the CIM race report

Mon 12.4.06
Hey all,

I guess race reports are the thing! Here’s mine.

Everyone says it’s about pacing oneself. Going out too fast in a marathon is one of those cardinal sins even the uninitiated know about.
But I had to find out for myself.

A few notes:
(1) My goal was to beat 3:10, qualifying me for Boston
(2) On average, I ran about 20 miles/week with a few long runs since SF marathon. For a myriad of reasons I knew I was not actually well trained. (At least I’m no longer sleeping on the theatre stage on 6th st. – another story!)
(3) Given (1) & (2), I was sure I was in for a painful experience.

But, I reasoned, youth, and a relatively high pain threshold and were handy things for just this type of circumstance. I should say here that as a child I suffered severe asthma, missing many days of school through the years. I would swim daily hoping to become stronger than the asthma. After some time I was able to successfully overcome my problem. And I never stopped loving that feeling of introducing a stimulus to my body to which, as if by magic, it would respond. The magic of re-engineering my body to fit new demands is something of endless wonder.

I had decided on my strategy early on – I wouldn’t hold a thing back. Given that I didn’t train much, I should capitalize on my natural speed early and let the last 10 or so miles fall as they may; indeed, masochism was about to find a new definition.

The first miles were ethereal. My thoughts were sharp and I kept to my other hard rule of not pushing beyond 75% of perceived effort. I was probably at 70% exertion for the first hour plus. The pace was 6:34 without more than two seconds variance for the entire first half, putting me at 2:50 pace at the half and sandwiched between freaky 15 year old twin girls that posed considerable challenge to my ego at every step. But I was barely sweating and I felt like, well, this wasn’t too bad.
Such beautiful thoughts dancing like fireflies:
I looked upon a majestic tree and realized the migratory patterns of branches and neurons alike must reflect a deeper search for shifty attractors – light, hormone…something, and therefore is reflected in their similarity of form.
Gratitude welled up for the cops protecting me from cars, for the spectators cheering me on, for the music that provided occasional beats to accompany the monotonous stepping.
Keep relaxed.
Thoughts:
I realized I spent much time in critique of the way things sometimes are and should just let their beauty unfold before me like the mysterious dance it all is. Even john cougar Mellencamp, ballading with his usually noxious and dripping sentimentally about “jack and diane” was less abrasive than usual.  It was nice. Sacramento really isn’t a bad place, I thought.
I didn’t even know how my legs were moving. I was on automatic. The benevolent puppetmaster was pulling my (ham)strings. This wasn’t running, it was flying.

Thoughts turned dark quickly though. Indeed, gratitude for my surroundings turned to harsh analysis of it all. Delusion, not enlightenment, was the stuff of prophecy! And I understood the story of Jacob and Esau; of course the beans were traded for the firstborn rights! – I would have given my legs at mile 19 for the same or less even!

Just then, a vision!, my mouth watered– could it be? Is it? yes… lemon Sorbet… on a stick! I grabbed it from the chunky goddess on the sideline, Thank you! Just as the nectar was to touch my lips I hear

“VASELINE!”

Keep going.

I did a GU and took a sip of water at the next stop. Pause. Breaking my rhythm just enough to realize my entire equilibrium depended upon some vestibular mechanism made for something else – my quads nearly seized up on me in that fraction of a moment – I decided this was what they must call the wall. The legs continued, I followed.

Pink Floyd blasts from the sidelines. Playing from -

The Wall…

Not helping.

Nor was it encouraging that the rate of people passing me was quickly increasing. This was a new sensation; that of having no control over pace at all. Right about then I’m just hoping the cushion I built is enough to keep me in it.
To say mile 22 – even in retrospect – was excruciating is laughable. The experience transcended language and was kind of like as close to pure pain as I can imagine. In that sense it was slightly religious; I was awed by my ability to simultaneously fire so many pain receptors.

I felt my mind separating from body. I played games with myself using what strength remained, it was the only way. I would find myself staring blurredly at the sky – look down to the passing pavement to remind myself I was still upright, then look to the horizon to try and fixate on a point, indeed to something besides my calves.

What was going through my head? – my quivering pupils.
I was just trying to get across the finish line. People were speeding up, giggling, enjoying… I was screeching to a halt. I was so far beyond what my body was willing to endure that I decided I’d convince myself this was the most fun I ever had. I think I started laughing for a flicker of time. But that was just some kind of electrolyte deficiency shorting my brain. No, this wasn’t vaguely fun.
I thought I must have covered 3 miles or so, my calves felt like they were going to explode, but it was actually just one, that of mile 24 or 25. About mile 25 and a bit or so I checked my watch: 3:00 even. I see the 3:10 group leader’s red sign blow by me like I was standing still. If I miss Boston by a few seconds, well, who really cares, it’ll be over at least – right?

…….oranges………beans……….steak?………bathtub….

- NO!

I couldn’t live with myself. I decided I’d rather have my toenails fall off, amputate by feet, explode my lungs, rip my hamstrings.
I pushed myself as hard as I ever have. The road passed quickly, the pain seared through every fiber of my existence and my head felt like someone was pressing on an LCD display; rainbows of color propagating from deep inside my eyeballs. The finish was up ahead. 3:09 and counting. I burst for the finish in what might have resembled an awkward youth’s lurch toward a bully. And I crossed. I put my arm around the 3:10 pace leader and asked him if I had made it, looking at the clock. He said “easily”, lying. I walked towards the fruit vendors in ambulatory fashion.
I was crippled and knew if I sat I wouldn’t get back up. I walked and David O’conner found me. Bless his soul, I don’t know what I could have been saying to the man, but he helped me take my shirt off in favor of a dry one and gave me some power bar or something. Later he told me I was ranting something about the bible and beans.

I told him I thought I needed aspirin and perhaps required medical attention. We walked to the med tent and they offered minimal help, telling me to walk over there – some nondescript place off in the distance. But things were good. I reached my goal by a minute and my shoestring strategy paid off. Bliss.

Moral: The marathon provides us insight into who we are at the most fundamental levels of competition – with ourselves. Being greedy I decided this was not enough and took it upon myself to actually push the limits further still – to the breaking point. Ill advised? questionable? strangely funny?

yes, yes, and (…now) – yes!

Yet I can’t help but stand back in awe at the arbitrary character of all of this. 26.2 miles, Sacramento, just before finals. Why?

Just because. And therein lies the best part – there was absolutely no reason to do it. I’m certain, however, that one day upon my death bed I’ll pass a lesson learned on that frosty sacramento day;

train properly for your marathons.

Final time: 3:09 something.
Qualified Boston

Happy

-ari