And two weeks after my first marathon attempt, I'm okay with that.
It did not end how I always envisioned it, with me triumphantly crossing the finish line and falling in the arms of my family and friends while onlookers cheered me on in my triumph. Actually, the end of the race was far more ignoble and embarrassing than that...I would like to say that I comported myself with grace and dignity in the face of huge disappointment and crippling pain...but hell, I'd like to say that I walked the full 13.1 miles. I'd like to say lots of things. So if you care to read about the experience, follow me past the orange squiggle (Kos said it's going to be gone with the next upgrade! I'll sure miss it).
I woke up at 4 AM on Saturday Sept 1 and it was raining severely. Big thunder and lightning booming across the valley, sheets of rain pouring against the windows, and according to the weather channel, 30% chance of that storm continuing well into the morning. Last year, I would have taken one look at that weather and said "Nope, not this girl" but then again, last year I would have never said, "Sure, I'll try the marathon." So, like the trooper I am, I went through my planned routine for the morning and got myself out the door.
The night before, I ignored one of the few pieces of advice I'd received and I messed with the footwear. I added gel inserts to lift my feet a little in the shoe (the back of my heels had been rubbed raw that week on my shoes), and I also selected soft nylon socks with aloe and coconut oil infused in them, hoping that would help minimize blisters. I used moleskin and cloth tape to create bandaids over my massive blisters on the sides of my ankles and over the raw parts on my heels. Overall, I felt good about the changes I made, and overall they were good...but for one completely unforeseen problem that ultimately led to my "downfall."
I arrived at 5:30 sharp to meet the shuttle at the end of the finish line. The buses were on time...and we spent the next 45 minutes waiting for the rest of the participants to arrive. So there's a good lesson for next time--it's not necessary to be exactly on time! The bus driver was super nice, though, and once we arrived at the starting line, he let us sit on the bus so we wouldn't be trapped in the rain. As we sat there, the sun started to rise, turning the world an interesting shade of blue and gray, as opposed to the thick, pitch dark of the thunderstorm. The lightning stopped, and the mountains around us were silent. Once I could see without the flood lights, I ventured out of the bus and took in my surroundings.
There were over 400 people waiting at the starting line. Some of them were warming up, some of them were running around the golf course, some of them were waiting in line for one of seven porta-johns. Some were young--probably 13 or 14. Some were old--probably over 70. Some were clearly very experienced. You could tell by their running gear alone. Speakers at the starting line were blasting some great songs from the 80s and 90s--who doesn't want to listen to Pour Some Sugar On Me as they stare down a mountain they're about to conquer? And I'm not being sarcastic. I didn't even realize that was exactly the song I wanted to hear until they started blasting it.
I stretched my legs, jogged in place to warm up, and was, much to my surprise, recognized by a few people who saw me out walking the route the previous weeks. I positioned myself close to the front of the crowd, and even though I knew I'd be walking this marathon, I wasn't going to walk off the starting line! A little after seven, the starter sounded, and we were off. I ran until my legs pulled tight...and then everybody ran by me.
I watched as they took off as a pack up the mountain. It was like all those horrible moments in PE when I was forced to acknowledge that I couldn't keep up with the rest of the kids. My legs were killing me. But I could push through that...that was normal for that portion of the walk. The first few miles were always the worst, without exception. What really, really bothered me was the faint pinch...the tiny twinge of pain on the outside of my right foot. It was new...I'd never felt that one before...but I felt things like it and I knew what it would mean. There was going to be a blister there when all was said and done. Was it the new shoes? The gel insert? The socks? A combination of all three? Why did my feet have to be so goddamned tempermental?
I put on "Penn's Sunday School" and settled in to enjoy my walk. About 2 miles in, I happened to glance over my shoulder and oh! Hello thar, police escort! It never even occurred to me that the police escort would be lingering behind with me. I thought, "Shit, I hope they have some good music or an audio book in that car with them" and pushed on. Gradually, the pain in my legs faded and I saw the summit of mountain up ahead. My toe was still twinging but that wasn't going to slow me down!
At the summit, the water truck was still there, and I got some gatorade and water and an encouraging smile. I began my descent into the canyon feeling pretty good. I knew that I was all slow and fat to onlookers, but I also knew that I was shaving seconds off each mile. 23 minutes and 57 seconds became 23:54, and then 23:48, and then 23:30.
Halfway down the mountain, one of the police escorts on a bike pulled up and asked me if I was okay. I said with bright enthusiasm (which I actually felt), "I'm great!" And continued. Penn was talking about Clay Aiken by Penn Jillette by Penn Jillette, and honestly, I can listen to him talk for hours about music. He's so enthusiastic and knowledgable.
At the bottom of the mountain, around 5.5 miles, I saw the original police escort (which had pulled ahead of me before the 3 mile mark) waiting, and he shouted out the window, "How are you doing? You okay?"
"Yes," I waved at him with a smile. "I'm good!"
And I was good. My foot hurt in the troublesome way, but that didn't slow me down. Because blisters are a normal part of my life and my training. They happen. If I couldn't walk through them, I wouldn't have been there in the first place.
As I entered the canyon, there were far more people on foot and on bikes, and as they passed by, they shouted things like "GO NUMBER 365! WOO! KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!" and Penn's Sunday School was making me laugh. By then the sun was completely out, the clouds were completely gone, the sky was the most amazing shade of blue, and the earth was washed clean, baptized in the much needed rain. The morning air was cool...the humidity was high so I was like, soaked through, and I had my glasses off so they wouldn't slip from my face, but I wasn't overheated. I wasn't sweating hard. I wasn't dehydrated. And I wasn't tired.
The seconds kept disappearing, too. Mile six was done in under 23 minutes and I had no reason to think I'd be slowing down. Now, I know I must have looked like I was almost done. I was shuffling a bit because of the pain in my toe, and my face was wet and flushed, and it doesn't look like I'm in great shape. But here's the secret that I knew and nobody else did...I've been through worse. The winter I damaged my achilles heel but couldn't afford to get it looked at...that winter I weighed 370 pounds and every step was absolute agony. That winter, trudging across the snow and ice in the parking lot was a dangerous, painful mission. One that left me exhausted and out of breath. A trek I had to take every day for both of my jobs. One job required me to be up and down and walking through long corridors several times an hour. The other was a teaching job at the local junior college...and so I would be standing in front of the class for an hour or so at a time, my achilles screaming in pain the whole time.
Compared to that terrible, never-ending ordeal, these six miles on a crystal clear morning through a shady canyon was really, really not that bad.
The police escort was back. The EMT truck pulled up and said, "How are you doing?"
"I'm great!"
A mile later, the truck pulls up and says, "I have to talk to you, can you stop for a minute?"
I was pretty enraged by that. Why were they stopping me? Didn't they know I was trying to make a time for myself? Didn't they know that if you stop moving, things get stiff and sore and terrible? Didn't they know I was only halfway done?
"How are you feeling?"
"Good." And then here was the stupid part. "I think I have a blister forming, but it's no big." Because it wasn't. Oh, it hurt. But not so terribly I would let it get in my way.
"Well, I need to take you off the course."
"What? Why?" My shock and anger must have been apparent because he said,
"Let me call the base." He takes his phone out. "I'm here with the young lady....blister forming...uh huh...here she is."
The seconds are sliding into minutes and I have places to be, damnit! "Yes?"
"Hi, we're going to need to take you off the course."
"Why?"
"It's a matter of personal safety."
"i'm fine...can I at least go eight miles?"
"Okay. Eight miles. I'll send Harold to meet you there, okay?"
"Okay."
I'm a deeply emotional person. Most people don't know that because I do my very best to hide and disguise that fact, obscuring it with stony silences and hiding when I feel like there are going to be tears. But when I'm physically exhausted, when I feel I'm being wronged for no reason, there's no stony silences. No walls up. No defenses. The tears start flowing at the gross injustice of the situation and I start walking faster. Much faster. I'm not listening to Penn anymore. I'm not listening to anything except the furious refrain pounding through my ears. "Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them."
Eight mile mark, and I see the truck approach. He passes me, turns around, sits at mile 8. I think "What, am I supposed to stop for him? Or go back to him? Fuck that guy, he can chase me down."
He catches up with me around 9.25. He re-iterates his orders to get me off the course, but then he adds, "It's up to you."
I wish he had kept driving. I wish they would have left me alone. I wish I could have seen past the burning pain in my foot. Now it's a hot poker working its way into my flesh, burrowing deeper with each step. Four miles stretch ahead of me. I'm so close. But I'm also not stupid. The race was scheduled for 7-9. It's about 10 at this point. I remember telling my sister to meet me at 12:30, but I know I can be there by 11:30, maybe 12, but 11:30 is within my grasp. But these are all volunteers waiting for me. ANd for some reason, they really don't think I can finish this race.
My toe.
God my toe.
I get in the truck, and I start crying. Maybe the EMT through I was crying because of pain or exhaustion, but I wasn't. I was embarrassed, and I was disappointed, and I was so fucking angry at myself and at them and at the world. I don't respond well when I don't get what I want, and I wanted that finishing time, I wanted the medal for crossing the line, I wanted to say I did it.
I cry all the way back to the finish line--all 3.75 miles.
I cry as the volunteer there tries to tell me "But you did it." I angrily rejoin, "I didn't fucking do it. I didn't get to finish."
I cry as I march up to my car.
I cry as I take my shoes off and survey the damage.
I cry as I drive to the gym.
I cry as I soak in the hot tub and swim my laps.
I cry in the sauna.
I must look like some seriously unhinged chick, but tears are useful to rid the body of all kinds of toxins, and I feel like I need to empty myself. I text my sister a brief summary of what happened so she doesn't show up, tell her I'll be at the gym so she doesn't expect me home, and she spreads the word. My friends send me encouraging texts.
Then my best friend calls me...wants to know why I called him six consecutive times, asks me if I'm in the hospital. Between the tears, I explain what happened and he laughs at me like I'm the silliest girl that ever there was.
He doesn't see the need for anger or disappointment. "You did it. You didn't stay home this morning and you didn't call it quits because you just got tired of it. You DID it."
"Can we go to lunch? I'm so hungry....so spent..."
He laughs again. "Of course we can. Can you drive over here? I'll be waiting."
He takes me to Famous Daves and he doctors my foot and when I start to feel more like myself, I say, "It was only four miles."
"I know."
"I can do that."
"I know."
"I will do that in April. Next stop, Salt Lake City Marathon."
"Goddamned right."
"And I'll be running that one."
"Yeah you will or I'll break your legs." (He was probably joking...but I wasn't...)
By the way, my final time was 3 hours and 22 minutes, 9.25 miles. Up to that point, my previous best was 8 miles in 3 hours and 23 minutes. Which was why I refused to go at mile 7. I could live with not finishing--even if I hated it--but I could never live with myself if I didn't even hit my benchmark. Never do less than what you know you're capable of...there's never an excuse for that.
And now some pictures!
First, the terrible no good very bad blister (technically there are two visible in this shot).
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The original before and after from my first obesity diary (Feb 2011 and July 2012)
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The latest comparison picture, September 6.
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