Post-Marathon Report

Heh. Well, it was by far the hardest physical thing I’ve ever done, and I didn’t at all have my A game like I did in my triathalon or the half-marathon. I got thrown from the start—I ended up behind my pace group and got caught in traffic and had to run the first couple miles over 10 minutes—then came the first hill, which was fine physically, but threw me mentally because by the time I crested I was already three minutes off the 4-hour goal I had set for myself but didn’t want to tell anyone about lest I jinx it.

I picked it up from here, but I wasn’t enjoying myself like I did the half-marathon. Mile 4 and 5 were my fastest of the race. By mile 6, I’d emptied my water bottle and tossed it, thinking the water stops would be enough for me—big mistake. Around mile 10, I passed the 4:15 pace group (they seemed unusually speedy) and could see the 4:00 pace group in the distance. My splits were frustrating—I’d do a sub 9er and then get a 9:20 the next. It didn’t seem like I was speeding up or slowing down, just sort of pacing with the people around me, but nonetheless. I hit the half-marathon mark right at 2:00:20, and got a lift from making it halfway, but I could feel some muscle soreness already, and knew the hydration thing was off, and then, well, I started longing for the next water stop, which turned out to be a mile down the road…

By mile 15, I knew I wasn’t going to break 4:00, and started thinking more about survival. I had dry mouth already. I slowed down at the mile 15 water break and made sure I drank a good bit of water, but it’s hard to stop and gulp properly, and TOO much water would mean cramps. So then I started up the St. John’s. Not bad really, I had a good time on it, got over, was stoked when I crested, did the downhill fairly fast. And then I turned the corner onto Willamette…

Mile 18: Suddenly I felt like I was in the Sahara. If I’d had any sense I would have stopped for a full minute and pounded a 32-ounce Gatorade. I had hot-flashes. My muscles were on fire. I had to take a leak but the Porta-potties were all taken and I refused to stop and wait. My pace slowed down to a 10:30, then an 11. I started raiding the lemonade on people’s lawns. Mile 19 was my slowest of the race-11:30—I found an open Porta-potty and rejoiced.

While I was suffering, a part of me was laughing about the dynamics of the race. To the right of me were the zombies–people limping with capsized muscles and vomiting on people’s lawns. In the middle were the ghosts, speechless hordes white as sheets, suffering through at a slow jog (me being one of them). On the left were the living—human beings jetting past me, having conversations about the fineness of the weather, the wonderful crowds, how fun it was to be running…

Mile 20: The family, some friends, and merciful me, a fresh water bottle and a Clif bar from Andrea. I gave them the thumbs up—never show them the pain… Not long after, came the Portland Fit cheering section. Not long after, Jan, a gal in my Portland Fit group who runs a similar pace to me, passed me. She’d paced herself properly and looked sharp. She told me to stay positive and hold my head up. All of the moral support helped–I still felt queasy, and my pace was completely determined by the max I could do without passing out or having my calves cramp up, but I steeled myself. Mile 21 passed by…

Mile 22: Downhill, my specialty. Running amongst the living. Pass Jan. Pass lots of pukers. The only problem? I thought mile 22 was supposed to be mile 23. My math is going all haywire. Ten minutes is passing by in an hour. My God, when will it end?

Mile 23 & 24: Uphill to the Broadway Bridge. Jan passes me with encouragement. The 4:15 pace group passes me without encouragement. I’m checking my watch too often, counting down the minutes. Praying that my aching muscles will make it somehow to the finish. I’ve finished off the water bottle already…

Downtown and in familiar territory. I grab four cups of water and dump them into my water bottle—a tactic I should have used the whole race. Confident in my hydration, I try not to become a calculator, but that’s what I become. 20 more minutes, 19:30 minutes, 19 minutes. Every step I take, I’m thinking about my muscles seizing or how woozy I feel. I’m running pavement we ran several times, though, in training and that feels good. I pour some water over my head, that feels even better…

Mile 25. I’ve managed, somehow, to get the 4:15 pace group back in my sights. Jan is running with them. Gil, this dude I ran into at 5 AM on the MAX passes me. He’s 64 years old. It’s his 36th marathon and he needs a 4:15 to qualify for Boston—go Gil go, I shout. “Shit,” he says. My spirits are high for the first time since Mile 4 really. Front Street is jampacked. Spectators are criss-crossing the street in front of me—I imagine myself tripping over some 4-year old and blacking out. Gil and Jan, who haven’t met before, are chit-chatting. They’re my lifeline to Mile 26…

Mile 26. And yeah, I’m hauling ass. Gil & Jan & the 4:15 pace group & people going nuts & the second-to-last corner all a short-distance in front of me. I turn it and the thought that I refused to have over the last 5 miles comes into my head—I’m really going to make it. My heart rate monitor reads 175. Spectators. Cheering. I pass the mother-fucking 4:15 pacers. I pass Gil. Go Gil go. I round the last bend. I put it in a gear I don’t know I have. I fist pump. I trip on the little bump that marks the finish line, stumbling, and a volunteer catches me.

4:14:42

Fast finish, the volunteer says. A little too fast, I say. We both chuckle. And then I can’t walk. And I have the chills. They put some mylar thing around my shoulders. I congratulate Jan and someone snaps a photo of the two of us. Someone hands me a Yoohoo chocolate milk. It’s gulped. I grab a banana. Can hardly peel it. Eat it. Find Gil. He’s made it with a 4:15:04. (Apparently, they give you 59 seconds, so a 4:15:59 qualifies a 65-year-old.) It takes me 15 minutes to walk a block. The family arrives after a considerable delay (I’m so dazed I don’t care) and we go out for a burger and a beer. I go home and pass out under the covers next to my son (it’s his naptime.) I shiver like a leaf.

Then for three days I crawl up the stairs and eat Vicodins like their vitamins…