The April 3
rd morning was chillier and windier then I had anticipated
as I made my way to my first marathon of the season. I could hardly believe
that I would be doing two marathons this year. I decided my first of two
marathons would be The Garden Spot Village Marathon in New Holland, PA. When I
signed up I forgot to check the evaluation map to see that this would be the
hilliest run of my life. However, what initially drew me to the marathon was
the purpose of the marathon; all proceeds would be used to help the Benevolent
Fund at the Garden Spot Village Retirement Community. The race was staffed by a
volunteer staff that was predominately made up of residents. I chuckled when I
saw that the parking lot attendants were residents of the community, the men in
their electric orange hats and vests waving (unnecessarily I might add) their
orange glow sticks and greeting runners with a smile and good morning. It was
quaint and heartwarming.
I stepped to the start line shortly before the 8am start. My normally
peaceful starting line routine was interrupted by a “Chatty Cathy” who felt
compelled to discuss my calf sleeves and her own personal sock issues. I tried
to be polite but dismissive in hopes that she would leave me alone. She finally
got the hint, or spotted something shiny, and left me to gather my thoughts and
find the right music to start off my first marathon of the season.
I have never been at a road race, much less a marathon, with so few people.
With barely 1200 of us in line for a half marathon, relay and full marathon, I
was unsure of how to act when there wasn’t pushing and shoving for space. Also
to cross the start mat in less than 15 seconds after the actual start was quite
strange for me as I am so use to the Marine Corps Marathon nearly 20 minute
wait from the first running crossing the start line to when I get my chance to
cross the start line.
It was a little congested at first as we wound through the cottage area of
the community and out into the town of New Holland. Once we left the
residential areas we were able to spread out on the country roads. The fresh
country air was amazing, though the biting cold and wind was definitely an
obstacle. I made it over the first hill large hill and was greeted by my
enthusiastically cheering mother and fiancée standing at the end of the
driveway of the house where we were staying. It was sweet to see my mom, who
had never attended one of my road races, cheering for all the runners as they
went past, shouting encouragements as they went by. Jesi even ran with me for a
few minutes to see how I was doing and to see how the course was.
I was, despite the hills, on record pace. This was the first race where I
had studied the course map and made a plan for how I would tackle the hills and
other course features.
I had done the pre-planning because I had allowed the weeks to slip by and
had only put in 48 training miles over three months (compared to my normal 350
miles over 5 months). I decided to focus on my carb loading and studying in
hopes that it would help me overcome my lapse in training.
There were water and aid stations with porta-pots every two miles, which is
a fantastic treat for any distance runner. Especially the porta-pots. Though I
will admit to a slightly disastrous, and somewhat embarrassing, pit stop around
mile six. I will forgo the details other than to say cold hands, confined space
and the monthly curse do NOT make a good combination. My shriek of surprise
from cold hands could be heard by the EMT standing nearby. Upon my exit he
asked with a concerned look if I was ok, I merely stated the seat was cold and
went running on my way for fear that there would be further questions.
It was at the next mile that I ran into, almost quite literally, Jesi, Mom
and the friends whom we were staying with. The four had kindly piled into the
van to come find me on the course and cheer me on, however I was unaware of
their supportive plan or the fact that the road had been opened up to vehicle
traffic-and my focus on the turn in the course I nearly found myself as a hood
ornament on their Toyota van. My initial thought upon seeing the closeness of
the van and the drivers seeming ignorance of the large mass of oddly dressed
people, was a string of non-Mom appropriate words followed by an internal
chuckle when I realized my mother was in fact in the van and would have
lectured me for my words. After I got over being startled, we all waved and they
cheered through the windows as I turned down yet and other hill and went on my
way.
At the start of the race there were a lot of spectators given the overall
size of the marathon pack which was a surprise. However by mile 7 and change,
just past the half marathon turn around point I noticed that the supporters
began to thin out. Within feet of passing the half marathon turn around point I
was alone. Not only were there no spectators there were no other runners. I
felt briefly that perhaps I had made a wrong turn somewhere on the flat road,
but realized I had been on a flat road so it was unlikely that I had been
misplaced. I thought briefly of the times I got stuck in Beltway traffic,
barely going 5 mph for miles, with what seemed like thousand of cars in front
of me, only to get through the congestion to find that all the other cars on
the road had seemingly been abducted by aliens. It was during my pondering of
Baltimore traffic patterns, that I spotted the orange cone that marked the
course, and the object that would keep me on course, literally and emotionally,
for the rest of the race.
As I
came to realize that I was alone I took stock, there I was, just me, my
Superman shirt and my iPod on unfamiliar roads in an unfamiliar place. At first
the experience was cool. I focused on my now personal record setting pace and
enjoyed a portion of the course that was moderately flat. My goal to not step
in any “road apples” (a local euphemism for horse poop) kept me focused as
well. I would occasionally spot other runners ahead of me in the distance and
we would play leap frog more or less as we would alternate passing each other
near water stops until they usually pulled ahead of me.
I
continued feeling wonderful with myself having made it to the half way point in
roughly three hours. I still felt fabulous, even though I felt slight
discouragement seeing the faster marathoners on their way back where the out
and back portions of course crossed together, but I had decided before taking
off that the days goal would be to finish, so I just kept putting one foot in
front of the other.
But it
was shortly after the half way point that despite my pleasure at doing so well
granted my lapse in training that my forward motion started to become more and
more difficult emotionally. While the water stops were close together and well
stocked in the beginning the further I got on the course I noticed that the
selection of protein and food was dwindling to bananas that had been sitting
out for awhile and gu’s (a product for which I have a love hate relationship
with, emphasis on hate). The promise of pretzel fish and mini Oreos were dashed
by the time I got to the tables as the supply was depleted or honestly looked so
picked over that my germaphobe OCD inner voice wouldn’t allow for me to eat
something that had been handled by other runners, who like me had no access to
soap and water.
I was
concerned, I had packed my Camelbak based on what the event organizers had stated
on the website would be available water stops. As the miles and time went by I
started to become concerned that my small Larabar bite and my bag of Skittles
wouldn’t sustain me. By mile 17 I began to ration out my Skittles, as my protein
bar had been consumed at mile 8. I understand that it is the runner’s responsibility
to provide their supplies, however when I read on the website the various items
that would be made available I packed my food supplies accordingly.
Also,
the lack of human presence began to unnerve me. I expected to be running with traffic;
I did not expect the thoughtless and reckless manner in which drivers drove the
back country roads. I found myself on numerous occasions hopping off onto the
shoulder of the road to avoid being hit. The Amish children were a welcome
sight. Many would look up from their chores and wave and those that were in the
buggies would also smile. Contrary to public perception, the Amish are a warm
and loving community and they demonstrated that at various points during day as
they waved and smiled and wished runners good luck. However, other than the sporadic
sighting of the Amish we were busily working on their farms, there were no
other people.
I managed
to run until mile 17 quite a feat considering the longest distance I had run
since my 5 mile race in December, was four miles. From mile 17-20 I was
alternating between running and walking while I would count in increments of
10. A miscalculation in my head would ultimately be my undoing during those
last 7 miles. I somehow assumed the upcoming mile was mile 20, and accordingly
calculated in my head the number of miles until the finish line. While I ran I
calculated my approximate finish time and while realizing I would no longer
break my own personal record, I would be pretty close. However, despite my
optimistic figuring the small voice in my head began to taunt me with doubts.
The
doubts got even larger when I realized that instead of approaching mile 20, I
was instead approaching mile 19. For some reason that extra 1.2 mile that I
hadn’t counted on seemed insurmountable. How I could I possible do 7.2 MORE
miles, the thought of 6.2 miles was bad enough. That moment as I came up to the
mile 19 marker I felt that I was at a crossroads with myself. Would I be able
to go on? Would I be able to make it to the finish line? Would I ever be able
to sing P!nk songs on key while running?
I
finally convinced myself that I couldn’t give up, my mileage until the finish
line was in single digits. Not to mention the lack of spectators meant that I
would have to sit on the side of the road and wait for at least 45 minutes for
one of the Garden Spot “sag” wagons to come by. So, I decided I might as well
keep going.
There
was a lot of self talk during those last few miles.
“How
after 20 miles could you possibly consider giving up?”
“You
have done this before, it’s not like this marathon thing is anything new.”
“Buck up
you Dweeb.”
“You’re
wearing a Superman shirt, live up to!”
As I
kept pushing forward, now this time walking as my Achilles was so painful that
bending my foot was excruciating. I could tell that my feet were swollen in my
shoes and my quads were on fire. But I kept going. It was during those last
miles that the orange cones became my life saver. My focus moved from the
number of miles to just get to the next cone. A tactic that helped propel me
forward.
I refocused
my mental energy from the pain in my feet and legs to the beauty around me. I
started to really notice the farm country and the horse auctions. I would wave
at each buggy as it passed. I began to focus on anything but the fact that I was
completing a marathon. I tried to ignore the growling of my stomach and would sip
water. I sang along to my iPod. I counted sheep (not to sleep but to stay
focused) and chickens. I realized that as I focused less on the task at hand I began
to move faster. Though I will admit that if I went any slower I would have been
going in reverse. I began to run in increments of five, though I only did that
a few times as I was fearful of the pain in my Achilles.
I was
disappointed that what I had hoped would be a personal record finish was no
longer a possibility-but now the focus was just finishing in one piece. I was
discouraged that aid stations had been closed up or were out of food except for
bananas that had been in the sun, going on six hours. But while I was
disappointed about the lack of people and support, I reminded myself that I could
do it and that finishing was my responsibility.
I finally
saw the turn off to the finish line and texted Jesi that I was almost there. As
I made it closer to the finish line I forced myself to run. For some reason I
have always made it a point that I run across the finish line. No matter how
exhausted or sore I am I will run across the finish line. Granted, my actual
running and my perceived running are often quite different.
As I
looked up I saw Jesi coming towards me as I slowly began to run, she stepped in
stride with me. I remember saying haltingly “can’t stop.” She smiled and said
she wasn’t about to make me. Off to the finish line we went with Jesi chatting
along beside me.
The
residents who were seated near the finish line started clapping as I stepped on
the timing mat at 6:47:04.
I must
admit that the medal was by far one of the simplest I have ever received, but
the utter joy of the residents that were passing the medals out made up for the
lack of size. The kind grandmotherly woman acted as if she was bestowing the
Olympic gold medal on my neck. She lovingly placed the medal on my shoulders,
asked if I needed anything, asked where I was from, asked me a myriad of other
questions that I’m not sure I answered articulately and thanked me for
participating in their marathon.
I was
disappointed that the concession stand had closed up and that there was no post
race food, as I had been dreaming of the homemade chicken pot pies and pretzels
that had been mentioned as post race protein fuel. But disappointment was
quickly replaced with exhaustion. I was able to hold off the feelings for the
last hour while I walked the remaining 6 miles but suddenly I wanted nothing
more than to get to the car and back to the house where we were staying. The thoughts
of a warm shower and bare feet outweighed my desire for any food. Jesi kindly
led me back to the car carrying my Camelbak while I walked wrapped in my aluminum
foil space blanket contraption. As I shuffled I finally took a breath of relief
that it was over and that I would soon be in comfortable clothes and not
moving. Analysis and thoughts of the race would come later, after the turkey
sandwich that my mom would make and a night’s sleep.
