Saturday, October 29, 2005
3:53:02
Rewind seven days. Absent the usual frenzy fueled by *oh eff, the alarm didn't go off!?* and such, our journey to LGA went off w/o a hitch--peaceable and smooth. We arrived a good deal early, beating even the ever-timely-to-the-point-of-ridiculous Pa, who was en route on a bus from JFK.
An hour later found us on the smallest aircraft I've flown, maybe a 60-seater. The flight to Buffalo was noisy and uncomfy, but at an hour long, doable. From Buff we took a pricey cab to the town of Niagara Falls, which is the trappiest tourist trap I've seen in awhile. (I'd argue that gift shop magnet selection is a strong indicator, and believe you me, what I saw was expansive. Further testament, there's a Planet Hollywood and a Hard Rock, and NF is not a large place.) Lengthening the downside was the fact that it came down in sheets all day Saturday, making leisurely exploration a little less attractive. At least the day was clear enough, permitting incredible views of the falls. The only thing that stood in the way of 100 percent clarity was the smoke-like mist that jets up from the base, which in itself is a pretty cool sight.
We took a shuttle to the race-sponsored expo, where Pea modeled his first article of winter running gear.
From there it was on to dinner--for Pops and I, Pea had to hit the books--where preparatory carbs were consumed by the truckful. Sadly, Hard Rock delivered them.
The next morning...
Dressed (painstakingly, always painstakingly, for as all runners know, tights vs. shorts and long sleeves vs. short sleeves and cap vs. no cap makes all the difference in the world), loaded up (bib, timing chip, ample Gu), and theoretically ready for action, we boarded a bus that would shuttle us to the starting line. The race, see, started in downtown Buffalo and finished in Niagara Falls, CAN. It's one of only a couple of races of its kind. Supposedly there's one in Detroit w/ the same idea (heard of it, Mendy?). This year the holding area was a modern art gallery in Buff, which if I'd been less on-edge I would have been able to enjoy. I was lucky enough to catch sight of an especially-close-to-my-heart Mondrian painting, and this I decided to consider a good omen.
The gun went off right at 10:00, and this is roughly what followed. Clearly, the breakdown is more for my sake than anyone else's.
Miles 1-5: Too fast. Went out too fast. Pa and I had decided on an approx 8:20/mile pace, needing an average of 8:23/mile to re-qualify for Boston. Instead, these miles averaged around 8:08, mostly courtesy of the adrenaline factor, fellow overeager participants, and a tendency to inadvertently pick up the pace when the two of us are running together. During these miles, I felt strong enough, yet I recall an anxious twinge, an early inkling that this wasn't a pace I'd be able to keep up. We repeatedly encouraged one another to slow down, slow down, but the pace remained fairly constant.
Miles 6-10: I think this stretch was my strongest. I had my first Gu around 6, which always gives me a helpful lift. We continued at a faster clip than planned, although I believe we'd slowed to around 8:20. Still, knowing we had more than a couple of minutes in the bank felt good mentally. I remember thinking how fast the miles were ticking by... Oh, "Eye of the Tiger" may have begun streaming through my head at this point. (I could have done worse, and in fact, I did later on.) Unusually, surrounding chatter was kept to a minimum. (Typically runners blather on through at least the first eight miles or so, Pa and I included. I don't know though, the silence almost made us self-conscious, like talking wouldn't be appreciated. So we basically followed suit, which actually didn't bother me too much, considering I was mentally at ease.)
Miles 11-15: My body started talking to me--you're pushing me, girl--at around 12. This was nervewracking considering we hadn't even hit the half-marathon mark yet, but I remained strangely positive. This was also the point at which I knew ol' Pops* had more in him than I, and I repeatedly said as much. Honestly, my mind would've messed w/ me to no end if I'd contined to worry that he was slowing to my pace (by 13 it was gaining on 8:30, by 15 I'd heard *8:39* and these numbers hit me hard, as it hadn't felt like a 8:39 mile, but more like a sub-8:30), so off he went, leaving me to calculate where I was at. (He's got the fancy watch. Mine's less than.) Speaking of calculating, something interesting happens during distance running: The left brain loses out. Especially where numbers are involved, I've found--and this is supported by research I did for the RW story (it's submitted! the rough has been submitted! now my breath holds)--that it's terribly difficult to perform simple arithmetic. Diving total time by miles run, for instance, proves near impossible. Incidentally, I've found the difficulty to be a welcome distraction from the physical pain of the sport. So um, I believe "She's Got the Look" was the song of this stretch. Also some little diddy I made up as I went, "on the wire" being a few of the words, whatever that means. Total nonsense. Weird sport, this one.
Miles 16-20: Things started feeling break-y. This was the stretch during which I began envisioning myself as a marionette, my legs attached to strings lifted and lowered effortlessly from above. It was the first time I'd applied this technique, and it may have helped some. This was a segment (latter part) during which I started trading leads w/ the same few runners--although I think my pace was more or less consistent. One of them would speed up and pass me, only to fall back a few minutes later. Repeat. Repeat. It can be mentally comforting, seeing the same people mile after mile, especially toward the end of a long race, and I feel like I get to know these runners on an almost intimate level. Anyhow, although I'd started hurting a great deal--breathing was fine, legs/ankles were not--I had this recurring thought, acknowledging that regardless of my significantly slowed pace, regardless of the fact that Boston was probably out of reach, the miles were still passing at a decent rate, and I knew, knew I would cross that line w/o too much problem. Even during some of my best marathons, that kind of resolution is uncommon. As for the song of the moment, somewhere in here Stacy Q reared up, which was annoying, although less so than the boombox blaring "Barbie Girl" at one of the aid stations along the way. Ill-timed and unfortunate.
Miles 21-26: Ah, the race inside the race. Some runners speak of marathons as two separate races: the first 20 and the last 6(.2). I tend to agree, although in the past the break has occurred at closer to 22. This time, though, I'd say the worst of it started at around 19, continuing through to the finish, save maybe a small lift around 21. My pace had slowed ridiculously, to the point where I likely could have walked faster than I was running. But I refuse to walk during races, Boston 2004 being another one of those exceptions to beat all exceptions. Anyway, it was here that time started stopping, miles really dragging by. I believe I confronted the usual "why is it again that I run these again?" during this stretch, although it may have been back in the 16-20 range. I didn't dwell, as frankly there's no way a lady can come up w/ a sensible answer to such a question in the final quarter of a marathon. I recall mourning my lack of adequate training, the previous two months filled w/ excuses for shortening long runs and skipping days altogether, laughing at myself for the earlier thought that maybe, just maybe, I'm one of those people who can skate by w/ minimal training, and come race day, simply pull out all the stops and succeed. (I ran w/ a woman at SPU who fits this description, and I'm now further convinced of the rarity of her breed.) At any rate, at around 23.5 I was fixating, anticipating the final two miles, allegedly all downhill. Well, the 24 marker came and went, no hill in sight. I forged ahead, questioning two different people as to when the hell it was due. Just up ahead, almost there , I heard, but I had my doubts. Thing is, at this late point in the race, a downgrade was unlikely to help all that much. Still, I'd been expecting it.
Once my ankles had started acting up (new to me), I did my best to roll them around, to stretch them while running, and while it may have helped a little, they were still pretty shot those last kilometers. I neared the finish line, eyes scanning the crowd for Pea, and did my best to kick a bit, but I gotta tell ya, I didn't have much. Spotting Pea, I grimaced for the camera, then slowing to a walk as I finally cleared the banner overhead. My time was disappointing, but as I'd already come to terms w/ it, I felt ok. Mentally ok. Physically, no. I felt two giant growing pains throb through my legs (just like those pains, just like 'em) and I couldn't help but cry a little. This was absolutely an effect of incomplete training, as I've never before felt anything like it. A hot shower, an overdose of Ibuprofin, and a large meal later, what I can only call a runner's high took over. There came the reminder.
*RLE ran an excellent race, a result well-deserved, and indication that proper training begets success, even if you're old.
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