The Big Apple that Bit Me

So I usually write a recap. And I don't usually start a post with the word "so." It's just so... noncommittal. But I guess that's just my general feeling at the moment when it comes to running.

I have a distinct memory of talking to my parents a few days before NYC and telling them that this was just something I was meant to do. Run. I was made to do this, right? Something is compelling me to get out there in the mornings and whip myself into a semblance of shape and then go out there and run my legs off.

And perhaps that is true. Maybe I really am "meant" to do this. But at mile 20 when my legs are screaming unmentionables at me... I have the hardest time thinking about the whole "I'm meant for this" thing without laughing at myself.

And maybe that's the whole point. To not take everything so SERIOUSLY - enjoy the ride - see how it all pans out, etc. etc. etc. To let loose but not TOO loose is the difficult part. My running woes are kind of a microcosm of my life issues in general I guess.

So - a race recap.

FOCUS

You see - I've been having a hard time focussing lately. There is just so much excitement and overstimulation and anxiety and and and and... well, I just am so HAPPY. My life has been in overdrive lately... fell in love, broke 3 hours in the marathon, ran an ultra, broke a 7 year PR in the 5k, got married, PRed in the 10k, became an aunt for the 6th time, ran the "Greatest Marathon in the World," fell apart after the "Greatest Marathon in the World," got put back together and fell deeper in love, bought a puppy...

It's just kind of hard to focus with so much going on all the time. I'm not complaining... especially since 99.9999% of what I just mentioned was AWESOME. But I'm just not at my peak in terms of focussing on the task at hand.

So

The task at hand on November 6, 2011 was to run the ING NYC Marathon at 6:50ish pace and break 3 hours in order to convince myself that last March was not a fluke. My training was great, I was uninjured, I tapered, I got my massage, I ate a safe meal the night before... I even ate a real breakfast. I hopped in a cab in the morning and took off on an adventure!

I had applied to the Sub-Elite start and two weeks before, I was surprised and extremely excited to learn that I had gotten in. I met up with a caravan of 6 buses in Manhattan and climbed up the steps to be greeted by a busful of excited runners ready to pour their hearts out on the streets of NYC. We rode over to the warmup tent and all talked about our goals and got to know each other as we mulled over which layers to wear up to the starting line and which items to leave behind. We enjoyed being a little star-struck as the elites and professionals warmed up around us.

We were walked up to the Verrazano-Narrows bridge to start our warmups up and down the bridge... some of us sneaking off onto an open bus to make use of the pitch dark bathroom on board. Gotta love nerves. After a series of strides and nervous shaking out of the legs, we lined up behind the starting line - just us and 47,000-odd people (Odd People?). Finally... after hours of build up - the literal starting cannon went off and the race began.

Up up up up and away we went over the bridge. The water below shone gorgeous and bright as the sun hit the surface and bounced back at us. A helicopter hung suspended, catching the action as the runners charged ahead. I started to hear people whooping and hollering and looked to my left as the Professional Men (who had started a good bit further back from us on the other part of the bridge) came racing up beside us. I was shocked at how close they were and how quickly they were moving and just how beautiful and special this moment was - how incredibly quick but potent it would be in my mind forever.

I felt compelled forward, even when I passed the first mile mark in 6:30 - I felt pushed by the surging crowd around me to move ever faster. To move with them. To be part of this mass of human strength and ability overflowing down the bridge. My legs moved like this was nothing. My breathing felt calm and easy. I felt the flush of excitement in my cheeks as we rounded the corner and pulled into the 2 mile mark. My split read 12:20/30ish and even my poor mental math skills very quickly determined that this was not a good thing. I took stock of the situation and tried to reign things in a little as we moved into a boulevard of people screaming for us. I hit the 5k and knew it was quick, I hit the 4 miles and knew it was fast, I hit the 10k and knew I was cooked. Second fastest 10k in my life at the start of a marathon? This cannot end well.

I remember thinking to myself as I tried to slow it down and get out of the way of the onslaught of faster/smarter runners - these cheering crowds sure aren't helping me put on the brakes! Their encouragement was so loud, so all-encompassing that I couldn't shake it. For the next few miles, I just focussed on easing up my speed - I laughed at the signs, I slapped high fives to outstretched hands, I actually listened to bands on the sidelines.

By the halfway point I had regained control of my pace but already knew it was going to be an interesting battle to the end of the race. I expected to see the boy around mile 18 so I started counting down the miles until I would see him - even if it would be ever so briefly. Mile 15 marked the first real dark (literal and figurative) part of the race for me. I finally was away from the crowds and was able to be somewhat alone in the hurt that was building up in my quadsnhamstrings but I was also trudging upwards in the dark tunnel of a bridge with over 11 miles of the race to go.

At 18 I was looking around, fiercely hopeful that I would find my husband among the masses. Amazingly, I caught him out of the corner of my eye and my spirits were revived by the look on his face. He looked exuberant, so proud, so happy - I realized that he didn't know that I was pretty much out of gas already. I focused on that for a mile or so and tried to push any negative thoughts out of my head but I at some point I realized something...

I wasn't being negative... I was being realistic. I still had 6 miles or so to go and my muscles were starting to cramp pretty badly. I walked all the water stations and slowed down significantly in between them. Going into the last 4 miles - I switched into survival mode.

Throughout it all, I was smiling despite my deep frustration with my lack of control at the beginning of the race - the spectators were just THAT good. I pushed all the comparisons with Chicago from my mind (I would deliberate that later) and thought about how happy I was going to be just to have FINISHED no matter what the clock said.

My legs had long ago given up and I had resigned myself to a possible walkyjog joggywalk into the finish when at mile 25 I saw one of the girls from the Sub-Elite bus pass me. I so badly wanted to go with her and somehow found my legs again - for ONE last mile. I decided to run the entire last 1.2 miles no matter what. I could feel a numb, vibration of pain with each and every step as I ran through the true final stretch - I felt like I was f-l-y-i-n-g.

Crossing the finish line was somewhat anti-climactic despite the huge importance I had put on it in the hours, weeks, and months leading up to the race. I was impressed with the wonderful volunteers and the sweet woman who stopped me and ceremoniously put the medal around my neck. But as my mind started to register what had happened and how far away I was from my goal, I think I was amazed at how life just went ON. I was stunned that it was just not that big of a deal.

I found my husband on the sidewalk and he walked/carried me when we couldn't get a cab and staggered the 2 miles to his sister's apartment on the upper East side. I let the emotional toll of the marathon take over me as I stumbled block after block... tears rolling away... and yet, it was ok. The only thing that wasn't ok - was how much my legs hurt. And that I couldn't reach my feet to take off my shoes. And that the edge of the bathtub was like scaling a mountain. I was not ok with not being able to step off the sidewalk or into a cab. That was not ok.

But when I sat back and looked at it all and thought about my sister running an 8 minute PR on such a difficult course and I thought about her contribution to the $34 million raised for charity that day... it was ALL ok. I thought about all the emotions that well up in someone throughout a marathon. The incredible urge to cry even when everything is fine. I thought about the thousands of people running for someone they loved and lost. I felt it all coming together like a mass of helium balloons... billowing up above me and lifting me out of my self-imposed, frustrated, disappointed little hell and into the beautiful heaven that is the true spirit of marathoning. I felt released. I feel released.

But I still can't really walk right. And I still can't really focus right now. And I still want to do it all over again and do it right and stick to the plan and be a good little runner. But we'll see - maybe someday.