It has been three days since I ran my first marathon and in those three days, I have been through the whole gamut of emotions. Five and a half years ago, I hadn't even started running. And when I did start, I couldn't even make it a full mile without having to slow to a walk. On Saturday, I ran 26.2 miles. To be here is incredible to me. I have accomplished something that I had never anticipated doing. It has taken strength and determination that I didn't know I possessed.
The week leading up to the race was pure hell. I doubted my ability to run that distance. Nerves kept me on edge the entire week. It became a mental challenge to even WANT to run a marathon. But I continued on and prepared myself for the race - down to every detail. The race day dawned and my nerves were gone (which I'm sure had everything to do with the fact that I woke up at 3am and nothing to do with confidence). Nerves were gone, that is, until the bus approached the starting line out in the dark desert of Usery Park. It was 5am. And 32°. I pulled myself from the warmth of the bus and decided to stop by the porta-potties for one last go. 200+ people deep. So I waited. If I've learned anything from my limited running experience, it's that you DO NOT try to hold it. Unbeknownst to me, the gun went off while I was going to the bathroom. Not a big deal as your timing chip does not start until you cross the starting line. I made a few last minute adjustments to my gear and I was off without hesitation. It was time to run. Within 100 yards of the starting line, I had to ditch my gloves. I knew my hands would freeze, but I could not get a good grip on my water bottles. Off the gloves went. I glanced at my watch after the first mile and was shocked to see that my pace was an 8 minute mile. I eased up on speed to avoid burning out. At mile 6, I decided to eat some fuel. With endurance running, your body needs to be replenished every few miles in order to maintain blood sugar and carbohydrate levels. I use caffeinated sports beans by jelly belly; I had packed 4 packs of sports beans in the pouch of one of my water bottles. As I was fishing a pack out with my numb hands, the pack of beans fell to the ground. Gone. 3 packs left. I was more careful with the next pack. Eating and running proved to be a challenge, so I decided to walk for the next fuel break. At mile 12, I finally slowed to a walk for the first time in the race. I grabbed 1 of 2 remaining packs of sports beans and ate them as quickly as possible. The moment the last of the beans were in my mouth, I was running again. At about mile 16, I noticed the "heat"; running in 40° weather with a long sleeve compression top no longer felt comfortable. Knowing that my family was waiting at mile 18, I made the decision to alter my wardrobe. At mile 17, I slowed to a walk and started removing my bib number as quickly as I could to transfer it to my undershirt. Off when my long sleeve shirt. I moved my gear around between the pouches of my water bottles in order to ditch one. Once everything was organized, I picked up my pace and focused on speed. As I approached mile 18, I could see my family waiting to cheer me on. I yelled for the mr. to come grab the excess items as I ran past. At mile 19, I reached into my pouch for the last of my fuel. Gone. NO sports beans. I panicked. The thing about being a runner AND being a lactose intolerant celiac is that I cannot rely on what is handed out at the race stations; I have to pack my own fuel. I needed a miracle to carry me through the last 7 miles. It came in the form of oranges. The next 3 race stations were handing out orange slices and I nearly cried in relief. At mile 20, I expected to hit a wall. I felt the pain of running, sure, but no wall. No, the wall came at me like a freaking freight train at mile 22. I couldn't do it anymore. I texted the mr. and told him I couldn't finish. I was walking. I was swearing. I was quitting. But I'm too stubborn for my own good. The mental deterioration tried to pulled me down, but I fought against it. I told myself NO. I told myself JUST RUN. So I did. I ran on and off for the next 2.5 miles, walking when I felt like quitting. It was one of the most difficult inward struggles that I have ever faced - whether to give up or to keep going. At mile 24.5, I KNEW that I could finish - that I could run without stopping. I pushed myself step by step until I hit the 26 mile marker. At that point, I took off at a full sprint, running harder than I ever had in my life. I passed several people on the way to the finish line with only one goal in mind: FINISH THIS DAMN THING. And I did - without even realizing that the mr. and the littles were watching and screaming at me from the sidelines. I was done. I wanted my freaking medal. The first person that I saw after finishing the marathon was a friend that I have known since birth. Over the last year, she has become one of my greatest sources of inspiration and encouragement (outside of the mr., of course). She had run the Phoenix Half Marathon that morning with her husband and sister before waiting for me at the finish line. To top it off, she just gave birth to her youngest 12 weeks ago. She's incredible.
If you had asked me Saturday if I would do it again, my answer would have been a swift NO. But now, three days out and feeling great, I'm already fantasizing about my next marathon and what I need to do to increase my speed. 4:35:37 is not good enough for me. I want a sub 4-hr marathon. And if I get there, I know I will push for Boston. It's who I am - constantly trying to PR and go further.
I would totally drive up to Boston for that!
ReplyDelete