St George Marathon 2012
7400
runners. Each running their own race.
In
January of 2006 I ran across the finish line of a marathon for the
first time. The moment the clock passed over my head with the
crowd's cheering in my ears was a moment I could hold onto the rest
of my life.
To
have set a difficult goal, planned for the goal, overcome
the challenges of preparation, trained the body,
trained the mind, and to have accomplished the goal; the entire
process changes you. You cannot go back to thinking that "good
enough" is "good enough."
You
know better, now.
You
have reached down inside, looking for something to get you through,
something to push back the voices of doubt and discouragement. You
found it. Just like you found it running 22 miles across that
dry lake bed in Arizona when the temperature topped 95 degrees. Like
you found it when a pickup doused you with a slurry of slush and snow
while you were running on a slippery road shoulder in Ohio. Like
you found it on countless mornings when you did not want to lace up
your running shoes and get out, but you did.
That
"something" does not disappear at the finish line. When
life gets tough, you have what it takes to get tough back.
As I
rode my bike from the hotel in St George to the line of buses that
would shuttle the runners to the starting line 26.2 miles up Utah
Highway 18, I could feel that my third marathon finish line would
mean as much to me as the first two.
Many
of the people waiting to board a bus in the pre-dawn darkness would
see their first finish line today. Some of them have had many. At
least two had crossed a marathon finish over fifty times.
I sat
down in the bus next to a runner that gave me a companionable smile,
then pulled his hoodie over his head.
Message
received. “I am friendly, but want to focus and not chat for the
next 45 minutes.” Suited me, I would rather soak up the general
feel of how people prepared to run 26.2 miles as fast as they can.
Some
people talked about strategy for the course, about other races, about
victories and missed opportunities. Others stared into the darkness
at the road we were about to test ourselves on. A few people even
slept.
The
Course for the St George marathon has a net loss of almost 2500 feet.
In October this creates a challenge in the temperature difference at
the starting line, about 42 degrees today, and the finish line,
predicted to be 82 degrees.
At the beginning of the race a runner
can find thermo-blankets, hot chocolate, and bonfires. At the finish
a runner will find misters spraying cool water, Gatorade, and free
ice cream.
I was
on the first bus. As we pulled into the unloading area the
volunteers jumped to their duty stations, providing blankets,
lighting fires, playing music, and handing out beverages and fruit.
I
answered the call of nature first, then warmed myself by the fire
while I arranged my stuff into groups. First was the stuff I would
run with: clothes to toss during the first six miles of the race, my
phone and headset for taking pictures and listening to music, my
assorted energy shots of GU and Cliff and Nutrilite, and my Garmin
205 sports watch. The next pile was to be loaded into a truck and
would meet me at the finish line. I would put in my sweatshirt, ear
muffs, the light for my bicycle, and a magazine I brought but never
got around to reading.
More
buses were arriving, I drank some coffee and watched as people met up
with friends, danced to the music, stretched, and tried to keep warm.
I answered the call of nature again, this time waiting in line to do
so.
The
announcer had kept the dialog light, mentioning some of the stats of
the race and the diversity of the group of runners. He sounded
boisterous when giving accolades to the sponsors. Then he sounded a
bit serious as he mentioned that the start would take place in
fifteen minutes.
I
stayed by the fire. My time would not start until I crossed the
start line with the RFI chip in my bib. As the crowd went by I eased
into the line of runners as the pace team with a sign that said
4:00:00 went by. Breaking the four-hour mark was one of my goals
today.
About
forty feet from the start line, nature decided to stop calling me,
and started demanding my attention. I walked a bit further, thinking
it may just be a nervous twitch. No, it was not. I got out of line
and dashed for the porta-potties.
The
voice of discouragement gave me a shot across the bow.
“Stuff
is going wrong already,” it said. “Who could blame you if the
race went poorly?” I almost chuckled. That was lame. I was
thrilled this had happened before I crossed the line and started my
time. When I got out, the 5:30:00 pacer had just gone by. I got in
line.
“Who
is running their first marathon today?” She shouted.
A
chorus of cheers rose up. “Me too!” She responded.
“Just
kidding,” She reassured us amid the laughter of the crowd.
The
starting line was two rows of colorful rubber mats that crossed the
road. The readers for the RFI chips are protected underneath.
I
deliberately took all the regrets about not having enough time to
train, about the long runs I missed, about how unprepared I was, and
left them behind as I crossed the starting line. I thanked God for
new beginnings and began my race.
The
first seven miles were moderately downhill. The sun was not up, but
the sky gave just enough light to see the other runners. I was
passing a lot of people while running at a pace of 9:00 minute per
mile, but others were running faster than me.
Moving
through traffic while running reminds me of moving through traffic
while driving a truck. Looking ahead for openings, maintaining
situational awareness, being courteous. I glanced toward my “blind
spot” as I headed toward a narrow opening in the middle of a line
of slower runners. The gray-haired gentleman gaining on me nodded
for me to go first.
“Thanks,”
I said. “You go. I can barely hear your feet hit the ground.
I'll bet you're way faster than me.”
“Thank
you,” He said. “That's what I have been shooting for.” Then
he scooted through and disappeared from sight. I assumed he meant he
had been shooting for the soft foot-falls, not kicking my butt, but
who knows?
I
tossed my gloves alongside the road at mile three, and my outer shirt
at mile four. I might be able to claim them later, but they would go
to charity if not.
On
the way to Veyo hill, at mile seven, I had passed the 5:00:00 pacer
and the 4:45 pacer. I was determined to make a solid effort at the
uphills between mile seven and mile twelve. No walking, keeping a
good pace.
Just
before the hills started, we ran through Veyo, Utah. The whole town
seemed to have gotten up early to cheer the runners on. Everyone was
smiling as they ran, slapping high-fives and waving back at the
crowd.
Less
than a mile later, as the grade went to seven percent, I started to
see the detrimental effect that pushing yourself can have on runners.
People were trying to stretch out cramps, people were walking with a
limp, people were already throwing up. However, I also saw friends
encouraging each-other, I saw people get determined and press on.
I
felt great. I had trained on hills every chance I got the last
twenty weeks, and my pace was right on target. I had learned that
the best course planning on the St George Marathon
was to shoot for a negative split on the halves. In other words, I
could plan on running the second half of the race faster than the
first half. Many people run the second half fifteen minutes faster
than the first to break the four-hour mark. My pace was on target
for breaking 04:00:00 as I reached the half mark at 02:07:22.
According to theory, that is.
I had run my last marathon
in Seattle, and had hit the half mark at 01:59:50. The course in
Seattle was flat and fast in the first half. I had finished with a
time of 04:17:34 in Seattle, and was a little uncomfortable about
being behind that pace in St George. I felt like I had a lot left in
the tank at the half mark, and even at mile 17, where we topped the
last of the uphill grades. My only concern at that point was some
calf pain on a downhill about mile 15.
When we hit the first of
the long downhills, I was still soaking in the experience of the
race. My focus was there, but I was enjoying the comradeship of the
runners, getting blown away by the high desert scenery, and reading
tee-shirts. The “I am running from...” series seems to have been
popular at the expo the day before the race. I saw “I am running
from my family,” “I am running from my past,” “I am running
from YOU,” and even “I am running from the cops.”
I bumped my
speed down below 8:00 per mile pace and held it for a while. Then I
got a deep twinge in my right calf that threatened to turn into a
cramp.
I thought about my stride.
Lean toward the hill. Mid-foot strike. Shorter steps than on the
flat. Arms back a little. Everything seemed to be in order. I always
run through cramps. They usually get even with me later while I am
driving or sleeping, but they slowly go away if I keep moving. I
have no idea if that is recommended, or even wise, but it has worked
for me.
My right calf was feeling
better when my left calf started cramping hard. I tried slowing to an 8:15 pace and the pain eased a bit. I tried 8:30 and had even better
results. The hill leveled off and the pain went away. As I climbed
the hill at mile 17, everything was back to normal.
I had some concern, though.
I needed several 8:15 to 8:30 miles to make up for the slower
first half.
During training I had
encountered some calf pain on downhill grades. The internet told me
I was experiencing a form of eccentric muscle usage by “catching”
myself as I moved downhill. Although pain and DOMS, delayed onset
muscle soreness, could result, training on hills would solve the
problem. I trained as much as I could on hills, but when you work in
a vehicle that is moving 20 to 22 hours a day, your training time
could be anywhere. I had sought out hills, but could not always find
them, especially on a day that my training schedule called for fast
miles.
I reminded myself that I
had left training regrets at the starting line. I would do what I
could do.
At the next descent I could
feel the twitching kicking in after a few hundred yards. I slowed to
where I could continue. I felt like I was taking mincing steps, and
certainly not using the stride I had spent hundreds of miles working
on.
A banner told me I had
reached mile 21. I did the math, and realized a sub-four hour
marathon was not going to happen today. The voices of discouragement
and doubt gleefully began their barrage. If anyone told me that
distance running is not a mental sport, I would assume they had never
tried running at all.
All around me were people
who had started out too fast. Some were being attended to by medical
aids. Many were walking.
“Nice day for a walk,”
said the voice in my head. “You could still finish, but it would be
easier.”
I will never have this
day back. I'm going to keep running. I
shot back.
“That
sun is intense at this altitude, maybe walk in the shade and you
could go faster in town. You want to run fast when Cindy sees you,
right?”
I
want Cindy to know I do not give up when the going gets tough. I
growled mentally. I could feel the negativity affecting my energy
level, though.
A
gal running next to me moved into a walking pace with such a sigh of
relief that it almost brought tears to my eyes. NO! That
relief is for the finish line, DANIEL!
“You
really wanted that four-hour marathon, didn't you? Maybe next
time...”
Lord,
please give me something. I want to finish well. A
clear, strong, thought occurred to me.
I have
never raced without getting a personal record.
I
thought about that. Could it be true? My first 5K was in 2001.
Let's see, I've had four of them. And yes, each was a PR! Two
marathons, and the second was faster. Two sprint triathlons, and the
second was faster. Amazingly enough, I had always raced to a PR!
“Something
like that can't last forever,” the voice tried, but it was too
late. My energy and my focus were back.
Thank
you, Lord! I did the math. To
set a personal record, I could not walk at all. I needed to maintain
a 9:00 per mile pace. Some faster miles would give me a buffer zone.
I came
into town running a race against myself. I knew the crowds were
there. On a different day I could have enjoyed them. A couple of
bands were playing music. I kept my eyes forward. I hurt, but I
would not let myself think about it. Every muscle ached. The sun
beat down. Dizziness came and went as I willed it away.
A runner
went down hard ahead of me, and people came out to help him. He had
a runner's build and looked in way better shape than me. I looked
away and stopped thinking about him.
I
allowed myself to greet Cindy. She held up a sign she had made for
me the day before. She even ran a few steps with me, encouraging me
on. Later she told me I looked focused, but fast.
I
took the outside of every turn. I was not racing these people. I
wanted to see the road
ahead of me. One foot in front of the other. Later, on the race's
website, I found that in the last 7.5 miles I had passed 353
finishers, and only 11 had passed me. I never would have guessed
those numbers, I only knew the road and the sound of my feet hitting
it.
The
miles ticked off at an agonizingly slow rate.
The
last corner was less than a half-mile from the finish. I turned and
finally allowed myself to think of stopping. After that
clock and those red balloons went over my head. I had skipped the
last two aid stations because I did not want to think of anything
like comfort or water. Now I goaded myself with thoughts of juice
and water and free ice cream.
I
crossed the line and pushed stop on my Garmin watch. 04:13:18. A new
PR by over four minutes.
I took
a moment and looked around. I knew this moment would stay with me.
I had
reached the finish line of another marathon.
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