up in a sprint, when it was a marathon I was running. Our first mile split was about 8:45, 10 seconds slower than the 8:35 pace we were aiming for, but not too bad. Gradually over the next few miles we made it up. I felt really good and strong, the chilly air was perfect. My wife was waiting at mile 4; I drifted over to the left side of the road to say hi, and found that I had disconnected from my pace group, having run a 7:54 4th mile in the excitement. I knew she had a big balloon, but they had also made this humongous sign which put a huge smile on my face. But I knew the pace was way too fast, and willed myself to slowed down--its funny, but it really does take effort to slow down in a race when you are feeling good, so will is the right word. I'll never forget the visual sensation I had after slowing myself by about 20 seconds per mile. I felt I was running almost backwards, the crowd continuing on ahead of me: precisely the disconnect you feel at oceanside when the surf recedes around your feet. But I couldn't slow down enough, I suppose, because by about mile 6 the 3:40 pace group was in sight. So I told myself I would not pass them. I connected with them and ran through the North Side. I passed Fullerton and then Diversey, a half mile stretch on which I've done countless speed work drills this summer, and even raced. My hardest running had been done there, and I felt I had paid my dues to that ground. In that moment I understood viscerally what countless cultures have felt before: that there is a such thing as sacred ground. And that ground, by my running sacrifice, had become sacred to me. And from it I drew strength. The northernmost point of the course is Addison; a friend was there to cheer me on at mile 7--with a big smiley face balloon visible from 2 blocks away. Having warmed up, I handed her my hat--a $5 throwaway but why waste it if I could get it back? But my handoff was not smooth, and it dropped on the course. Oops. I twisted around to talk to her and very slightly tweaked my right hamstring and got mad at myself for nearly doing something very stupid. But over the next mile any twinge totally went away. But on Monday I got my hat back, so it was worth it!
I continued to feel really comfortable and kept cruising, hardly feeling like it was anything more than a training run. By mile 10 I started feeling a little bit annoyed by a group of people running in front of me. Nothing they were doing wrong; it was just the 3:40 pace group had grown congested so I broke out a little bit in front of them just for running room. In retrospect precisely the same thing happened to me at mile 6 of my half marathon in July. So maybe it is me; maybe it is my body telling me that I can open it up a little more.
I had a friend waiting with 2 GUs at mile 11 and almost missed him, he ran after me to hand them off (phew!). Then I had to veer to the other side of the road to wave to my wife again, which was nice. But by this time I disconnected from the pace group again, and was running my own race. That was exciting and nerve wracking at the same time; I told myself that if I was going to do this, and run at a pace ~15 seconds faster than my planned pace I was going to have to be serious, listen to my body, and pay close attention to my splits, so I did. I was still feeling very fresh and comfortable; the halfway point I still felt like I was flowing easy. I made a right turn and allowed myself to high five a bunch of spectators; I knew we would be leaving the loop again for the Westside and wanted to gather a little energy from the crowd. I felt almost too good, and was a little nervous because I was worried that the crowds, the gentle decline off the bridge as we crossed the Chicago river, and the natural excitement of reaching the halfway point of the race were leading me astray. Miles 13-18 remained extremely comfortable--the crowd support though thinner remained amazing. There was a woman handing out orange pieces. For 200 meters after that point there were little bits of orange peel trampled into the pavement like little bits of confetti. I was running my own race, listening to my body, and completely self sufficient except for air, water, and sugar. I varied my pace a bit depending on the wind, and was peeling off 8:03s-8:18s, maintaining pretty even effort. I fell in with some other tall guys and we ran as a pack, drafting off each other for a bit, but I lost them around mile 18 at an aid station. They knew the course well and went to the right, anticipating a right hand turn, while I swung wide to the left. In these middle miles the only sign I had that I was getting tired was that at each water station I began feeling the tiniest bit breathless after I sucked down the drink, and at each mile I felt a tiny bit more breathless. A sure sign that lactic acid was beginning to accumulate. But I still felt really strong.
The spectator support remained amazing. I had written Beast across my chest, an old nickname from school. My real name is too hard to pronounce, and I thought it would be draining to hear it mispronounced in endless variations. I thanked my friends for giving me that nickname, because it is really motivating to hear, and apparently really fun for spectators to shout out. I felt a little bad for the people around me with their real names written on their chests. I was totally monopolizing the cheers. BEAAAST!!!! You are a beast! Beast mode ON! I see you Beast!!!! Go Beast!! I tried to give each person a smile, but in the latter miles it was just a thumbs up, which usually elicted a knowing chuckle.
By mile 19, I felt like a caged animal, and told myself that at mile 20 if I still felt that good I would open it up. I felt great, and so I sped up, running the next 5K at about a 7:55 pace. I had a friend from work at a medical tent; I wasn't exactly sure which one, but I thought it was at mile 20. So I ran by and yelled out "EDDDIEEEEEE??!!?!" at the top of my lungs in case she was back with a patient. She wasn't there, but I got a lot of smiles from the doctors and nurses! In retrospect she was at mile 17 and grabbed a picture of me. One silly thing I did was at just before mile 21 -- there was a group of Korean spectators with a HUGE Korean flag and the song Gagnam Style blaring. I did the horse dance for about 50 meters and my hips told me it was a pretty terrible idea. Fortunately it didn't destroy me, but it could have! By mile 23, however, I really started getting fatigued. I didn't realize this would be the case, but I was feeling the load in my legs rather than in my cardiovascular system. I feel I still could have carried on a conversation if I needed to, but mentally I had no interest in it. It sounds trite, but a marathon is way different than a half marathon! In that race I was very breathless the last two miles. So I was doing the math in my head, and I was worried about bonking, so I eased off the pace back to 8:23 and was happy with that. I knew the majority of the race had been run; I had 4:00 (my safety goal) in the bag, 3:45 was all but assured, 3:40 was safe barring catastrophe, and 3:35 was a nice goal to shoot for, but risky so I let it go. I was getting annoyed with myself for not paying attention to the course map; I kept thinking we had hit the turnaround point, only to head further south again. That was mentally a little draining, but not a deal breaker. Still it's interesting how half of me knew the distance by miles, but half of me still wanted to judge it by direction. Seeing the mile 23 sign -- 4.2 miles to go was probably the low point of the race mentally, in the sense that I had no idea where I was on the course, and 4.2 miles is essentially a meaningless number to runners. I have no feel for it. There are 5k (3.1 mi) races, 8k (5 mi) races, and 10k (6.2 mi) races. No one ever tries to run a 4.2 mile race. I was a bit annoyed because I could not relate that number back to any training runs I had done. In retrospect on tempo runs or long runs I've tried to tell myself "this is what you'll probably feel like on mile 23" multiple times, but those thoughts didn't come back to me during the race. Its funny, but the things I thought about during the marathon weren't necessarily the things I thought I'd think about. About the only preplanned thoughts I actually ended up having during the race pertained to my mental strategy of dividing the race in three, based on a great quote I heard before about running marathons: "Run the first 10 miles with your head, the second 10 miles with your legs, and the last 10 km with your heart." Let your mind hold you back, let your body keep you steady, and let your emotions make you strong. So I had three running mantras for the three parts of the race--OK 2. I needed no mantra for the first 10 miles; I figured if I did I was in trouble. For the next 10 miles I wrote a quote from the Bhagavad Gita -- sama dukha sukha -- the same in adversity or ease (equanimity) -- to keep myself running steady and in control. And for the last 10k: I thrive in this place of pain. It had come to me on a run earlier this spring, and for me it does the trick of turning the notion of pain on its head. Pain is a friend that can teach you to reach beyond yourself. She shows you the way to breaking through your perceived limits. It is important to take lessons from her judiciously and sparsely. Too much will break you. But on marathon day, I was more than ready to embrace her. Mile 24 I saw my family one last time, and that was the perfect place for that boost! They had a huge sign that I could see from 2 blocks away. The boost only lasted a few minutes, but I kept going. I saw the 40k sign and turned it on, thinking I could do anything for 2.2k. I had another friend at 25, and kicked it up another gear. At the 800m sign I really turned it on, and was passing people by the dozens. I was completely determined as I turned up Mt Roosevelt, and felt like I was flying up the hill. Turning left and seeing the finish line was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. It was right there! Right there and I was running as hard as I could by this point. I ran out of steam from 100 to 50 meters to go, but found an extra bit of reserve and surged across the finish line. I looked down at my watch and was incredulous that I had stopped it at 3:35:16 -- my official time ended up being 3:35:14. I was ecstatic!! My last 2.2km were the fastest, run at a 7:31 pace. Overall I ran an approximately 2 minute negative split. So I felt I ran the best race I could and left nothing behind on the course.
Aaand because of that -- I really feel as though I bonked at mile 26.3 . I felt lucky about the timing of my bonk; it easily could have happened a mile or two earlier and I would have been death marching. I just barely took in enough fuel. The walk through the finishing chute was even more surreal than the start. For 26.2 miles I had been surrounded by spectators cheering me on my way. The noise and the energy was nearly overwhelming for the entire race. The cheers at the finish line as I threw my head back and sprinted were deafening. But after that? Near total silence. Not even the sound of footfalls. No one was talking or shouting or cheering. Everyone was exhausted and reflective. The only conscious thought I had was, "what the *** did I just do???" Over and over. I got a cape and felt like a superhero. I was struck by how warm it kept me. I was walking more slowly than anyone else; there was zero energy in my legs. I grabbed some gatorade. Some water. Some protein bars. I got a medal. Things kept piling in my hands, but I couldn't consume them fast enough. I was looking for the beer. I really deserved a beer. I found it and grabbed it and drank and it tasted so good. I got finishing pictures and then made my way over to some grass, where I sat down and let some nutrition make its way back into my body. The walk back to Congress hotel was BY FAR the most exhausting part of the day. There was nothing left; I had given it my all.
Overall it was an awesome day!! I realized I am a stronger runner than I thought I was, and I feel that if I take it slow and steady, and commit to it, Boston is a possibility for me, something that I had never considered before.
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