Not sure where to begin on this post. After Chicago I had so much to write because I was so full of frustration. It is true that it is easier to write when you are angry or frustrated or depressed... the words just flow out of you in rivulets of rage, disappointment, or despondency.
But today I write without regrets. I write without saying, well, if I could change that one thing. Or, if I had done that one thing differently... suchnsuch would have happened. Because what happened at Tobacco Road was exactly what I was looking for. This is not to say there are not huge opportunities for improvement (as always) but I am content. Satisfied. Sleepin' easy so to speak.
After Chicago, I made a definitive list of all the things that had held me back and made a PR race still a "disaster" in my memory. Chicago's energy is incredible and the race was an unforgettable experience that is added to the pile of miles that make me the runner that I am. I'm still not even sure what kind of "runner" that is... all I know is that I love that there is a particular scent of cut grass that forcefully pulls me back to oval upon oval on tracks all over the carolinas, or a hot humid morning promises trails and overheated gasps for air, and a certain crispness to the air that sends a chill up my spine as the fall reminds me of nerves and jitters and anxious gun starts. All I know... is that I love running. I love every tiny moment that defines it as separate from any other sport that incorporates the movement. I love the culture of running. The 5 AM political discussions over asphalt. I love the 6 PM rants about work as our legs flail beneath us... I love it all.
In the months leading up to this past Sunday's race, I decided to get back to that sense of love and freedom that running provides. First, I struggled with an injury as I tried to up my mileage and tackle high volume workouts. I got disillusioned and temporarily forgot why I was doing any of this to begin with. I took a huge step back. After a severely painful 16 miler on a random Thursday night, I admitted to myself that I was a little off my path. I stopped counting the mileage I wanted (needed?) before the week began and decided to let the miles add up on their own. I went back to basics. Easy Run. Workout. Recovery Run. Long Run. Run. Run. Run. JUST RUN.
The last few weeks were good weeks of training. I started to feel confident again... I jumped in on a few workouts with friends and ran a 21 miler completely solo start to finish. I continued to think of Tobacco Road as a tune-up for the rest of the season and a "let's just see where I am" race but my mind started to wonder if my ultimate goal was still in reach... I allowed a little teeny sliver of hope in there.
I tapered the week before and mimicked the week before my first marathon in Charlotte where I felt on top of the world in the last 10K. I wanted that feeling again. I hashed out a plan to run easy, 7:00-7:10 for the first 6 miles or so before stepping it down to "race pace" of 6:50. I made a skeleton of a plan of how I would run a sub 3:00. And then I threw a whole new monkey wrench in it... I would leave my watch at home.
This didn't seem like that big of a deal because I rarely wear one while I'm training... but as the race approached it started to feel like a big deal. How was I going to know if I was on pace? How would I know if I went out too fast? How could I possibly know if I wasn't running fast enough? But my faithful copilot in life just told me to relax. The boy convinced me that this would be a meaningful experiment. Funny... he may have run only one marathon, just started seriously enjoying the sport, and has no coaching background whatsoever... but he knows ME. And he knows the ins and outs of my thoughts and hopes and dreams... he knows my anxieties and my frustrations... he knows where my head goes when I'm off pace. He knows it all. And so I listened. And when the air horn blew at the start of the race... I just ran. I didn't press any buttons. Didn't hear any electronic beeps of acknowledgement that it was go time. I just... ran.
The first 3 miles were fast... too fast. I had apparently thrown my skeleton of a plan out the window as well. We averaged 6:36 for the first 7.5 miles according to the splits generated by the electronic timing chip. At 6 miles or so I decided to step it back. I had to literally slow myself down even though the adrenaline had this pace feeling easy peasy... I had to watch the company I was enjoying put distance between us. I had to close my eyes for a minute, and just say to myself, run your race. I watched them run away from me. And I was essentially alone for the remainder of the 20 miles to the finish. I never again had a group to run with on the long stretches of trees and gravel ahead of me. The race became a mental game. I focused. I thought of nothing but one foot in front of the other and gauging distances between myself and the other runners whose time goals I had noted in my head. I was so thankful every 2 miles to have a small but fun group of people cheering us on... but as soon as the water stop was over... I was alone in my head again. At mile 17 I went back to the 21 miler alone and the never-ending nature of a long stretch of Providence road with only cars and fumes for friends. The turnarounds were great opportunities to get my mind off my own running and cheer for all the marathoners and half marathoners along the route. I also was able to get an idea of how far behind the other ladies I was.
Going into mile 20 I was feeling fatigued but still in it. I kept remembering how terrible I felt at mile 20 in Chicago... when I hit mile 18 in Tobacco Road, I forced myself to take my Hammer Gel even though my stomach was saying Hell No. I opened it up and took it without water. I made myself squeeze the revolting paste into my mouth and swallow it down. Chicago was seared in my memory and I wasn't going to let my nutrition trash my race again. At mile 21 I started counting down. 5 to go. 5? What is 5 miles? I told myself I had 5 miles.
Two guys came up behind me and I was thankful to have someone to run with. I urged one of the guys to stay with us as I tried to keep in step with them. I kept the one guy in my sights as we came around the corner to mile 23 where we were back on the roads and the homestretch was ahead of us. The wind and the pain hit me all at once. I upped the intensity in my mental battle. I reloaded the cannons and hunkered down in the trenches. It was not over yet. Mile 24 came and I took to little whimpers and grunts here and there as my legs started to tighten and cramp up. I had passed a few of the guys I had been running with early on in the race and we shared a moment - our legs were cramping, we had all started too fast. Mile 25 came and I just told myself over and over again that one mile was not going to bring me to my knees. That I could run ONE mile. That this was just one mile of many and how angry would I be with myself if I left anything out on this course? I told myself that in one mile, I would be able to celebrate the ending and I wouldn't even remember the pain. I said any amount of pain would be worth it. I fantasized about the finish line... a little oasis of hope in my sea of hurt. I turned the corner and saw the 26 mile flag waving in the breeze... I noticed that I had surprisingly gained significant ground on the 2nd place female and she turned at the .2 to go to look at me. Delirious and completely out of it, I yelled for her to GO and kept pushing. The 13 mile flag waved up ahead, signaling the .1 to go for the half marathoners and full marathoners alike... I was on it in no time and took over the second place spot as I rounded a very tight corner (swinging wide to narrowly miss a couple of half marathon walkers) and sprint-hobbled into the finish. The time on the clock clicked by 2:59------- something. All I knew was that I had it. It wasn't until the final stretch when the red numbers registered in my brain that I knew I had done it. I knew it was over. I went immediately into the defensive, spent runner stance - hands on knees, head toward the ground. I stood up, congratulated the 3rd place girl on her amazing first marathon and found my way to the love of my life. And he held me while my body went limp and I sobbed like the emotional person that I am. Exhausted by the effort. Exhausted by the joy and relief. Exhausted by the pain coursing through my legs.
The watchless race proved to me that I am capable. That this is what I should be doing. That running is still pure and still meaningful and still necessary to me.
Later on that day I got to look up my splits and for the first time ever, they were a complete surprise and mystery to me...
Final time: 2:59:22
Final place: 2nd Female, 27th overall
