Butt-cracks, Bravery, and Boston (Butt-cracks) My first competitive marathon began with me tripping face-first over the start line while pulling down the shorts of the runner in front of me. Needless to say, the day can only got better from there! After I finally stopped laughing around mile 7, I latched on to one of the top half marathon females and her running partner. My heart-rate was high, but I felt comfortable and didn’t want to come through the halfway point “behind”. Trust me, NO ONE runs negative splits in a marathon—unless they stopped for fifteen minutes after the 5k to take a dump in the bushes. When my running buddies started to kick around the 10 mile mark, and when I saw my heart reaching numbers Lance Armstrong would be impressed with, I figured it was time to let them go. But then, as if God planned it Himself, they dropped me off alongside Jefferson—an 18 year-old phenom I met at a half marathon 3 months earlier. We looked at each other, exchanged pleasantries, laughed at the coincidence, and then ran side by side for the next ten miles taking turns leading into the wind. (Bravery) Though training in the mountains looks good on paper and certainly builds strength, it doesn’t do your short-twitch muscles any good and certainly doesn’t prepare you for muggy 80-90 degree coastal weather. After marching through mile 20 while popping salt-tablets like they were M&Ms, it was time to make a decision. Do I stick with my amigo, but risk the pace slowing? Or do I break away solo into the wind and hope to hold strong through 26.2? My heart rate was well above my training zones, which I attributed to both the heat and the lower elevation, but my legs still had some spunk--a little flick. Up ahead, I noticed some poor saps that I could hunt down, but most of all, the thought of finishing with energy left in the tank and missing qualifying for Boston by a few seconds (or minutes), was a thought I was not willing to live with. So I went for it. My initial push met immediate success, catching two runners through mile 23. But alas, no one escapes a marathon untouched. Everyone pays the price at some point. I didn’t necessarily hit a “wall”, but there came a point where strand by strand I could feel my muscles ripping apart. Those final miles become a buffet for your demons to feast on your fears. Your friends—hope, joy, and fellow runners—have abandoned you. Often, at that point in the race, your mind only has space for one thought, nay, one word, and theres only two choices: “quit” and “finish”. (Boston) My only mistake was an inexact mental map of the finish and not knowing if the “41 km” sign meant there were one or two kilometers remaining. By that time, you’re counting them down one by one. Knowing I was approaching my ideal race goal of three hours and it may come down to a matter of seconds, I leaned-in one final time. The finish line crowd was small, but loud enough to drown-out any final self-doubt. Fittingly I stumbled across the finishing carpet as well, but this time due to wobbly legs and I had to catch myself. After nearly 2000 miles of running—most above 8,000 feet, 6 pairs of new shoes all ground down to the insoles, and enough 4 am mornings to wear-out an alarm clock, after a trans-continent upheaval, collecting a diverse array of intestinal infections, and being chased by more dogs than the entire force of US Postal Service carriers. . . I can officially say that I am a 2016 Boston Qualifier. It will be a fitting post-Peace Corps welcome home party indeed! Which leaves me with only two questions. First, when do we get to do this again?! And second, does anyone have six size 11 running shoes? Insoles not required.
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 23:23:27 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015