A Running Story
I Ran Another Marathon, or, My Most Disappointing Success
The Monte Cristo region of Utah has succumbed to autumn’s first advance. As the highway climbs, yellows and oranges appear on the canyon’s margins, from tree line down to the banks of the south fork of the Ogden river, a shoestring of water in mid-September. The roadway winds along, following the river’s course over the mountains toward Wyoming.
I’m crammed into the window seat of a school bus next to my brother, who, like me, is built more like an NBA player than a distance runner. It’s 6:50 am, and the sun is still settled below the mountains to the east. The start gun doesn’t fire until 8:00. We both try and close our eyes, both knowing the exercise is futile.
The bus pulls into a dirt lot which serves as parking for snowmobilers in the winter. There is a warming tent and the ubiquitous row of portable toilets. We disembark.
We stand on a ridgeline facing southeast. The Wasatch range expands into the distance; plumes of smoke from forest fires hundreds of miles to the south deliquesce into the sky. The morning sunlight washes the entire scene and warms us as we stretch and chat with other runners ahead of the start.
I have multi-tier series of goals that I review with my brother. My “A” goal is one that I achieve in a scenario in which everything goes right, my feet skim the ground, and feel good through the end. In that scenario, I believe I can run 3:45:00. Some of my training results would indicate that this is in the realm of possibility. The more realistic, or “B” goal is to stay clear of 4:00:00, and set a new personal best for the distance. In the “C” scenario, the one in which I am on course beyond 4:00:01, I declare that I’ll turn off my GPS watch, lie down and die of shame.
My brother is a seasoned marathoner. While his goals are situated in tiers like mine, his are: “A,” reach the podium, or, in his words, if no fast boys show up, maybe win, we’ll see. “B,” Top ten and try not to totally blow up, and “C,” hold six minute pace for as long as I can, blow up spectacularly, lay down in a ditch until you pass by then jog in together.”
With fifteen minutes to the gun, we do a little jogging behind the start line to warm up, tell one another good luck, and find our pace groups. For him, its easy. He lines up in front. I find the 3:45:00 pace group and resolve to begin there and feel it out.
The course runs downhill. Steeper sections at the top, level towards the end. In the start area I take a moment and scan the footwear of the other runners, the variety in shorts inseams and so on. I turn on the GPS watch and wait for it to acquire satellite connection. There is one minute to the gun. The watch is searching, searching, and there. The tether from my wrist to outer-space is complete. The starter gives the command and we all shuffle forward over the timing mats and onto the course.
Miles one-ten are unremarkable in a race of this distance. They’re the precursor, the miles that exist to sneak clandestine fatigue into your body. You run, worried that you might be going too fast, that you’ll pay for this later, but at mile 10, everything is flowing, the thought that you’ll soon not feel this good seems impossible. But you know it. I knew it.
Without any appreciable application of energy I’m running next to the pacer for the 3:40:00 group. I tell myself that this guy is my wall, that under no circumstance am I allowed to go past him. That to do so is total foolishness. We chat for a moment and he confirms that this is likely a solid approach. He jogs along, checking split times on his wrist, holding his yellow pace sign affixed to a piece of balsa wood. After a mile I either ease back or the course flattens and the pacer goes on.
At the halfway point, I’m running alongside an older fellow (older than me) who has been an avid runner since high school. He confirms that his running career was six years deep by the time I was born. He is a native of Orlando, FL. Somewhat different from the alpine heights of Utah. We chat about how the sport of running has changed over time. We move through an aid station, taking cups of Gatorade and water. He mentions that for many years, the conventional wisdom was to just run. Rehydrate when you’re done. If it was an XC practice, then perhaps a few water breaks. I pull a caffeinated gel from my pocket and suck it down. A mile or two later and my friend from Florida has faded back, or peeled off at an aid station for a bathroom break, I’m not sure.
At mile 16, the sun is way overhead, heating the canyon road. The temperature difference between sun and shade is discernable. And the heat begins to claim victims. A young woman is doubled over in fetal position on the shoulder of the road, attended to by a fellow runner who flags down a Sherriff’s deputy. A fire truck later passes by in her direction. The number of people walking vs. running begins to tilt in heavy favor of the walkers. The mid-pack of a race like this is littered with those who begin with lofty ambitions only to fall Icarus-style back to earth in the later stages, those initial breezy miles coming back to haunt anyone who let fresh legs get away from them. My early speed has waned, but only to the point where I’m hovering around my goal pace of 8:30min/mile. It’s beginning to feel like work, though. The precursor to disaster. More caffeine. More water.
Mile 20 and 21 mark the end of the conspicuous downhill. While the course loses continual elevation through the end, the change from -4% to -.5% is an appreciable handicap. My pace sags over the 9:00min/mile barrier. No problem, I tell myself, I’ve been well ahead of schedule through the first 18, and certainly I can allow a little lapse and just jog the thing in. I know, though, that this is trending in the wrong direction. And then Mile 22.
The last four miles are on open farm roads, exposed to the sun and the wind. A left turn from the mountain highway turns me directly into a brisk headwind. My pace slows again. My legs turn over slowly. The effort now, to sustain a 10:00min/mile pace is magnitudes greater than it had been to sustain the 7:55min/mile pace back around mile 5. Back when I knew deep within that I was making an error. A check of my heart rate data shows the pulse of a frightened rabbit. Way too high for the speed I was producing. All of these factors converging like waves on a fragile mind.
The first time you allow yourself to walk (aside from grabbing things at aid stations) in a road race is the time you mentally capitulate. Once you’ve done it you’ve given yourself tacit approval to do it again. And again, and again. As I run into the wind I mentally fold. I stop and walk just long enough to let my HR recover I think. There will be several more such recoveries over the finishing miles.
At mile 24 the pacer for the 3:55:00 group passes me alone. I know that the dreaded 4:00:00 time is close at hand. I look at my watch and start calculating split times rather than focusing on moving quicker. For a moment I think that I can walk the last two miles at 14:00:00 pace and be OK. Surely I can do that! But that won’t do either. I jog, I walk, I jog again. I pass by a runner, who then passes me back. A game of uncommitted leapfrog through the bucolic countryside. I come back to the highway. I know I only need cross it, and then run about a half-mile to glory. I had not come across any signs of my brother laying in a ditch, so I assume correctly that he had long since finished. (He finished 5th over all in 2:47:xx) I’m still mentally racing the 4:00:00.
Perhaps my favorite sight in sports is the finishing straight. It comes in all different dimensions and magnitudes, but the effect is always the same. This one represented the final quarter-mile, a gentle downhill slide to the finish. I look at my watch and I know I’ll make it. I won’t have to walk off in ignominy this time, though it will be too close for comfort. My brother comes off the side of the road to jog in and shoot a video for our parents, and I hear the PA announcer call my name and place of origin as I cross the final timing mat. 3:59:12.
