What I remember from a 26.2 mile run.

Most of the below was written within two days of the event discussed.

I qualified for the 2011 Boston Marathon the other week by running 26.2 miles at a 7:13 per mile pace in Virginia Beach. I don’t want to talk about the race very much, though I will. What I find much more interesting is getting ready for it; not the training, but the myriad rituals and arbitrary requests and obsessive details and adjustments one makes in the days and hours leading up to the race. Planning every meal for the week; pinning a number on four times to ensure symmetry and level, ultimately settling for ‘good enough’ after recognizing the absurdity of the pursuit; eating a pre-determined 500+ calorie low fiber breakfast, drinking a pint of water, and swallowing Gu packets, all at the respective pre-race time intervals: 152 minutes, 107 minutes, 38 minutes, 13 minutes. Each of these things have their very specific motivations because heyheynameoftheblog everything is important.

Mentioning those minutes has me thinking about the fallibility of memory and leads into a general distrust of first-person accounts as historical reports. All I know about the race is what I felt. Looking at the race map (http://www.shamrockmarathon.com/Assets/marathon+map+2010.jpg), I realize that my memories of events are all wrong with regards to time and distance. The concept of time is a funny thing in a marathon and remembering emotion is a funny thing at any time. Every time I try to recall a particularly delicious meal, wonderful kiss, or stunning accomplishment, I’m only recalling what I choose to remember. Mayhaps that’s why that $50 steak was a little more dry the second time you went to that restaurant, or that ex-lover you haven’t seen in years is annoyingly much more attractive than you remember. So perhaps take the full report with a grain of salt.

I’ve never felt happier than I felt crossing the finish line with 3:09:32 on the clock. (It really said 3:09:42 according to the automated results) In the quarter mile leading up to the finish, with the clock in sight, I began pumping my right fist in the air. In the half mile leading to the finish, I smiled the biggest smile I’ve ever smiled when running. My mother said it looked pasted on, or pained. It’s hard to put into words how thrilled I was, though. I keep remembering this euphoria, the heat that came from deep in my solar plexus and the electric current washing over my shoulders. Past the finish line, after yelling curses and fist pumping, I spoke to Race Number 400, who finished just ahead of me, and he said he’d only ever felt this happy before on his wedding day. I’m very glad I get to feel this way again at least once more in my life.

Other than that: I stuck with the 3:10 pace group for the first 6.5 miles. It really didn’t feel that long at all. One of the pacers talked too much. I couldn’t handle it, so I ran ahead and formed a group with two others, one an 18 year old Marine, the other a 23 year old teacher and track coach in Ramsay, NJ. We ran three abreast. I tried to tuck in behind others when I could, to draft and conserve energy. We picked up some others along the way and made our way to the half marathon mark with big smiles and easy strides. I don’t remember much other than the fact that we made conversation and passed beachy tshirt stores.

Then they picked up the pace. I could feel we were faster, but it just felt so easy up till then that my saying to slow down fell on deaf ears (“we’re not that far ahead of the 3:10 group”). Our group expanded and a triathlete told us we had a good 7:07 pace going. I was unhappy. The course was achingly flat and straight. I thought a straight line course would be nice, especially on the nice sorts of coastal roads you find down south, with tall, straight trees, some coniferous, some not. These things move faster in a car. I was miserable from miles 15 through 20. I lost track of which mile marker we were at between 17 and 18. I took a one bathroom break at mile 16, forcing me to briefly hit a 7:00 pace to catch my companions.

When I hit mile 20 I knew I could finish strong. That was my plan going in: if I could get to 20, I just had an everyday run ahead of me with the security of four packs of Gu in my pockets. I ate them at miles 20, 22, 24, and 25. The teacher and I ran mile 20 with a woman named Tracy who told us we could settle into 9:00 minute miles and still make Boston. This was encouraging, but a dangerous thing to say. I didn’t trust her math. I’m glad I didn’t. At mile 21, the schoolteacher from Ramsay, Stephen, who kept me alive for the previous 6 miles, dropped off. I offered him a Gu. He didn’t want it. He said he just needed water. Within sight of the mile 21 water station he just fell off my shoulder. I still feel badly about this. He finished in 3:19:58.

I ran the rest of the race alone, but in sight of others. In the last two miles there were three others I kept swapping positions with. A 44 year old with a fuel belt passed me at mile 23. His name was Sean, I think. He had at least three supporting friends on the course, swapping out his empty bottles with fresh Gatorade-filled ones. I didn’t lose sight of him till after mile 25. Starting around mile 24 a guy in stars and stripes shorts that many people called Rocky was my primary rabbit. He had also started in the 3:10 pace group. His name was Michael. I passed him. I gave him a big hug after the finish. Before then I was counting down the blocks, starting at 81st street. More people began calling out my name (“Enrico!”) and I chugged along to see Lauren at mile 24, thrilled to see Lizzie at mile 25 right when I was considering starting to walk because I thought I had a few minutes to spare, then was confused to see my dad at mile 26 because he had changed sweaters. When I saw I would cross at 3:09:30, not the 3:07:50 that I thought I might, I was surprised for a second. I’m so glad I didn’t walk like I wanted to. I didn’t think that at the time. All I thought of was the joy and relief of months of hard work paying off. Then I almost cried, and then I drank a quart of chocolate milk while leaning on mother, who kept me standing.

(10 days pass and I write the following past midnight)

My father arrived as I shuffled up the boardwalk leaning heavily on my mother. I remember marveling at how she didn’t seem burdened by my weight. If we can be cute, we can say that I shouldn’t be surprised as she did carry me for 9 months and then more as a tiny person. Then my sister found us and she called Lauren, who ran down the wrong street but eventually did find us. I was sitting up on a ledge, my sister and mom icing my feet, calves, and shins. This felt much, much better than I ever thought it would. I really can’t remember when my feet had begun aching, but the experiential lesson is that there really is a difference in road feel when wearing racing flats.

Anyway, there was an ice bath in a hotel and a lunch that was two lunches: a patty melt then a plate of sausage gravy and biscuits. I then came down with a cold that took me out for three straight days, couldn’t fall into a nap, then drove back to DC with stiff, heavy legs feeling wired and tired. Lauren and I met my friend K.Bo at Brickskeller, where I introduced Lauren to Oskar Blues Old Chub. That’s a great fuckin’ beer. Hugs were given, but I don’t remember much of note other than me bringing in a box of 7-11 tissues and blowing my nose on the race shirt on the whole drive up. When we left, our server said “that guy ran a marathon today!” to the table whose orders she was taking, and I received applause.

That detail about my sickness  could be made into a self-deprecating joke about how the strongest fall from the greatest heights or something about the body’s weakness. But no. If there’s anything I have really taken away from this it’s the first step towards some swagger. I was fast. I am fast. Maybe I’m not the fastest person you know, but according to age-grading, I’m local-class. That sorta means that maybe I’m the fastest person in any given town I’m in. That’s nice to know. And I made that myself.