I will attempt to run my first marathon on Sunday.
Nope.
I will run my first marathon on Sunday.
That's better.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Bringing Up The Rear
I have never had any intentions of being speedy. I run for three reasons: solitude, sweat, and survival. I didn't mean for all of those to start with "s" but I'm going to embrace alliteration today. I value the loneliness of runs, especially long runs. I value how exhausted it makes me, how I can manage to push one more mile out of a body that long since begged mercy. And I value how it ties me more firmly to the earth, to my life and living it, makes me prioritize what I need and what I do not, the people I want and the people I do not, makes me carve time to ensure my own happiness, the survival of my own well-being.
On Saturday I ran the White Bear Lake 20-miler. Twenty miles. This was my longest training run so I thought a race would make it moderately more passable. Races are more energetic. There's a requisite bounce when you have a number pinned to your chest, water belt strapped to your hips, gels tucked neatly in a cunning little pocket. Before a race, I always feel strong. I feel small, pretty, and tough, despite the crust of sleep in my eyes. The light is warm and lovely at 7:30 a.m. on a summer Saturday.
However, racing niceties aside, this one was tricky. Ten minutes or so after arrival I knew where I fell in the grand scheme of things. Slim, sinewy runners surrounded me talking about 3:40 marathon times being such a bummer (I wouldn't finish 20 miles in 3:40, much less 26.2). They didn't stretch, they floated from one limber, muscled pose to another, leaning on car bumpers or boyfriends, sliding their heels down a curb to ease the tension in some Achilles. All the sudden, looking around, I realized that there was a very good chance I would be the last one to cross the finish line.
I've never been last before. I've always been somewhere near the back of the middle 50%. And I'm okay with that. Speed isn't my goal, after all. But there is something terrifying about being dead last. What if they're packing up when I curve around the bend? What if they've torn down the "Finish" sign before I pass? How embarassing. They promised peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the finish line, what if those are all gone by the time I get there (I was really concerned about the pb & j)? How disappointing.
As I thought it would be better to start off at the back, as opposed to enjoying the breeze as each and every runner rushed past me, I took my spot at the very back of the group. I told myself that this race, this 20-miler, was the same as the marathon. My only opponent, my only competition, was the voice in my head that occassionally told me I could not do this. Just me. I only had to beat me. And the only way to beat me was to finish. Just finish.
The course wasn't bad, mostly flat, with two long laps around Bald Lake (a 7 mile circumference) following a windy jaunt down neighborhood streets. The laps were the painful part, of course. To be at mile 10 and have somebody speed past you, knowing they were on mile 17...that hurts. But slowly, over the course of the first hour, I passed a handful of people. I saw another handful quit around mile 12, one ambulance called. I don't feel like a better runner than these people. I just had a better day. I drank my water better. Slept better the night before. Had lots of "good luck"s from friends and family beforehand. Just a better day for me. And around that midway point I acknowledged that I would, in fact, not be last, which gave me some small comfort. And such small comfort was quickly replaced by the new anxiety: now there were 12 people behind me who would witness my defeat if I quit.
Despite passing a few people, the bulk of my time was spent alone. I never rejoined the main herd, although I saw a glimpse of a group curving around mile 13. The majority of the race was just me, winding and plodding around the lake, bribing myself with energy gels (miles 6, 12, and 18 got gels), forcing my eyes to the ground, squinting almost, when that voice started to tell me I could just quit now. The weather was bad Saturday. Perfect, perhaps, for a day on the beach, but way too warm and humid for 20 miles in the sun. A couple of times I was momentarily blinded by a bead of sweat falling slowly from a right eyelash into an innocent contact lens. I could feel prickly heat creeping up my neck, itching and promising to annoy the tar out of me later. It's in those tiny moments of annoyance, however, that I usually get my gumption back, my exhaustion lessens, my heartbeat calms, my knees agree to carry me just a bit further. I think I take such minor grievances as tiny attacks, little windows of opportunity for that part of me that doubts I am capable of this to slide in and cinch her hold (I sound schizophrenic). And so I gnash my teeth (metaphorically) and tip my head to the ground, make my peace with the road, and move on.
I finished in 3 hours, 54 minutes, which was 6 minutes less than what I envisioned as a great race. It got me thinking that maybe, just maybe, if the weather was cool the day of the Marathon, maybe I could finish just shy of 5 hours. But I'm not getting ahead of myself. I was proud of my overheated, largely solo, sub-4 hour 20-miler. I did, in fact, miss out on the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (if they ever really existed), but there were plenty of bananas and oranges to feed my carb-deprived state, and a great friend standing by with a hug after cheering me on. Bringing up the rear of the race was no embarassing feat, I clapped and smiled for those who came in after me, and they smiled the same exhausted, contented, pained smile I'm sure I displayed at my own finish. What is a spare 2 minutes? Or 2 hours? Different goals, different bodies, different battles. Each of us, at the simplest level, running against only one person, competing with the only opponent worth any attention: Doubt.
On Saturday I ran the White Bear Lake 20-miler. Twenty miles. This was my longest training run so I thought a race would make it moderately more passable. Races are more energetic. There's a requisite bounce when you have a number pinned to your chest, water belt strapped to your hips, gels tucked neatly in a cunning little pocket. Before a race, I always feel strong. I feel small, pretty, and tough, despite the crust of sleep in my eyes. The light is warm and lovely at 7:30 a.m. on a summer Saturday.
However, racing niceties aside, this one was tricky. Ten minutes or so after arrival I knew where I fell in the grand scheme of things. Slim, sinewy runners surrounded me talking about 3:40 marathon times being such a bummer (I wouldn't finish 20 miles in 3:40, much less 26.2). They didn't stretch, they floated from one limber, muscled pose to another, leaning on car bumpers or boyfriends, sliding their heels down a curb to ease the tension in some Achilles. All the sudden, looking around, I realized that there was a very good chance I would be the last one to cross the finish line.
I've never been last before. I've always been somewhere near the back of the middle 50%. And I'm okay with that. Speed isn't my goal, after all. But there is something terrifying about being dead last. What if they're packing up when I curve around the bend? What if they've torn down the "Finish" sign before I pass? How embarassing. They promised peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the finish line, what if those are all gone by the time I get there (I was really concerned about the pb & j)? How disappointing.
As I thought it would be better to start off at the back, as opposed to enjoying the breeze as each and every runner rushed past me, I took my spot at the very back of the group. I told myself that this race, this 20-miler, was the same as the marathon. My only opponent, my only competition, was the voice in my head that occassionally told me I could not do this. Just me. I only had to beat me. And the only way to beat me was to finish. Just finish.
The course wasn't bad, mostly flat, with two long laps around Bald Lake (a 7 mile circumference) following a windy jaunt down neighborhood streets. The laps were the painful part, of course. To be at mile 10 and have somebody speed past you, knowing they were on mile 17...that hurts. But slowly, over the course of the first hour, I passed a handful of people. I saw another handful quit around mile 12, one ambulance called. I don't feel like a better runner than these people. I just had a better day. I drank my water better. Slept better the night before. Had lots of "good luck"s from friends and family beforehand. Just a better day for me. And around that midway point I acknowledged that I would, in fact, not be last, which gave me some small comfort. And such small comfort was quickly replaced by the new anxiety: now there were 12 people behind me who would witness my defeat if I quit.
Despite passing a few people, the bulk of my time was spent alone. I never rejoined the main herd, although I saw a glimpse of a group curving around mile 13. The majority of the race was just me, winding and plodding around the lake, bribing myself with energy gels (miles 6, 12, and 18 got gels), forcing my eyes to the ground, squinting almost, when that voice started to tell me I could just quit now. The weather was bad Saturday. Perfect, perhaps, for a day on the beach, but way too warm and humid for 20 miles in the sun. A couple of times I was momentarily blinded by a bead of sweat falling slowly from a right eyelash into an innocent contact lens. I could feel prickly heat creeping up my neck, itching and promising to annoy the tar out of me later. It's in those tiny moments of annoyance, however, that I usually get my gumption back, my exhaustion lessens, my heartbeat calms, my knees agree to carry me just a bit further. I think I take such minor grievances as tiny attacks, little windows of opportunity for that part of me that doubts I am capable of this to slide in and cinch her hold (I sound schizophrenic). And so I gnash my teeth (metaphorically) and tip my head to the ground, make my peace with the road, and move on.
I finished in 3 hours, 54 minutes, which was 6 minutes less than what I envisioned as a great race. It got me thinking that maybe, just maybe, if the weather was cool the day of the Marathon, maybe I could finish just shy of 5 hours. But I'm not getting ahead of myself. I was proud of my overheated, largely solo, sub-4 hour 20-miler. I did, in fact, miss out on the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (if they ever really existed), but there were plenty of bananas and oranges to feed my carb-deprived state, and a great friend standing by with a hug after cheering me on. Bringing up the rear of the race was no embarassing feat, I clapped and smiled for those who came in after me, and they smiled the same exhausted, contented, pained smile I'm sure I displayed at my own finish. What is a spare 2 minutes? Or 2 hours? Different goals, different bodies, different battles. Each of us, at the simplest level, running against only one person, competing with the only opponent worth any attention: Doubt.
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