February 2010 Archives
The reality of the pace group was not quite so grim. They caught me between mile 22 and mile 23 - all four of them. Yep, by that time the 4:30 pace group, which had been around 25 runners when we caught them at mile 5, was down to the pacer and three guys. THREE GUYS! HA! Okay, I can hang with these chuckleheads. Sadly my cousin Jeff was not one of the three, but I was sure he was right behind us. I fell in about 15 feet behind the Man With The Balloons.
I had also forgotten that the pace group had a head start on me. (Long runs do weird things to my cognitive abilities.) I knew it wasn't the full five minutes it took us to get to the start line but I knew it had to be at least three, so as long as I held on I would be fine.
After the turn I had started walking through the water stops. At mile 23 I started walking for 100 yards or so past the water stops. It was starting to come apart again, but in spite of the walking breaks I was keeping the 4:30 guys in sight - not that this was particularly challenging, given the flat, straight road we were running on.
When I got to mile 25, I checked my watch and realized that all I needed to do was turn in a 14 minute mile and I was going to break 4:30. I allowed myself to be a little excited. So excited, in fact, that I decided to walk a bit. No reason to showboat, right? Sure, if I hurried I could maybe break 4:25 - but what was the rush? I couldn't see the finish line - perversely, after running 6 miles in a straight line, there was a sharp corner a few hundred yards from the finish - and I was having a hard time getting motivated to bring it in. The "4:30 Four" slowly pulled away as I walked, and I realized that my precious time, my 4:30, was going to slip through my fingers if I didn't get moving. I started to run one. last. time.
As I came onto the dogleg that led to the finishing straight I was picked up by the crowd. The swell of noise - even if most of it was just people chatting with each other while they watched for their friends - was a welcome change from the last six miles of what seemed like complete solitude. A man on the barriers yelled "it's just around the corner!" and for once - ONCE - it seemed like a genuine, hopeful, you-can-do-it, what-you-accomplish-we-all-celebrate message. (Long time readers will know how annoyed I get at spectators who yell "you're almost there" - look, I am wearing a room full of computers here - I know how far it is to the finish line - but this man? I do not remember his face but I will never forget the voice. Thank you, barrier man.)
The weariness fell from me. It was on. I kicked.
The course had a sharp left turn into the finishing straight, and as I came around the corner I caught the Man With The Balloons out of the corner of my eye, just in front of me. I zoomed (*) past him and over the last fifty yards.
Those of you who know me well know that I am not prone to emotional outbursts. You might not have recognized me at that moment, coming across the line, pumping my fists and bellowing like I had just set a world record.
Chip time, 4:27:09 (PR)
I was giddy. I remained giddy for the balance of the day. (A dent was put in my giddy when Jeff came in 13 minutes later. He was also shooting for 4:30.) Heck, I can still summon up the giddy pretty easily. Look, I'm never going to "win" a race - but neither will most marathoners. The real battle out on the road is not against the other runners but with yourself, and on that day I put myself into a position to find out what I was capable of. I like what I saw.
(*) sure felt like zooming to me
I had also forgotten that the pace group had a head start on me. (Long runs do weird things to my cognitive abilities.) I knew it wasn't the full five minutes it took us to get to the start line but I knew it had to be at least three, so as long as I held on I would be fine.
After the turn I had started walking through the water stops. At mile 23 I started walking for 100 yards or so past the water stops. It was starting to come apart again, but in spite of the walking breaks I was keeping the 4:30 guys in sight - not that this was particularly challenging, given the flat, straight road we were running on.
When I got to mile 25, I checked my watch and realized that all I needed to do was turn in a 14 minute mile and I was going to break 4:30. I allowed myself to be a little excited. So excited, in fact, that I decided to walk a bit. No reason to showboat, right? Sure, if I hurried I could maybe break 4:25 - but what was the rush? I couldn't see the finish line - perversely, after running 6 miles in a straight line, there was a sharp corner a few hundred yards from the finish - and I was having a hard time getting motivated to bring it in. The "4:30 Four" slowly pulled away as I walked, and I realized that my precious time, my 4:30, was going to slip through my fingers if I didn't get moving. I started to run one. last. time.
As I came onto the dogleg that led to the finishing straight I was picked up by the crowd. The swell of noise - even if most of it was just people chatting with each other while they watched for their friends - was a welcome change from the last six miles of what seemed like complete solitude. A man on the barriers yelled "it's just around the corner!" and for once - ONCE - it seemed like a genuine, hopeful, you-can-do-it, what-you-accomplish-we-all-celebrate message. (Long time readers will know how annoyed I get at spectators who yell "you're almost there" - look, I am wearing a room full of computers here - I know how far it is to the finish line - but this man? I do not remember his face but I will never forget the voice. Thank you, barrier man.)
The weariness fell from me. It was on. I kicked.
The course had a sharp left turn into the finishing straight, and as I came around the corner I caught the Man With The Balloons out of the corner of my eye, just in front of me. I zoomed (*) past him and over the last fifty yards.
Those of you who know me well know that I am not prone to emotional outbursts. You might not have recognized me at that moment, coming across the line, pumping my fists and bellowing like I had just set a world record.
Chip time, 4:27:09 (PR)
I was giddy. I remained giddy for the balance of the day. (A dent was put in my giddy when Jeff came in 13 minutes later. He was also shooting for 4:30.) Heck, I can still summon up the giddy pretty easily. Look, I'm never going to "win" a race - but neither will most marathoners. The real battle out on the road is not against the other runners but with yourself, and on that day I put myself into a position to find out what I was capable of. I like what I saw.
(*) sure felt like zooming to me
Once we caught the 4:30 pace group we settled in a bit. Our pace came down to match the group and we just ticked the miles off. At around mile 9 we bid our cousin Steve farewell as he went off to finish the half marathon. Downtown Tulsa was slightly hilly but the day and the spectators were fantastic, and I tried to settle in and enjoy it a bit. At some point in this stretch I chatted a bit with a woman who had recently been hit by lightning, which was an interesting way to pass a couple miles. She mentioned she was planning to get a lightning bolt tattoo on her ankle - on the burned spot where the bolt left her leg (!!).
(Note - after the results were posted I checked and saw that I came in ahead of this woman. I believe this allows me to say I am "faster than lightning.")
At around mile 11 Jeff pulled off to hit the porta-potty, and about a mile later I moved past the pace group as we went into a water stop - just like that I was out on my own. I saw the family cheering section, fresh from their 5k finishes, just past the halfway point, and gave and received high fives. Most of the second half was a long, straight (and mercifully flat) out-and-back along the Arkansas River - I tried not to think about the fact that every step I took was a step I would have to retrace to get back to the finish line and to keep focusing on holding pace - a common theme for the day.
I was seeing a lot of runners coming back toward me in this stretch. I was a little concerned because I figured they were almost 10 miles in front of me - it would be an hour and a half before I made it back to that spot - and they looked, well, there's no other way to say it - slow. When I got another mile up the road I realized that the half-marathon had an out-and-back stretch along the same road, and I had been seeing blown-out half marathoners coming into their final mile. This realization lifted my spirits immediately. (Perhaps this makes me petty and insecure, but hey, whatever works.)
I pushed past the 15 mile mark and started trying to figure out how much further I had to go before the turnaround. I was running into a slight headwind and I was looking forward to that turning into a tailwind. Around this point it occurred to me that I was well set up to break 4:30, as I was holding pace and had five or six minutes in the "time bank" to mess with. I started to feel a surge of adrenaline, which I quickly tamped down - at mile 16 there was still Plenty Of Time for Something to Go Wrong. (see also: San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon, bonk at mile 18)
There's not much to tell about miles 16-20 except that the prospect of turning around was Very Exciting, and I was looking forward to it. I stayed on pace, drank some water, and ate a gel-pack or two. Mmm, vanilla.
When I got to the turnaround at the 20 mile mark I was surprised to see the 4:30 pace group was maybe a minute behind me and pleased to see that Jeff was right behind the pace group. I thought about walking for a bit and letting him catch up with me but I decided that I needed to Keep Moving. I don't think this necessarily makes me a bad person, but I will definitely accept the label "selfish."
The other thing that happens around mile 20 is you realize a couple things. One, you are now in the Magical Miles. As in, you have to be magically stupid to think that "if you can run 20 miles in training, you can run 26 on race day no problem! Adrenaline will carry you!" (Yeah. Adrenaline is good for 200 yards max.) Two, this was only the third time I'd covered this much distance in one day. Three, six miles is at least another hour on the road - at least at my pace. Oh boy. Did I really cash frequent flyer miles for this?
Mile 22 was about as bad as it got that day. Any psychological bump I picked up from reaching the turnaround and being "homeward bound" was long gone. My legs were fading. And as I came into the water stop I heard one of the volunteers yell out "we've got a pace group coming in!" The 4:30 group was hard on my heels, coming for me, led by a soulless pace runner - relentless, inhuman, carrying a cute stick with yellow balloons on it, followed by the 4:30 zombie horde. I did not turn to see how close they were. It was over. "The catch," as they call it in cycling, was inevitable.
Damn. I thought I was going to hold them off. Damn.
At around mile 11 Jeff pulled off to hit the porta-potty, and about a mile later I moved past the pace group as we went into a water stop - just like that I was out on my own. I saw the family cheering section, fresh from their 5k finishes, just past the halfway point, and gave and received high fives. Most of the second half was a long, straight (and mercifully flat) out-and-back along the Arkansas River - I tried not to think about the fact that every step I took was a step I would have to retrace to get back to the finish line and to keep focusing on holding pace - a common theme for the day.
I was seeing a lot of runners coming back toward me in this stretch. I was a little concerned because I figured they were almost 10 miles in front of me - it would be an hour and a half before I made it back to that spot - and they looked, well, there's no other way to say it - slow. When I got another mile up the road I realized that the half-marathon had an out-and-back stretch along the same road, and I had been seeing blown-out half marathoners coming into their final mile. This realization lifted my spirits immediately. (Perhaps this makes me petty and insecure, but hey, whatever works.)
I pushed past the 15 mile mark and started trying to figure out how much further I had to go before the turnaround. I was running into a slight headwind and I was looking forward to that turning into a tailwind. Around this point it occurred to me that I was well set up to break 4:30, as I was holding pace and had five or six minutes in the "time bank" to mess with. I started to feel a surge of adrenaline, which I quickly tamped down - at mile 16 there was still Plenty Of Time for Something to Go Wrong. (see also: San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon, bonk at mile 18)
There's not much to tell about miles 16-20 except that the prospect of turning around was Very Exciting, and I was looking forward to it. I stayed on pace, drank some water, and ate a gel-pack or two. Mmm, vanilla.
When I got to the turnaround at the 20 mile mark I was surprised to see the 4:30 pace group was maybe a minute behind me and pleased to see that Jeff was right behind the pace group. I thought about walking for a bit and letting him catch up with me but I decided that I needed to Keep Moving. I don't think this necessarily makes me a bad person, but I will definitely accept the label "selfish."
The other thing that happens around mile 20 is you realize a couple things. One, you are now in the Magical Miles. As in, you have to be magically stupid to think that "if you can run 20 miles in training, you can run 26 on race day no problem! Adrenaline will carry you!" (Yeah. Adrenaline is good for 200 yards max.) Two, this was only the third time I'd covered this much distance in one day. Three, six miles is at least another hour on the road - at least at my pace. Oh boy. Did I really cash frequent flyer miles for this?
Mile 22 was about as bad as it got that day. Any psychological bump I picked up from reaching the turnaround and being "homeward bound" was long gone. My legs were fading. And as I came into the water stop I heard one of the volunteers yell out "we've got a pace group coming in!" The 4:30 group was hard on my heels, coming for me, led by a soulless pace runner - relentless, inhuman, carrying a cute stick with yellow balloons on it, followed by the 4:30 zombie horde. I did not turn to see how close they were. It was over. "The catch," as they call it in cycling, was inevitable.
Damn. I thought I was going to hold them off. Damn.
