(dave e)

the story of the race

Because all forecasts called for lows in the 30s, I arrived at our running club's hotel suite (really more like a huge ballroom than a "suite") in track pants and a sweater over my singlet and shorts. Quite happy that Natalie felt better than the day before, and well-hydrated, I had another Clif Bar and finished my big Nalgene bottle of Cytomax (Mmmm, sports drink).

A couple of weeks ago three guys from my pace group decided that we would aim for a 3:40 marathon. So we planned to run together, averaging something like 8:20/minute miles. I was the only one who'd run a marathon before, and one of the three recently rolled his ankle (twice). Another guy who's joined up with us recently walked to the start area with us, but we lost touch in the throngs.

At the start, feeling great, I threw my long-sleeve t-shirt into the donate-that-unecessary-clothing truck. Gloves, singlet, and shorts seemed like plenty. "Official Race Starter" Sen. Allen gave some over-the-top comment about how patriotic all of us runners were and how we were lucky to be in America, running for freedom.

The big kaboom howitzer fired, and we were off. I was lucky enough to get myself in the first of the two start waves.

During the first two miles, no less than four people fell down within a foot of me. The first was a 200-pound guy who was right off my back; had he caught me, I would have been in serious trouble. Dodged all of them, hoping I wasn't some sort of jinx on those around me. My guys and I avoided weaving too much, the cause of most falling in the first miles of a race.

We paced ourselves just fine for the first two. 9:05 or thereabouts. The downhill of Spout Run, however, was the beginning of our trouble. An accidental 7:45 mile, when we wanted something like 8:45 for the first few, turned out to be bad news.

We fairly well locked ourselves into an 8:00 pace. A couple of times, Kevin, clearly the wisest of the lot, suggested that we ought to slow down. We tried. We really did. But once we found a pace, it was unchangeable, even though we walked for a few seconds during each water stop.

At about 10.5 miles (look to your left and wave to the White House), I realized I had at least one blister on each foot, near where the big toe meets the ball - sort of on the side). I've never had a blister from running; and 10 miles ought not cause that sort of trouble. This was a disconcerting feeling. This is also when Kevin pointed to the error of our ways. An 8:00 pace, by the way, would have bagged us a 3:30:00 marathon.

So. We slowed down a little, and hit an 8:15 mile. Passed the front of the Capitol and headed down the south side of the mall. I turned around, and Kevin was gone. Reinaldo and I looked for him, but decided to keep on going (still a bit too fast). At the half-way point, I still felt good, Reinaldo looked strong.

Huge crowds around Lincoln and West Potomac Park and the Tidal Basin made a huge difference. Honestly, writing "Dave" down both arms with a magic marker can make things happen. Everyone who yells your name becomes your own cheerleader.

Mile 16 is the beginning of the race's trek around desolate Hains Point. No crowds. No buildings. A nice view across the Potomac to the planes taking off from National. Not much else. At mile 16, Reinaldo complained about a leg cramp and said he'd catch up. I slowed down for a minute, but didn't see him again until after the race. Still running 8:00 minute miles, by the way.

At the beginning of the infinite 14th St. bridge, I knew I had a problem. Just past mile 20, I began to feel a bit wobbly. Rubbery legs. A gang from our club - people who'd run Chicago, mainly - was on the bridge, cheering (holding up a blow-up doll in one of our singlets...), handing out PowerAid.

I stopped to walk for the first time on the bridge. On the far side, at mile 22, the Almighty Wall grabbed both of my hamstrings and yanked. Muscle cramps. I stopped to walk several times between the markers for mile 22 and 25. My average pace for the first twenty: 8:10. For the last 6.2: 9:25. I worried that I wouldn't make my goal of 3:40. I worried that I wouldn't beat last year's 3:50. I worried that I wouldn't break 4:00. I worried that I wouldn't finish. When this guy started yelling and pogo-sticking just before mile 25 (I'm guessing he was having muscle spasms of the worst sort), I decided to run, without stopping, until the end. Huge crowds made a big difference.

I had to gulp down the urge to cry a bit going up the last hill (brutal bastards), but made it.

Finished in 3:42. At the finish line, the blisters were screaming, both hamstrings were in open revolt against forward motion, the quads were itching to join the mutiny, and my head felt a bit fuzzy. I walked over to the food tent, grabbed a banana, an orange, and whatever godawful juice they had out. Headed ever so slowly back to the nearby hotel, found a chair near my bag, and sat. Continued to sit until the urge to go have one of those beers got strong enough.

No complaints whatsoever about my finish time (Kevin and Reinaldo both made it in under 4:00, by the way. I'm thrilled to have run with them for so long). But what a miserable way to learn. I kept seeing this guy running in the crowds, wearing a foam approximation of a wall, on which was written, of course "Don't Let the Wall Get You!" I am not a fan of that guy. And yet, I should have listened to him.

Posted by dave at October 31, 2005 4:35 PM | TrackBack