Command Performance
The St. George marathon is a point-to-point marathon from Central, Utah to St. George, Utah. Central, Utah (the town name is "Central", that's not a description of where relative to the rest of Utah it can be found) consists of twelve mailboxes on a kinda-paved road with tracks -- presumably driveways -- leading away into the landscape from the mailboxes. It would be generous and overstating the town's stature to say that it's not big. So everyone stays in or around St. George. Twenty four miles of highway link Central and St. George, this plus two miles of residential streets within St. George comprise the race course. The highway is totally closed to traffic for the duration of the marathon ... and for an even earlier period, meaning the only practical way to get to the race Start is on the provided school buses which depart from the race Finish starting at 4:00am for the 6:45am race start.
I was glad that we'd driven the course on Friday. We'd stopped a couple of times to get out and "feel" the hills by walking partway up, and we'd paid particular attention to landmarks. This was comforting to me. Since it's basically all on one winding highway, you can see ahead for miles. Good or bad, you knew when an uphill or a downhill would be coming.
We also went to the Expo/packet pick-up on Friday. Gah. It was stressful for me. Later Mr. Enstone said that I'd "gone inside myself". It was crowded, there were lots of people, I wanted to get out of there. Mr. Enstone made me hold up my "Small" shirt and it looked like it might swallow me whole, so that was a disappointment.... one more race shirt in my closet that I'll never wear. Mr. Enstone took a few minutes to chat with the Clif Bar pace team. Their race plan was similar to ours, though we weren't planning to run with them. And then, praise the saints, we left.
I'm a little paranoid. I tend to anticipate (expect?) problems (that never, ever) happen, and do things to survive them if they do (but they never, ever do). If I fly to a race, I carry-on things that I absolutely, absolutely, definitely, definitely can not buy as usable replacements and race in, if they are lost during travel. For marathons, this means shoes, shorts, shirt (and, yes, socks too, for completeness!) -- nothing new on race day. These items have been "long run tested" over months. Anything else -- gloves, hat, race belt -- can, at a pinch, be replaced at the Expo and raced in. I told Amy to do the same, to carry on her race-essentials (eeks, yes, told her!). She didn't say no, but I got the distinct impression she didn't agree, so I offered to hand carry her race-critical stuff. A few weeks later, Amy: "You don't want to carry my shoes etc. Extra pounds and space for you. It's a nonstop. The transfers are generally where the problems occur. I'll take my chances. (famous last words)". Me: "Ummm, yes, I do. They are little baby shoes, not too much space, ditto socks/shorts/bra/shirt, all little. We *don't* want to replicate the hassles you've just been through replacing a favoured piece of run-clothing. Yes, we can take our chances on sweats, jackets, hats, gloves, but not the important bits. Yes, it's a non-stop but that just means even less hassle for me to hand carry them (only to my seat, not also all across an interconnecting airport). Don't argue, non-negotiable, you are not checking essential run gear". So I stuffed her stuff into my carry-on with my stuff and carried it all on.
I travel some for work. But I used to travel even more and I'm a seasoned traveler, not nervous at all. On the plane on Thursday, waiting to push back from the gate, we were going over our race plan. As the jet way closed and plane went into reverse, I had some sort of anxiety attack. It was bad timing. Put away the race plan, please, I can't do this right now.
I might not be a nervous traveler, but I do find it hard to sit still for such a long day. At the airport before 8 a.m., a 3-hour flight, a 2 hour drive. I thought we'd never get there. Mr. Enstone said, "You fidget more than The Wife does."
Neither of us is in the habit of eating pasta on the eve of a long run or important race. But I am in the habit of a "simple" evening-before pre-race dinner as my important meal: plain fish, green veggies, rice. Amy is in the habit of her day-before pre-race lunch as her important meal. So, we did both. We sought out as perfect a lunch for her as we could find in St. George's dining scene and tried to do the same for me at dinner. It turns out that St. George restaurants didn't offer what I wanted, and/or, my habit actually borders on "picky". But then it struck me that "simple", "rice", "veggies" could all be satisfied with Asian food. I popped up to the local Chinese restaurant, was helped getting a "to go" order from their extensive buffet -- easily large enough for both of us -- that fit the bill "close enough", plain white rice, a broccoli-based entree and a sesame-chicken entree as the closest thing to "plain fish" that they had! :) That shared between us, plus a glass of red wine each, was our evening-before dinner. Chinese pre-marathon, was a first for both of us. And perhaps, were we the only ones eating Chinese?
HA! Quote from November 2008 Runner's World: Olympic marathoner Deena Kastor ate low-fat, high-carb Chinese food the night before winning the 2008 Olympic marathon trials in Boston. "My husband got take-out from P.F.Chang's," she says. "I'd never eaten Chinese food the night before a race. And he said, "Well, you are trying to make the team for Beijing..."
Friday night, we tried going over our race plan again. We reviewed potential mile-by-mile splits. I got overwhelmed. I'm not accustomed to micro-managing my races. I run by effort. Tears welled up in my eyes and I left the room. When I came back, Mr. Enstone said, "Are you crying? Oh no. I'm never around crying. I don't know what to do. There's no crying in our house."
On Saturday, race day, I woke early -- too early to not go back to sleep, about 1:36am -- but I got out of bed and walked through the "efficiency suite" (through the kitchen thru the dining room thru the living room (a distance of about twelve feet total!:)) to the window and looked out on dry streets. So far, so good, phew! The Happy News talking weather head had mentioned rain before we'd gone to bed, previously to that mention, the most recent suggestion was that the rain would hold off until Sunday, the day after the Saturday race. I re-awoke at 4. Amy, in the adjoining "efficiency suite" was already awake (I secretly suspect she never sleeps). Our plan was to leave the rooms at 4:50am and walk down to the race Finish to get on a bus at about 5:00am. We dressed in race gear, with an extra shirt over that, a dry-clothes bag in hand, bottles of water for drinking on the bus, and another for drinking for the first couple of miles of the race. We left the rooms at 4:50, walked out onto the sidewalk ... and felt a spot of rain. And then saw a spot on the dry pavement. Then another. Grrr. By the time we'd walked the 10 minutes to the Finish line it was raining quite decently ... not Texas rain, but Seattle rain: steady-ish, floating across the columns of light falling from the street lights. Not really dropping the temps to where we needed to put trousers on over our shorts, but annoying enough to be dampening/wetting our shirts.
We stood in line and waited to get on a bus. It was reasonably well organized, as well as you'd expect volunteers to herd antsy marathoners. We climbed up into a bus and Rogue Barb was sitting there on the front seat! Whoa! What're the odds? We'd spoken on the 'phone the previous evening, exchanged plans of "we'll try and be at the busses at 5", but still, kinda freaky coincidence. But it didn't look like there were two adjacent seats on the bus, so Amy and I turned to get back off and onto the next bus. But Barb swapped seats with another guy, and we sat where she was, she across the aisle from us with this other guy. Cool.
I panicked. No two seats together?? Then we're getting off this bus!
Somehow the rain seemed worse now. Or maybe it was just that the windscreen/windshield wiper made it seem worse? Always clearing the slate clean, preparing the surface for a new show-and-tell of the rainfall? And clearly, as the bus pulled out for the 26.2 mile drive to the Start the streets were soaking wet, the rain falling hard on the windscreen/windshield.
As the bus pulled away, I had another borderline anxiety attack, just like I'd had on the plane two days before. I clutched the sheets of paper on which I'd listed my 10 Positives. I clutched Mr. Enstone, too. I hope I didn't leave bruises. I repeated my 10 Positives in my head, and I recited my affirmations. Soon I relaxed, almost into a trance. I wasn't nervous again for the rest of the morning.
Got out of the bus it was much cooler/colder at this 2,500ft higher than town start line. Amy and I both pulled out from the crowd, put down our bags and started taking clothes out of the bag and putting them on. Unbelievably Sadie Chad Tara walked by, spotted us, cheerfully said hello's, good-morning's.
Long, long rows of porta-potties. Lots of them. More, I think, than I've seen at other races. But still with lines a dozen or so deep. I (laughingly? jokingly?) said I just needed to pee, I might just pop around the back (they backed onto nothing except people-less highway embankment). Amy said she could totally do the same. She stood guard as I disappeared behind and peed. I did the same while she did the same. We weren't quite cold enough to want to seek out a spot by the dozens of open log camp fires that the organizers had provided, but we were getting wet ... and in a sign of our unpreparedness in just this one particular aspect of our pre-race, the two of us were in the tiny minority of those not wearing disposable garbage-can liners over our heads. So we thought we'd wander over to the area of hub-ub where we kinda-thought we'd kinda-heard that they were handing out the bags. They weren't, but we found a spot out of the direct blare of the PA speakers and sat down and huddled under a towel to stay dry and warm, which mostly worked.
I confess: it's true. As many of my training partners know - and now the whole world - I can pee pretty much anywhere, if I have to.
An inordinately long discussion about sunglasses. And hats. And whether to wear either. We laughed at ourselves that it took sooo very long to decide that we didn't/wouldn't need sunglasses in the cold driving rain! So those went into our bag-check bag for the clothing drop. Then hat or no hat? I had brought a "throw-away" hat, a sacrificial one: I had needed/intended a hat as somewhere to put my sunglasses for 45 minutes from race-start time until sunrise (a shaved head not offering much purchase for said shades), at which point, I was going to toss the hat. But the morning weather presented another reason to wear the hat, to keep heat in and rain off. But Amy only had a prized Rogue hat.
I hadn't planned to wear a hat, because my experience is that when I'm working hard - and I did plan to work hard! - my hat makes me too hot. So I wear it on easy long runs, but often take it off for track workouts or races. I did have my Rogue hat in my dry-clothes bag to wear after the finish. Mr. Enstone (being considerably more level-headed than I was) told me that I should wear the hat to keep the rain off my face and out of my eyes. I could throw it to the side it if I got hot. But, but, but, that's my favorite hat! I couldn't risk never seeing it again! Could I? Finally it dawned on me and I said to him, "If I have to toss it, Ruth would give me a new hat!"
After huddling on the ground for some minutes under the towel trying -- and mainly succeeding -- to stay dry and warm, the PA/tannoy announced that the National Anthem was fast approaching. We both readied ourselves, put everything that wasn't disposable into our respective dry-clothes bags. I grabbed both bags, Amy's and mine, "I'll go and check the bags ... you stay put."
Mr. Enstone told me to stay put. Are you kidding? No way was I moving an inch until he got back!
The "clothing drop" was a mosh-pit of runners in garbage bags hurling filled plastic bags from 5, 6, 7 or more bodies deep into the back of an open U-Haul truck. No checks and balances, no volunteers checking you number was on the bag OK, just a Darwin-esque surge forward and a hurl of the bag into the cavernous truck interior. "*sigh* I hope I see that stuff again ...". On the plus side, it was quick!
I retraced my steps back to where I'd left Amy ... and she was still there. We stepped through a breached crowd-control barrier into the woods, a repeat of taking turns standing guard while the other pushed into the first row of shrubbery/bushes/trees and peed, then we headed over to seed ourselves in the starting "corral" ...
Good news; bad news. What? No, no bad news! What?
Amy: "The good news is I don't need it. The bad news, my Imodium was in the clothes bag we just checked".
Me: "Oh, I'd totally forgotten that. Here I have one. We can have half each".
Amy: "No Thank You"
Me: "Why not? Here you go, have it"
Amy: "I don't need it. That was the good news, remember?"
Me: "It's not for when you need it. It's so that you won't need it" (*)
Amy: "No Thank You"
Me: "Come on, take it".
Amy: "No, really"
Me: "Why not? Here"
Amy: " ... no"
Me: "Just eat the damn Imodium!"
Amy: "ok"
(* we'd learned earlier that each of us uses Imodium prophylactically when our running-relationship had broached that awkward long-distance endurance-racing bathroom-issues boundary!:)
I can't believe we're telling people this. It's good advice though and we should share it.
... then we headed over to seed ourselves in the starting "corral". There weren't really any corrals, the Elite's corral, then open highway. Well, runner-crowded open highway, not "starting corrals based on self-predicted finish times" like the Marketing Brochure had claimed :) We pushed through the near-side crowds to the far side of the two-lane? (one lane in each direction) highway. Lots of space really. We were just in front of the 3:40 pace group leader with his sign and balloons. We hugged together under the towel trying to stay warm.
All of the sudden, Amy said, "This is my 'Command Performance'". Not really telling me, not really asking me. More affirming aloud, as if having someone else hear it would make it more true, and I was there to hear.
Yes, exactly! I'm so glad you understood! Ruth had told her team in the first week or two to start practicing for our "Command Performance". I kept that phrase in my head. I know that what we think and what we say have a powerful influence over how we perform, so on race day I said it out loud.
We didn't hear the starting gun. Thought we were moving forward to "fill-in" the Elite corall. But we just kept moving forward ... and over the timing mats.
There was a starting gun?
Pitch, pitch black, black slick rain-wet highway. We were paranoid about looking at the road three feet in front of our feet for pitch black slick garbage bags that those in front of us had torn off and dropped ... but we never really saw any, so everyone must have been very considerate in carefully discarding them to the side.
After a mile or two it was light enough to see although still 30 minutes from official 7:31am sunrise.
Like drones around the Queen Bee, Andy, the 3:40 Clif Pacer, had a mass of 3:40wannabe runners around him -- all those whose race plans were to stick with the 40+ marathoned pace bunny, trusting him, but verifying and preparing to finish on their own if he let them down. That's a valid and sound game plan, but not one that we were following. It meant, however, that he -- and, I suspect, all the other pace groups at their respective positions on the race track -- had a throng of runners around him, congested, noisy, huddled together, but also streaming out for 20 yards ahead and 20 yards behind. In general, you end up running in close proximity to other runners. That's OK if you don't tread on their feet or they on yours, if their spitting, snorting or snotting doesn't land on your leg, arm or face, if their banter doesn't wear on you, if their elbow doesn't bang your bicep like an SOB. However, like taking a bus tour of the pristine quietness and majestic, jaw-dropping beauty of the rim of the Grand Canyon getting off at each uninhabited vista point with 60 loud tourists breathing in the fumes of an idling diesel bus engine, you run the marathon in a crowd. Where it does matter -- like the crowded, rushed, hectic bus tour vista point -- is at water stops: running in or within the gravitational field of a pace group, you enter each water stop in a crowd. The volunteers are panicked to service so many runners, there are more runners around you unexpectedly stopping to drink, or darting left to grab a drink cup, it can be is a complete CF.
Me: "Lets move slightly away from the pace group, the water stops will be a CF"
Amy: "Pull forward, or drop back?"
Me: "Uh, lets go forward".
And we did, we pulled slightly ahead of them. And stayed there until they decisively passed and dropped us on the Veyo hill.
The first waterstop would be at mile 3, which seems like a long time to wait for water. I brought each of us a cute little disposable water bottle to carry. Then I noticed that the first couple of aid stations were on both the right and left. I told Mr. Enstone it was just like in Boston, and more people tend to go to the right, so let's go left. He described it accurately: it was a CF.
Uneventful.
Uneventful? I was running by effort. Mr. Enstone said we were "a little slow". My heart skipped a beat. "Too slow?" No, he said, within the range we'd given ourselves, perfect. Whew.
Mile 5. Amy, aloud: "this is my day".
I knew it was too soon to say it aloud, and I admitted that at the time, but I said it anyway. I knew it was my day. I knew. We still stuck to our plan, though. Because we're smart :)
Me: "Premature Ejubilation". We'd first said this silly phrase the day before, we can't recall where this came from, why we first said it or remember the circumstances :( But we repeated it here, to remind ourselves that it was too soon to celebrate! Way, way too soon!
For the record, I never said that. Mr. Enstone said it. There was no "we" about it. However, I do admit that I found it to be a hysterically funny phrase.
Veyo Hill. 3:40 pace group decisively passed us. Decisively! But we didn't care, we climbed the 1.3 mile long Rain-Creek-Parkway-esque climb by effort. Really, really raining here?
Yes, it was Really, Really raining here.
The next 2-3 miles undulated but generally climbed. I became a little concerned that the 3:40 pace group was too far ahead of us. Scratch that! I didn't give a flying hoot what they were up to! I was concerned that we had fallen too far behind them -- or, more to the point, too far behind the point in time that if they were doing their job, they should be at ... and so should we within acceptable variances -- which if I couldn't see them, maybe we'd fallen out of that acceptable range?
At Austin marathon the pace bunnies carried yellow placards on a stick, the sign part being 2 or 3 feet above head height -- easily seen from 1/4 mile away. At Vancouver marathon the pace bunnies had worn 8 inch floppy ears on their hats -- not easily seen beyond 4 feet away! Today, the pace bunnies had floating (helium filled?) balloons, 3 or 4 clutched together on a string. With arms-raised, held aloft, visible from 100 yards away ... but, when the pace bunny got tired, lowered his arm, me blinking away rain, a headwind and pace bunny's forward speed conspiring to blow-lower the balloons to head height, the balloons looked just like heads with hats on them. Same shape, same height, same color. I could not, could not, not spot those damn balloons, could not spot the pace group ahead of us. As I became more anxious about not being able to see them, I developed more serious eye-strain trying to seek them out ahead of me. More anxious. More strain. More anxious. More strain. Where the hell were they? My geek-o-meter telling me we were perfect, but if so, shouldn't we see them? Be close to them? More anxious. Anxious turned to worry. To fret. To OMG!
Amy: "Mark, should we be worried that we can't see the pace group anymore?"
Me: "No, no, don't be silly, we're perfect, exactly where we need to be". *gulp* More anxious. More nervous. More worry. shit. Shit. SHIT.
The thing is, every peek at my watch, every peek at my geek-o-meter, every runMath calculation, our current effort, our current pace, every pace extrapolation, the AvgPace, the 5- & 10- mile checkpoints had us dead-perfect where we should be. So we hadn't messed up, surely they had?, they were too far ahead of where they should be? and it was disconcerting to me that I couldn't see them, that was all. However, it was with much, much relief that as the road took one of its very few wide exposed turns, coming out of Diamond Valley, coincident with a break in the worst of the rain, that we spotted the pace group ahead of us! Phew! I couldn't whoop with the pleasure that I felt lest Amy wonder why it should be such a cause for celebration, she thinking nothing was wrong! :)
I trusted Mr. Enstone (dear lord help us, I can't believe I just said that). I trusted my training. And I'd written several journal entries about how freaky spot-on my effort and pace seemed to correspond, so I trusted myself. I was simply amazed that every 5 miles when he called out a time check to see if our effort-based pacing was working, it was within a few seconds of where it should be. That's incredible!
During our drive of the course, as we descended the hill that seemed to mark "high desert" from "low(er) desert", where the volcanic black landscape turned first snow white, then rich red we'd pulled into a lay-by, used the facilities, hiked a little into the recreation park to a vista point (where there wasn't a cute little pedestrian crossing accompanying the "Wildlife Crossing" roadsign) we'd said "Once we get here, we're Golden". As I itched to say it on race day, patiently waiting to pass that exact spot, Amy: "We're golden" "Grrr, I was waiting to say that at the correct place!"
Sorry hon :(
Passed Sadie at Mile-18-ish. We had been reeling in the 3:40 pace group leader and his clutch of balloons. We were focused on the climb. Heard a "Good work guys. Looking good". I thought someone, a stranger, was being nice and encouraging us. Then "good job Amy, Mark". We both gave ourselves whiplash turning around to see who the heck knew our name, this wasn't one of those races with our name on our race number bib! It was Sadie. Super cute in her pink and black outfit, smiling not just with her mouth, but entire face. I pulled over and exchanged a few words with Sadie. It wasn't her day, was struggling with an issue she hoped wouldn't recur, but wasn't surprised that it had, and was resigned to dropping off her race pace and finishing it out easy and as enjoyably as she could. She bade us selfless words of encouragement and I had to scamper to catch Amy.
Sadie! I was surprised and sad to see Sadie, because she rightfully deserved to be way ahead of us, but I was happy that she was in good spirits. I wanted to say something, but I had to get up that hill.
Generally the road underfoot was excellent. No potholes, flat and even. For some reason, where we overtook the 3:40 pace group, the entire width of the road sloped left to right, dropping over the shoulder to the right. It was a bad camber as we passed them. It was a thrill to pass them. And trying to run the tangent to the left added to the awkwardness.
That section hurt in a not-good way. Probably my only despondent moments of the entire race. Remarkable! Of the entire race!
On several occasions I could see that the road ahead snaked/veered left or right. The ribbon of runners ahead of us, however, seemed to follow the yellow center line, or the white curb lane, not taking the shortest line. On a couple of occasions I steered us to run the tangents, a couple of others that'd've run the risk of nudging into Amy so I told her "drift left", "move right slowly". We took advantage of whatever tangents were offered, but our marathon was still 26.25 miles long!
Only because Mr. Enstone steered me. I am Queen of Tangents, but at that point, I don't think I could have figured it out if he'd drawn a diagram.
Amy: "Oh". Me: "What?" Amy: "My Quad just mis-fired!" Me: "Oh". But that was the end of the quad issues -- well, you know, other than the whole running 26.2 miles on them, punishing them, the general brutality that they were being subjected to!
Thank god that was a brief mis-fire. It scared me.
12K to go.
Amy: "I can close this. I'm a closer."
Me: "Yes, but of 10K, not 12?" Waffle. Started to close the deal.
"And on our right is where we stopped on Thursday and walked off-piste to watch the rock climbers". Then a mile later: "Oh, I was wrong before, here on our right is where we stopped on Thursday and walked off-piste to watch the rock climbers". :}
uh.... thanks?
Our nutrition plan (gels and water at Miles 0, 5, 9, 13, 17, 21; Gatorade Endurance at the other aid stations (3, 7, 11, 15, 19, 23)) called for our last gel at Mile 21. Amy has a "new tradition" of taking a Carb-Boom Apple Cinnamon flavored gel as the last gel of a race "for Claire" one of her Boston Qualifier athletes. I knew this, was also packing Carb-Booms (purposefully as backup for Amy's dining habits lest anything got dropped, lost or whatever), and had made sure I had the correct flavor left at Mile 21 just in case something had gone wrong and Amy didn't have a gel, or had the wrong flavor. Nothing had gone wrong, I had mine, and Amy had her's, saying "This one's for Claire".
Amy: "At this pace, what is our Finish time going to be?"
I stopped and stared. I forgot to put my foot down, it just hung there. Tongue lolled out. I was gobsmacked. "That's not Amy! What have you done with Amy?!?!" Ms. "I run by effort, not pace, not Outcome Focused, Effort and Process Focused". Exorcise, where is Amy, Amy are you in there, can you hear me?
Me: "Umm, Amy, I can't do the Math in my head. Besides, you don't need to know, what would you do with that information?"In my defense, it's not that I tell people never to think about pace or finish time. What I say is not to constantly extrapolate and not to be a slave to their watches, constantly worrying that they are 10 seconds slower than pace, now 5 seconds fast, etc. But cut me some slack, would you? I knew we were ahead of our goal, but it was getting to be real work, and if you'd have given me a Happy Number, I'd have known it would be worth it. Oh well. That damn "trust" thing again :)
The runners owned the road. The highway had been completely closed to all traffic for its entire width. But on maybe half a dozen occasions an Emergency vehicle had carefully squeezed by. Looking forward and down the hill, stretched out ahead of us, I could see the ribbon of runners fluttering all across the width of the highway. And behind me I heard a distant siren of an Ambulance's mournful call. A pause. Again, closer. A pause. Again, closer. Again, closer, again, again. But it wasn't clear (to me) whether it was coming up from behind me on my left or on my right. And we were flying, I was tired, didn't want to turn around to see whether we were ok, sufficiently clear of it to allow it to pass or whether Amy & I were the only thing blocking the patient in the Ambulance from care they needed at the hospital. I shouted to a spectator on the sidelines: "What side of the street is that Ambulance on?" "The other side, you're OK." It called as it passed by on the other side of the street.
Yes, we were flying. I must have been extremely focused at that point, because I heard you ask and I heard the answer, but I never heard an ambulance. Until - Holy Crap! - all the sudden I heard the "BWOOP!!" next to us in the next lane, twelve feet away! and I leapt out of my skin.
Mile 22. Four point two to go. I think I said out loud, "just a 1st Street Loop!"
Mile 23, did I say it in my head, or aloud, "Pfluger Loop"? I think aloud because you reminded me of a conversation we'd had recently that a 30 minute run was so short as to not be worth it? Right?
Argh. Diagonal would not arrive! Where the hell is Diagonal? Diagonal was the name of the only street in St. George that isn't laid out in that typical grid/block format. It is a significant landmark, means that we are at the edge of town and cutting diagonally towards the final stretches of the race. But where was it?
Finally! The majestic red/orange butte that means that we get to turn onto Diagonal. Just after that left turn, the 24 mile marker. I thought " eight and a half plus eight and half is seventeen minutes... Plus a quarter, that's two minutes... And I said out loud, "Mark, what's 17 plus 2?" Nineteen. "Ok, I can run for 19 more minutes, yes! I know I can, I can run for 19 more minutes! " That's about how good my arithmetic was at that stage in the game. I knew that MGP was 8:23, which is roughly eight and a half and that's as close as I could think. What's weird though, is that I knew my effort level was higher/faster than MGP, but I hadn't put together that it meant we were really averaging closer to 8m/m or even faster at that point. But it was a relief to realize that I only had to run 19 minutes, so whatever works, I guess.
Amy: "I don't think I'll be able to walk after this". Me: "You don't have to, just get to the Finish mats".
Exactly. My calves were cramping in a bad, Bad, BAD way. Every few minutes, I'd cry out, "oh! oh no!" and Mr. Enstone would say, "Your calves again? try to relax them, try floppy feet, try..." Just before the 24 mile mark, I said "Mark, I'm not going be able to walk, I'm going to crumple at the finish" (or words similar to that effect) and he said, "Don't worry, I'll catch you. I'll carry you. Just finish. You can die a happy woman." To which I replied, "Not today!" He chuckled, "no, no, not today"
Counting city blocks. Diagonal for three. 300 West for three. Tabernacle for three. Main for three. 300 South for three.
Mr. Enstone might have been counting blocks, but I was counting laps on the track. We had 1.2 miles to go. For some reason, I said, "6 laps on the track, I can do this." Then my brain kicked in and I realized that 1.2 is only 5 laps on the track. How many times had my workout been 2000 meter repeats at Critical Velocity ???? I can do that in my sleep! I was overjoyed! Briefly. Then 5 laps turned into an unbelievably long 4, which was finally reduced to 3. I was glad we knew the course so well, but I told Mr. Enstone that I was desperate to see the 26 mile marker.
The final 2 miles of the course that we'd run Friday morning and driven thrice more seemed much longer after 24 previous miles!
The high school band was playing at the corner of Main and 300 South. I said, "Neil Diamond" but now I can't remember the song?
It sounds like we chatted during our race. We did not. In the early miles, we only said what absolutely needed to be said. The middle miles were quiet. The later miles were simply my/our thoughts escaping through our mouths of their own volition.
We entered the finish chute. A block to go. Faces stared at me/us from both sides. They looked cold and wet. They really weren't there for either of us, mostly they were there for their runner, some were no doubt St. George residents, cheering everyone, but I bet most -- especially there near the Finish line -- were waiting for their runner. They were cheering and clapping, but politely, not enthusiastically, so I did what I did at Austin and tried to rouse them, and mostly it worked, egging them on and getting a noisier cheer.
We crossed under the Finish arch, over the timing mats, both of us arms raised.
We collapsed into each other, indescribably happy. A kindly man gave us our Finishers medals. A hug. An exhausted exchange of words. I think Amy hugged me and lifted me off my feet, or maybe it was the other way around?
I could barely lift my arms, so obviously it must have been other way around :)
The volunteers -- charged with hustling runners out of the Finish area -- delicately egged us on and away, into the food area. We grabbed a drink, but Amy noticed how cold the other Finishers were so she urged us to the clothing-retrieval. On the way out of the Runners-only area, a nice man tried to usher us towards a photographer and a St. George Marathon keepsake backdrop. Amy: "I don't want my picture made; I'm done with pictures." We retrieved our clothing-bags and changed in the restrooms. We stopped to check our official results, expecting "Unofficial"-stamped printed-paper lists to be pinned to a temporary notice board. Instead, volunteers armed with light-saber-looking "wands" waved them over our timing chips, the wands were connected to Martha-esque label printers that printed out labels with our name and official Finish time. v.cool. Then we walked slowly back to our hotel in the wind and rain, so, so happy, not really caring about the weather (other than vowing to not take ice baths!)
Unanimous decision to veto ice baths.
After warming up, showering, dressing, naps, dressing, we headed out to forage for food. We made a return trip to by far our fave restaurant, The Bear Paw Cafe, for a well earned lunch, Amy: "Food is good!"
An afternoon of rehashing the days events.
Things turned out quite well, didn't they?
To put our times into a "Boston Qualifier" perspective for a moment (because so many people can relate to that concept, that measuring stick). Our time of 3:35:26&27 was within 4 1/2 minutes of my qualifying for Boston. With the way the window for Boston Qualifying times works, Amy was fifteen minutes quicker than her Boston Qualifying time for Boston 2009 but 25 minutes quicker than her Boston Qualifying time for Boston 2010 (Amy can use this race result for either or both of those Bostons:). Who the heck runs 25 minutes quicker than their Boston Qualifier?! Arguably harder than qualifying for Boston is qualifying for New York City Marathon as a guaranteed entry based on their qualifying time standards (especially using a marathon time to do so!), and it looks like Amy did that too:) Who the heck qualifies for NYC using their marathon time? That's crazy insane wickedly elite-ish fast! :)
Are you saying I'm old? Cuz that's what it sounds like you're saying. Other than that, I dunno, who? People who are lucky enough to have such a dear friend as you are? Honestly, Mr. Enstone, I'm not sure if I could have done it by myself. Clearly I was well-trained and I was prepared for the race. So it's possible, or maybe even probable, that I could have. But I'm terribly glad that I didn't have to find out. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.