I had been sick for over two weeks with a terrible chest cough that racked my body, stripped my appetite, and generally made me feel like death. The day before had been spent in this miserable state, resting up as much as possible while working the usual thirteen hour day. Nonetheless, that night I laid out my new eggplant-colored running shorts, my green striped bra, my favorite white cotton t-shirt and packed my bag full of cough drops, tissues and granola bars. I ate some noodles in spite of my poor appetite and went to bed by 8:30. I was terribly nervous about being sick, knowing that nobody would be there with me if anything happened to me, but I had trained formally for 9 weeks and casually for 9 months for this. I was resolute.
Having checked the timetables, I made it to the station just in time for my train. I regretted not bringing my book as I sat there among the few people who were on their way to work early on a Sunday, trying to nibble at my granola bar. I could only take tiny nibbles; I just wasn't hungry. I tried sipping my water to get it down, but I just couldn't be bothered with it. There was a girl sitting across from me who I recognized from my neighborhood; she was wearing fancy tech running clothes and shoes that looked freshly broken in. She was lean, like you expect runners to be. She looked calm, listening to her iPod, chomping on a breakfast bar and staring off into space. I coughed deeply into a tissue, feeling plagued.
Finally we made it to Bowling Green and I bee-lined for the ferry with, I noticed, dozens of other runners who had collected onto my train. I secured a spot on the floor of the ferry terminal as close to the doors as possible. I wanted to get the show on the road. I was nervous. I was really congested. I sucked on cough drops to keep myself from coughing constantly. I tried again to eat my granola bar, successfully getting through half. I finished my water bottle.
On the ferry I tried to watch for the Statue of Liberty, but I just kept gazing at the orange haze of sunrise over Brooklyn and abstractly thinking about how thankful I am that I got out of my old life and made this new one for myself. I tried another bite of granola, but had to force it.
Once the ferry docked I felt like a horse out of the gate. I bolted from the doors straight to number pickup as soon as possible. Next I went straight to the massive line of port-o-potties. I looped my scoring tag on my shoe and pinned my number to my shirt while waiting in line (multitasking!), peed quickly, then checked my watch. It was only 7:30! It was still very cold outside and I felt like it was a little early for a warmup so I stretched a little first, then trotted off from the start line for a super-slow mile. I never used to be a warmer-upper, but my long distance runs have taught me that I always feel better after the first mile no matter how slow, and the same was true today. By the end of my warmup I could feel my muscles become more receptive to my will. I trotted back to the bag check, stashed my outer layer, then left my stuff for another port-o-potty run. From there it was just a few minutes to stretch a little more and line up.
When the gun went off I tried to stay calm, and walked to the start line since my tag wouldn't start timing me until I crossed it. Finally my section of the herd made it to the flags and off I went - a minor stitch creeping up on me almost immediately. I ran through it and suddenly found myself at the 2 mile mark, feeling great. My watch said 17:45 and I couldn't believe it. I hear my voice say out loud, "Oh AWESOME!" My brain kept repeating one word: "Sustain." I grabbed some water at the support station which slowed me considerably and I knew I couldn't sustain that pace the entire race, so I dialed it back a bit. But only just a bit--I was re-evaluating my goal of 2:10 and thinking I could try for 2 hours even.
Miles 3 and 4 were nearly on par with my supreme awesome pace, although they seemed to take forever. Mile 5 was tougher, a little bit of a no-man's land with no spectators and a really weird, desolate highway underpass. Finally I saw the water station up ahead and the crowd of spectators that lined the U-turn at the halfway point. I sipped a little water and forged on, but just after I tossed down my cup, my legs began to protest my pace. I slowed. Then I felt the stitch come on. I slowed more. I repeated the word "Sustain" over and over, but I knew there was no way...I had hit a wall. I forced through the stitch as best I could, but by the time I got to mile 7 I knew 2 hours was probably out of the question. Not totally, but probably. I mentally changed my goal back to 2:10 and pushed through. I kept telling myself I was on the homestretch.
Mile 8 was another no-man's land, but two sweet volunteers were out in the most desolate far reaches cheering, and I couldn't help but cheer back. I really appreciated their being there. My cough was starting to wreak more havoc.
I felt good coasting through the marker for 9, but by the time I reached 9.25 several things happened. First, my inability to eat caught up with me, and I felt a distinct lack of calories. Second, my legs hit another wall. They wanted to be done. And finally, I was quickly becoming unable to breathe. For the first time ever, the thought of quitting a race entered my mind. My legs were burning. I knew I had over three miles to go. When I stumbled by the water station at about 9.5 I was a runny-nosed, wheezing, breathless, burning mess of pain. I grabbed a Gatorade, hoping the few calories in it would push me a little farther. I slowed to a trot as I sipped it all down, evaluating the situation.Yes, I was sick. Boo fucking hoo ('scuse the language, Mom). I had watched my sister run a half-marathon sick in 80 degree New Orleans humidity. Sure, my lungs were full of phlegm, but if I could just get enough air in to cough productively, maybe I could take care of that. Yes, my legs burned, and that was my own fault for running too fast in the beginning. I had run five miles or more on no food plenty of times, why stop now? This was MY race. I didn't let anything get in the way of my training, not work, not fun, not dance, not illness, and definitely not my own self-doubt, so why should I let any of those things get in the way of finishing? There were a lot of people out there rooting for me. I'd received a ton of facebook messages and text messages that morning, and I wanted to make all those people proud of me for seeing my goal through to the end. I am Miss Adventurous, dammit. I don't quit.
Instead, I re-evaluate. So I threw out any expectation I had of a 2:10 finish and decided that I would run until the end even if it took me an extra hour. The clock said 1:33 and change when I saw the 10 mile marker up ahead and checked my watch. I told myself I had plenty of time. I could feel my pace dragging, but I cast my fate to the wind, turned my watch so I couldn't see it and forged onward. All I remember about mile 10 is that it sucked--it was slow and it burned. Somewhere around the latter part I felt faint and thought I might pass out so I dialed back the pace a little. I punched it back up a notch for mile 11. Near the end, I felt another stitch coming on, but I pushed through it and it was gone just before I closed on the 12 mile mark.
I'm not sure where I found the extra energy, but with less than a mile left to go I somehow reached far back into my muscles and employed my former high school method of finishing strong, and kicked into high gear for a sprint to the finish. I really think my final mile was 8:40 or so. I literally coasted to the finish line, barely seeing it coming--I just heard the annoying announcer guy, saw a bunch of screaming, waving people, and then suddenly it was over! I tumbled over the line with my hands over my head, instantly bursting into tears, finally able to release all the emotions that had gone into this personal victory.
A race volunteer gathered me up as I sobbed and wheezed and gulped for air. "2:10?" I choked out. "Better!" she said, "2:08! Congratulations!" I was totally shocked that I had made it under 2:10. I stumbled on toward the water table, dumping a half a cup of water into a half a cup of Gatorade. Then came the apple...this sweet girl stuck her hand out at me with the most beautiful-looking Macintosh apple I'd ever seen. I just stared at it for a minute in disbelief until she shook it. Then I grabbed it and took a bite. It was the sweetest, most delicious fruit I'd ever tasted.
I hobbled to a bench and sat down, munching slowly on the magical apple. I glanced at my watch, vaguely remembering that I pushed the button as I crossed the finish line. It said 2:02:45.
2:02:45.
It made sense. The clock was at 5 minutes by the time I crossed the start... but I could barely believe it. It was nigh unbelievable that I could possibly have finished those last three miles in 28 minutes, feeling the way I felt, having already run myself into the ground for 10 miles. I wished the race would record my splits for me. I called my mom and bubbled excitedly over the phone, wheezing and coughing and nibbling little bits off my magical apple.
So that's the story of my first half marathon. I can't wait for the next one now - I'm hoping I can find a good local one toward the middle of November, maybe?
The full marathon? That will have to wait until my work schedule slows a bit. For now I'm just worried about getting healthy and recovering my aching muscles. And my knees are telling me new shoes are definitely on the agenda.
1 comment:
Nice. Very nice. Congrats!!!
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