In the depth of my despair during the summer, preparing for Chicago and hating every dehydrating mile, I decided to sign myself up for something that was so terrifying, I would no longer fear the marathon. Which is why, one month after my marathon, with my less wonky hip and my legs that hadn’t run in weeks, I found myself in Reston, in a tank top and boxer shorts, getting ready to run the Nearly Naked Mile.
Think what you will about underwear races. That they are for a bunch of exhibitionists. Or drunks. Or drunk exhibitionists. You won’t really be wrong. But that’s not what prompted me to sign up for this race. I’m about to fall over the precipice into middle age, and on the run, thanks to past sins, age, and gravity, there is a sloppily choreographed movement of bits and pieces that really no part of the public should be confronted with. It helped that the entry fee for this race funds a firefighter’s foundation for burn victims, and that the theme for the Nearly Naked Mile is about being comfortable in your own skin. I can get behind this, because who, if they aren’t lucky enough to feel that way naturally, hasn’t been working out so they can feel good about what they’ve got. Still, I made sure I was pretty much covered as much as I usually am on a summer run.
The other thing that helped quell my terror was that there were awards for costumes at this race. That meant people would be wearing something. Also, it was at one of those fancy shopping Commons, which means there would be clean bathrooms, coffee, parking, and most importantly, bars. Finally, and I think this is the crucial key to any race that is short and barely clothed, there were 3 heats – one for the sub-7 minute milers, one for the sub-10 minute milers, and one for the rest, ensuring there would not be nearly naked mayhem and stranger danger contact as runners lapped each other and squeezed around each other on the double-loop course.
So if I was not in it to get nearly naked, why was I there? For the free can of Pabst? To ogle other middle aged runners who looked just as uncomfortable as I about standing around in boxers? For the firemen? Ok, I can’t lie – the firemen were really maybe a nice freemium.
In truth, it was the distance. One mile. One beautifully brief mile, and then I would be done. There would be no stopping. There would be that marvelous feeling of just going and not ‘saving it for later.’ There was no way I could fail. Or even really sweat!
The costumes were varied and some of them even clever. And some were just mistakes. Here, based on what I saw, laughed at, appreciated, got terrorized by, and had malfunction on me, are some clothing suggestions for your next undie race:
1. If you have the body for it, it’s a cute idea to wear nude colored underwear that you have pinned silk ivy vines to in the manner of Eve, but for god’s sake, if you plan on actually running, don’t pick a strapless bra!
2. The nude bodystocking that you can buy off of dancewear sites is only for the very brave, but should maybe be left to actual ballerinas. Period.
3. This is where those towel wraps, the ones they sell in Lillian Vernon that are stitched at the top with little shoulder ties that don’t make any sense because how long does one hang about in a towel anyway, actually come in handy. They fit the bill of being nearly naked PLUS they are handy for mopping yourself off with after the race.
4. Sporty swim suits are a fairly good choice – they are at least supportive.
5. String bikinis are none of the above.
6. Unless you are male, and then, the string bikini could win you a trophy.
7. Along the lines of number 6, if you are in it to win it (for costume) and male, the more embarrassing the better.
8. If you are female, the more embarrassing, the more embarrassing.
9. While cotton boxers might feel safely modest, unlike shorts that are actually made for running, they will ride north, resulting in the single least flattering finishing photo you have ever had (and that counts the one where the giant glob of snarf has caught the light of the flash and is glimmering like a sputastic diamond on your face).
10. If you are in it to win it for speed, I will just say that the top two finishers in each of the men and women’s elite heats were scandalously clad in: running shorts and singlet.
The thing about short, barely there costume races, is that they are fun, and funny. Running around a ritzy shopping complex in your underwear, breathing hard, laughing, trying not to get beaten by an 8 year old in a swimsuit or an 80 year old in a cape and then washing down your embarrassment with a free, cheap beer in the middle of the plaza where other families are trying to have a nice wholesome afternoon of Christmas shopping and ice skating is just plain inappropriate. Which is why I’ll be running one again next year. Besides, I want that nearly naked Barbie Doll trophy.
Next time I will try to make sure my recovery/down time does not coincide with a candy holiday
An alarm is going off so that must mean it’s 4:00am. Correction. It’s Leigh’s alarm. Set for 4:00am which means it is slightly before 4:00am. I snuggle down deeper into the bed until the real 4:00am. Leigh is instantly awake, and I can hear a crunching from her side of the bed. She is getting her oatmeal squares in right on time. The crunching is strangely comforting. It says, “you are not alone in your abject fear and nervousness!”
I finally get out of bed and climb into my outfit. It is black and cobalt blue, my favorite colors. I take a bite out of the squishy inside of half of my peanut butter sandwich. It forms a gluey ball in my throat. Ugh. I hit the peanut M&M bag. I consider just stuffing my sandwich with M&M’s, but I don’t have time for that because I have to do my hair. I split it into two sections and wind each into a bun which I affix with bobby pins to the top of either side of my head. In truth, I look like some kind of daft ninja chick, but it is the only hairdo that stays put for 20+ miles without yanking at my skull or whipping sweat into my own face. And besides, in keeping with Coach’s advice, I’m faking it until making it.
Coach is already in the lobby when we get down there. It is a luxury having her here, to get us energized, to calm our fears, and to give last minute advice. She is running today, her sweet 16th marathon, which means you can actually survive doing this 15 times!
We stop for a bit outside the “secret bathroom” – a clean public restroom down in the El. We are sitting on the curb resting our legs. Coach is keeping us entertained by giving us tips on how to pee in public without anyone really knowing. I know better at my age than to ever say never to something, but I’m pretty sure I would let my bladder explode before I would sit down on a lawn and figure out how to pee around my shorts. I practice Kegels while I am sitting there. Just in case.
Just when I can’t stand sitting and waiting any longer, it is time for us all to head to our corrals. Christine, Michelle, Leigh, myself line up in the last corral. With a gabillion other people. We are all shifting around and stretching without over-stretching and trying to be patient until the music starts and the gun goes off.
It takes awhile for the lavaflow of runners to pour out of the corrals and into the city where the spectators are allowed to be. And then I see something that I have never seen at a race before. The depth of the spectators on each side of the street almost outnumbers the runners. Everwhere I look there are just masses of people. With signs. With balloons. With flowers. With jazz hands. I am just taking advantage of the gaps and finding my comfortable pace. I lose the others in my peripheral vision, but I will myself not to spend energy worrying about where they are. I keep looking for gaps and assessing my speed.
I remember to look up. Downtown the buildings are amazing. There seems to be no code here. They are all different heights, all different styles, some classic, others angular and modern, still others seem to ripple up out of the ground, a wavy work of art.
I usually have to fight through the first two miles before I find my stride, but I am feeling unbelievably good. In fact, I’m still breathing through my nose. This makes me realize that I am probably running slower than I need to if I want to cross the half-marathon mat at my last half-marathon time. I debate picking it up a little, but I reject that plan in favor of holding onto the good feeling that I’ve got now in the hope that it will last.
At the first water stop there is a nice gap between myself and other runners and I have a clear path to the water station volunteers. I usually avoid them because I have poor hand-eye coordination and it’s rare to get a good handler. Plus I hate slowing down and then speeding back up. But, not knowing how hot it is going to get, today I am MORE obsessed with conserving my water bottles. Maybe I should grab water while I have the energy and then I will have the bottles to rely on when I am too tired for it.
I think about my half marathon buddy, Katharine, who deserted us for the promise of a good education in NY. She was an expert water stopper, always choosing her volunteer and pointing at her/him in advance so they would know she was coming for them. Point, grab, go, drink, discard. I decide to practice. I pick my volunteer, I point at her as if to say “I’m coming for YOU.” She smiles like she’s thrilled to have been chosen and holds the cup out to me. I grab (success!) and go. Not too bad. I have gas to speed up a little once the drink is in my hand. I take two sips. I don’t want sloshy stomach, so I chuck the rest. That was actually easier than fighting the bottles out and back into my belt. And kinda fun. I’m a polite girl. I was taught not to point at people. But guess what? Pointing at people is cool!
I remember my other plan of distraction was to try and find a couple of things in each neighborhood to remember. Not far into Old Town I find something. A girl in front of me has a bib pinned to her back that is pre-printed with the phrase “I am running for:” She has filled it in with the words, “My Birthday”. I pick up the pace a little so I can pull up next to her. I tap her arm and say, “Hey, Happy Birthday!” My efforts are wasted though, because she has earphones in and doesn’t even hear me, she just knows she’s been tapped by a stranger, so she makes sort of a confused face and moves over, away from me. This does not improve my opinion of people who wear earphones on a race course.
Somewhere around mile 6, near a water stop, I lift my toes up to get over the tops of discarded Dixie cups and in doing so, send my left calf into spasm. This is way too early to start cramping, so I try and stomp it out, just as we get to a short bridge. I love bridges. At home I will sometimes go out of my way to run over one. I like to look out at the water. I like to feel the bounciness of the bridge material. I like the breeze. But Chicago bridges are not paved. Instead they are open lattices of metal that you could drop a lacrosse ball through. And they are slippery. Not only is it hard to get a grip on the surface, but the lack of density is tough on my ankles. I am grateful they are at least short.
The first hour seems like it takes forever. Half way through the second hour the doubt starts to creep in. My hamstring has already started to bother my stride on the left and the calf cramping keeps coming back. I don’t know if I can sustain my energy for as long as it is going to take me to finish this thing.
Grabbing Gatorade or water at every stop is keeping me hydrated and cool, but it means I desperately have to go to the bathroom. While willing to try a new thing with the water stops, I am not at all interested in trying out the whole pee-on-the-run thing. My goal is to make it to the mat at the halfway mark before stopping. Unfortunately though, the portapotties are at the 20k marker BEFORE the halfway point. I peel off to use the john, and there is a line. I lose time, but it feels really good to stretch my legs. The break helps and I get going again, crossing the 13.1 mat a good 10 minutes slower than my best time, but still, with enough of a pad so that I can probably get across the finish line before they close down the course. Now, I just have to make it to my family.
My brother is the only member of my family who has been to any of my races. My favorite runs are the ones I have run with him. While he is not speedy, he makes up for it in company and in good easy conversation. I come away from those runs exercised and exorcised, having worked out something that has been heavy on my mind just by talking it over with him. He is the person I think about during every race when it starts to get hard – “I’m running with Damian,” I tell myself, until my breathing evens out. I’m so glad that he is here, even though I worry that he might catch me walking when he finally sees me.
When I take a few sips of Gatorade at mile 14, my stomach lurches. For the first time ever on a run, despite my best hydrating efforts, my stomach is roiling. I realize, with not just a little bit of panic, how it is that accidents can happen to the most experienced and accomplished runners. When all your focus is on keeping certain muscles firing over and over again, it becomes much harder to feel and control the other ones. At this point, if my family is at the 15 mile marker, I am going to have to fight to make it past them with clean shorts and hope the pit stop isn’t much beyond them. I start scanning both sides of the street for them. There are fewer spectators here so I should be able to find them, but the scanning is a little tiring. I am straining to hear if my name gets called out. I pass the 15 mile marker and keep looking. I don’t see two men with babies strapped to them. I make it to the pit stop and stop for I am not sure how long. I don’t time it because I do not want to have to stop again.
I get going and keep looking for them. No one looks like my sister-in-law. I fear that I missed them, and I grieve not having my cheer leaders to get me going because the pain in my hamstring has moved up to my glute and it’s getting louder with every push-off. I pass a bank. I look up at the sign showing the time and realize that I am an hour ahead of the time I said I would be at the 15 mile marker. I’ve done my math wrong.
I start walking through the water stations. I switch between sipping Gatorade or water at each stop, but I douse myself at every stop. It and all the walking are keeping me from overheating.
The Koreans are out with their drums, banging out gorgeous, loud heartbeats. It makes me smile and gives me energy, I give them the thumbs up and I pick up the pace for a bit.
When the knot in my glute gets that stabby feeling I run through the alphabet like Coach taught me. When that stops working I pretend my name is whatever name is being yelled out by people on the sidewalks. Anything to keep myself moving forward.
When I reach mile 18 I am relieved. I could walk all the rest of the way in and still make it before the cops come through to close the course. And I might have to. I pull up on the sidewalk and bend over, trying to relax the muscles. I am there so long a police woman comes over and asks me if I am ok. I say yes and thank you and walk over to medical to see if they have any Biofreeze left. I just want to shut this thing up. But they are out, so there is nothing for it but old fashioned inner motivation. I start up again.
When the 5:00:00 pace group passes me my heart sinks. I fight to keep them in sight a little longer, but they run like they are trying to make up some time, or my legs are just done, I can’t tell. My plan now is to run a little faster than feels good for as long as I can, then stop, pound my backside while I walk a little, and then do it over again. There are a lot of walkers around me at this point. I try to stick to the center of the street where it is flattest.
Somewhere between miles 19 and 23 there is a long flat stretch with no shade and nothing much of interest to look at. The only good thing about it is that I run most of it because I want to be out of it. This makes me a little spacey and at first I think I am seeing things but it looks like there is a PR shirt up ahead of me. PR is my training group, and sure enough, there is Michelle up there ahead of me. I am so relieved to see someone I know that I run up and hug her. Michelle is not really the sort of person who likes hugs, but she humors me. We keep each other company for a bit. She is nursing a side stitch. She has put her earphones in, but she can hear me, and, when she hits a certain song, she announces that it is the song that she “must” do the robot dance to. And then, Michelle, the most serious young woman I know, starts robot dancing while running. This improves my opinion of earphones on the racecourse. It is good to have something to laugh about and enjoy.
My left leg does not want to move forward. I have to think hard with every step to get it to go. Somewhere around mile 23 I tell Michelle to have a good finish – I will see her in a little bit. I pull over to the side and walk and try desperately to knead out the knot in my left butt cheek. I am strangely at peace with myself. Maybe I am delirious, I don’t know, but I know I will finish. I will take a little time now to try and work out this kink and get determined and then I will run the end.
As I’m getting my game on for this, I notice, in my peripheral vision, that someone is keeping perfect cadence with me. Step after step. He’s not passing. The voice in my head says, “Say something, stupid.” Or maybe I say it out loud because he suddenly asks, “How are you doing?”
I stop rubbing my ass long enough to say “I’m a little sore, but I’m trying to get myself together. How about yourself?”
“Same here,” he says.
We chat a little bit. This is his second marathon. His second Chicago. He did his first 3 years ago and finished in 5:45. He had to skip a year due to injury. Recovery was hard, he said, because he’s old (he’s not). He started doing his shorter runs in the Vibram 5 Fingers and has kept healthier. He had hoped to finish this year in under 5 hours. I asked what happened.
“I ate the pretzels,” he lamented.
I was puzzled. “Were they bad pretzels?”
“No,” he said, “but you know, they are dry, and when you eat the pretzel, you have to breathe through your nose. Have you tried running hard and breathing through your nose?! You can’t do it! I lost like, 10 minutes recovering from the pretzel breathing!”
He asks me how many marathons I have done and I tell him this is my first. He looks at his watch and says “Wow, you’re doing great!”
He tells me his plan is to rest and save energy so he can run the last mile. I tell him this sounds like a good plan. When we reach the 25 mile marker, I wish him luck. I am certain that he is faster than me and I do not want to attempt to keep pace with him. But he is wearing a red singlet, which is my Coach’s trademark color, and I know with certainty that this is not a coincidence, that even though she cannot be on the course to run me in my last mile, she has somehow sent me a red magnet that I need to stay close enough to so that it pulls me over the finish line.
I start jogging, weaving through the others so I don’t lose sight of him. The calf goes into spasm, but I can see the 1200m marker. 1200 meters?! I am so mad at that sign! I can’t do the math. How many track loops is that? It’s less than 4, right? Can I hop on one foot for less than 4 loops?
My magnet has suddenly pulled over to the side and is walking. I cut people off to get over to him and without stopping I grab his shoulder and pull him along. “I’m cramping! You HAVE to keep me company!”
“I am too!” he gasps.
“Ok, let’s pretend we are not – it’s not much further.”
He sees the 1000m marker before I do and announces our distance. He is breathing hard and is just behind my left shoulder. The beauty of this sudden partnership is that I don’t feel my glute if I have someone else to encourage.
We take the first of the last two turns and head up the dratted last incline. 800 meters! I KNOW this distance. Twice around the track. We so have this now. There is a guy in front of us carrying a flag. There is NO way we are not passing him. After all that flat surface my tired muscles are getting a rest while other muscles take me up the incline. Just like the beginning of the race I am picking up the pace here and there to get into the gaps between runners. My partner likes the incline too and for some of it he gets a little ahead of me, but he has not been to the Coach T school of hill running and did not know to take the smaller quick steps, so when we round the last turn for the flat straightaway, where you can see the Finish, he is tired.
400 meters and we can see the Finish Line. It is right there. I push the pace, I just want that mat. With 200 to go I ask him, “What does your watch tell you?” “5:12.” “Alright, you’re getting in under 5:15 – let’s go!” We race for the line. I know I’m running unevenly but it still is awfully good to hear the wind whistle by my ears. I haven’t heard that sound for miles. And then we are across. I shake his hand and ask his name. It is Myung. I congratulate him on his race. He replies in kind. I know I have to keep moving forward or I will never make it back to the hotel. In the commotion of getting medaled and having my photo taken I lose track of him.
I look around. Despite the number of people I feel like I ran around in the last 800 meters it looks pretty empty. Now that my heart is not so noisy I can feel my legs stiffening and throbbing. The walk from here to the exit looks endless. There is no one here that I know. No one knows that I am finished. I am that tree that falls in the forest when no one is around. This is when the tears start. Because I am tired. Because I am slower than Oprah but faster than Roker. Because I missed my brother. Because I didn’t meet my first goal or my second goal but I did meet my ultimate goal. Because the majority of runners polled by Runner’s World magazine have never cried at a race and I am a mess. Because it is ridiculous that I should be crying when I have never felt more satisfied with myself.
Post Scripts that are better than any medal:
-Myung Kim finished in 05:13:16, cutting half an hour off his first marathon time.
-I finished my first marathon in 05:18:29. There are no plans for a marathon in 2012, but taking Myung as my example, I plan on coming in under 5 in 2013. I will not eat the pretzels.
-While they missed me at mile 15, my brother and his posse caught me somewhere around mile 26. I WAS running. There is photographic proof.
It’s Saturday morning which means there is one whole day between me and the most ludicrous thing I have ever let myself get talked into.I roll over and push 3 peanut m&m’s out of their bag and consume them before I know I’ve done it.Early morning sugar.That ought to help with the jitters.I perform the following workout:3 x [Stare at the ceiling in fear.Get tired and snooze.Wake up suddenly.Mindlessly reach for and consume 3 peanut M&Ms.Mentally scold self for mindlessly eating candy before breakfast],1 x look at watch and realize it is already 10am!
At this time tomorrow I will have been up forever and I will still be running.And running.And running.3 more peanut M&M’s get inhaled.This time by Leigh, who is probably just trying to get a few for herself before I finish them all.It’s obvious that I need a good distraction.Luckily for me, it’s coming.In a Nebraska Husker T-shirt wrapped 14 pound, runny nosed, smiley faced package.The package is due at noon, but my brother is bringing it, which means it isn’t going to actually arrive until after 1:00.Leigh’s friends are coming to see her around that time as well, so we spend the rest of the morning keeping each other company and alternating between being the calm one and the nervous one.
Leigh’s friends arrive first and she heads out with them.Not long after that, I see two men with babies strapped to them and two lovely women come into the lobby.My fan base is here!My brother, my sister-in-law, her best friend, the best friend’s husband, their baby (3 mos), and my nephew (4 mos).All aunts say this, but I really do have the cutest nephew.In the world.Probably in the universe.And beyond.We spend the whole afternoon wandering to lunch, eating, finding a place that has a changing table, gorging ourselves on Garrett’s caramel corn, and then wandering back to the hotel. They tell me they all plan to be at mile 15 to cheer for me.I will probably have a better chance of seeing them than they will of picking me out of a mass of runners.I calculate the time I think I will probably hit the 15 mile marker.I start to worry about making it that far and at the same time I am glad they have chosen to be in the second half of the race because it might be the encouragement I need to muscle through.I am so very grateful that they made the trip and are here – to keep me company before, and to clap and cheer after.When I get too emotional about it I just focus on the nephew and our specialty – non-technical ballroom dancing while singing nonsense and making faces.I will be very sad when he gets too old to enjoy this, because I am really good at it.
I’ve planned my day fairly well because there is not a lot of time between my brother and the troops leaving and happy hour in the hotel lobby starting.This means that just as the baby love high wears off and the nervous edginess starts to creep into my stomach, I can dull it nicely with free hotel wine.By now all 6 of us from the distance training program are here.We all raise glasses and say encouraging things to each other and take pictures and make plans for the morning.The plan is to meet in the lobby at *gulp* 5:30.Gulp, there goes another glass of wine.
We break off into groups for dinner.I head with Leigh and Coach to the hotel restaurant so I don’t have to walk very far.We have bread and pasta.When we finish, we get sucked into the Ironman championships in Kona, which are being streamed over the internet.The feed cuts out on Craig Alexander’s win, so we miss that he beats the record, but before we can get too angry about it, we are totally sucked in by the women’s race.When we start watching, Chrissie Wellington is in 5th place.I am really glad that someone like Chrissie Wellington is racing while I am alive to watch it.I was a fan before this year, largely because I have never seen this woman race without smiling.And I don’t mean one of those small smiles that might actually be a grimace.I mean smiling with exuberance.She loves winning, and she loves the sport, and it’s a marvelous thing to watch.This year, she is gutting it out after having taken a spill from her bike just 2 weeks prior to the race.By the time they have finished covering the men, Chrissie has fought her way up to first place, and 2nd place Mirinda Carfrae, though running with her characteristically tough looking stride, is more than 3 minutes behind her.At the end of an Ironman they are running 6.5 minute miles!Chrissie is winning it injured, even though she came out of the water in 17th place.I wonder if maybe she just isn’t human and doesn’t feel anything, but when she crosses that finish line, there is shaking and crying along with the trademark smile, and when she lies down to do the “Blazeman Roll”, she is so spent she cannot finish it.She definitely felt the pain, and she kept going anyway.
Leigh and I head back to our rooms.I sigh and get ready to do the last bit of pre-race preparation that I least enjoy:affixing the bib to my shirt.It can’t go below my fuel belt because it will flap and make noise and hit the tops of my thighs and make me crazy.This means, because I am short waisted, that it has to go over my chest, which means it will kind of poof out unattractively on the sides.IF I can get the pins through the shirt at all, which I struggle with, jabbing myself several times with the pins.I curse fervently, throw the bib down on the ground and jump on top of it 50 times, but only in my head because Leigh is in the room and I don’t want to scare her.Somehow, I finally manage to get the bib on right.
There is nothing else to do, so I head down to the lobby to make my last phone call of the night to Christopher.I have been saving it to the end, because I know it will calm me down.Chris was largely responsible for the first race I ever did, a fun and friendly 5k trail race that turned what used to be just exercise for me into a love affair.I have bugged Chris a lot since then for input on all things running (and biking and swimming).Basically the way it goes is that I ask for input, he gives it to me, I reject it.But it always sort of stews in the back of my mind and sometimes I even use it, albeit long after I probably should have started.
We spend some time catching up. Tomorrow Chris will go to Albany to support a friend who is running the marathon there. This will be the first time in 3 years that I will not be a spectator at that marathon, and it seems surreal to me that the reason will be that I am running my own. I tell Chris my strategy and fret to him about not being able to pull it off. He does not tell me what I want to hear, which is that I should just go take the boat cruise tomorrow and eat cupcakes all day. Instead he is really encouraging and says that of course I can do this. Naturally, I reject his input. But later, when I finally turn off the light and tuck the comforter and the pillows around me, I let it stew in the back of my mind.
I finish packing sometime after midnight after procrastinating. As if that would slow everything down and cancel the marathon. But time passes, I know I sleep because I dream things that don’t make sense, and the alarm goes off and I drag my bags to the bus that will take me to the metro that will take me to the airport because it will take longer that way than taking a cab. But still I make it to the airport in plenty of time. I text my traveling partner and running buddy, Leigh, to make sure she is still coming. Of course she is. She is a Patent Attorney with an Engineering degree. Everything is planned and every plan is carried out by the book. You would think this would make her boring but she is also comically self-deprecating and has an incredible sense of humor that is alternately charming and sarcastic. She claims to be nervous and slow, but she is the most prepared of all of us and is definitely not slow. I beat her to the airport though (I take my victories where I can)!
We meet up outside the security line. It is being manned by a Russian lady who takes her job very seriously, and directs us through the maze of seatbelt dividers (I guess a lot of people get confused at National and try to go under and maybe even over the dividers?).
In security, my suitcase is being pulled off the line for inspection. There is a lot of arguing over who is responsible for doing the inspection and name calling amongst the TSA workers. This is very helpful to my stress level. Meanwhile, Leigh and everyone behind her are stopped up waiting for someone to come look at my bag.
The bag inspector finally arrives and goes to the scanner to see why he was summoned. The scanner girl points to the screen and says “Because I can’t tell what the hell THAT is.” He grabs my case, waits for me to retrieve my other items, and walks me over to the special inspection table. He reminds me a little of Lou from Rescue me; about 75lbs healthier, but still, not a man to be trifled with. He looks me over. At first I think he’s assessing whether I look like a terrorist or not. I say, “I’m pretty sure I know what the problem is.” He responds, before even opening the bag, “You’re a runner aren’t you? And you’ve got The Stick in here.” And now it’s official. Before I even get to Chicago, I have met a new fellow runner. He is a multi-Marine Corps Marathon vet. He offers me two pieces of advice: “LOTS of Vaseline on your feet – you will be glad you did;” and, “The day after, when you are whining about the pain, remember what my wife asked me: ‘Would you rather not have the pain and also not have that Finisher’s medal?’” I file this away for later and tell him that maybe I’ll see him at MCM in 2013. He says what all other marathoners tell me that I do not believe: “You are going to have a great time!”
I take time on the flight to review my to-do list. I’m slightly detached about it, because it still doesn’t seem possible that I am actually going to do this.
We land at the airport. Coach has already arrived and is making her way to our gate. Which means that multiple texts and phone calls to eachother later, we finally find eachother.
We drive through another state to get from the airport to the hotel. We don’t really, but it feels like we are in the cab that long. Already I have started the race strategy of saying to myself “don’t panic yet, you just have to make it to [in this case we fill in the blank with “the hotel lobby”].”
At this point, I feel like my stomach is eating itself, so I announce that I cannot possibly go to the Expo without lunch first, unless they want to see a grown woman throw a temper tantrum in the middle of the convention center. We head to Potbellies and start what will feel to me like days of endless starch consumption the likes of which my body has not seen all year. I eat my entire sandwich at lunch out of nervousness, and then I realize I’m about to get on a shuttle bus. Bus + bloating + lethargy + motion sickness=DANGER!! Plus, it’s a school bus. The kind with the tall seats so you can’t see where you’re going. And once we get on the bus, Leigh happily points out the kit affixed to the bus wall, next to the First Aid Kit. It is labeled “Bodily Fluids Clean-up Kit.”
Fortunately, we are a trio of gossipy type girls and I am well distracted on the trip by all of our observations on our fellow bus mates and their resemblance to Barbie. Then, finally, we are there.
I am more excited about getting to the Expo than anything else. At the Expo I get my bib number and my timing tag: proof of my legitimacy. I have been to many Expos over the past couple of years with friends and loved ones who were running one big race or another. I love them. I love the schwag. I love the energy. I love the samples. I love the colors and the designs the different brands come up with to celebrate the race. I love eavesdropping on other runners and hearing what their race agenda is going to be, and how they ask and answer and evade the question we all have of eachother: what is your goal time (which is the polite translation of the actual question: am I faster than you?)?
I am extra thrilled about this Expo, because this is the first big one that is MY Expo. I can buy something emblazoned with the race name because it’s My Race! As my GPS would remind me, I have arrived!
I thought it was pretty great when, at the Boston Expo, I turned the corner and nearly ran into Bart Yasso. But here, at MY race – you know who our celebrity is? Scott Jurek! I get very excited about this but my companions do not get it. It’s Scott Jurek! The Ultra runner. The badass Badwater champion! At this race that is the longest I have ever run, that is going to feel like an eternity to me, they have the King of the long run for inspiration. It’s so perfect! I stand still and look and point. But when prompted to get in line for a picture with him, I sheepishly skitter off towards the merchandise.
Some runners will temper themselves at these things. Partly because this sort of hubris is ridiculously expensive. Partly for superstitious reasons. Do you buy race apparel for a race you haven’t actually completed yet? Is that bad mojo? What if you don’t finish?
But I am here. I have a bib and a chip and a plan to meet people at the start line. I am going to cross that one line without fail and I didn’t think that would be the case a few weeks ago. So I already have a victory, and I am going to celebrate it. I am getting a shirt, and I am getting the Nike arm warmers because I coveted them at Boston and I have been hoping like a child waiting for Christmas that there would be Chicago arm warmers (there are!!). I also get a shirt for my mother – it’s emblazoned with “Chicago Marathon 2011” on the front, and the Chicago skyline on the back, because, after talking me through all my dark places on the way here, and worrying for me and my wellbeing, she deserves it. A souvenir of this latest adventure she helped me take.
I search for my name among the other runners on the bit of propaganda Nike has erected in the Expo. I find it – spelled correctly!! Leigh and I run around looking for all of our friends’ names. This is ridiculous when you think about it, it is just a reprinted entrants list blown up, but it’s proof to me that this is all real.
The three of us decide that for dinner we are going to hit the pizza joint Coach has promised has awesome pizza. In truth, I am in it more for the company and the distraction than the pizza. I am just going through the motions with eating now. I have no appetite and crave nothing. It’s all about getting it in.
When we finally get to the restaurant, it is packed. We are told we can put our order in and wait at the bar for the table to be ready. Between the three of us, we order a thin crust sausage pizza, and a deep dish veggie pizza to share. And then, the more important part, the beer. The Guinness that is delivered to me, long after others' beers have arrived, is the best pull of Guinness I have ever had. It is fully settled, with a gorgeous head atop its dark body. Creamy and smooth it reminds me that I actually like food.
We are having a good time at the bar. There’s a kid loading up on pasta and Coach zeroes right in on him. Sure enough, he’s racing on Sunday. He’s come over from the UK by himself. He’s hoping for a 3:30 finish. Leigh and I wonder where the other slow people are hiding. When our table is ready, the bartender is taking such good care of us that we don’t want to leave him – so we give up our table to a family.
On TV, the Brewers are battling the D-Backs to get to the NLCS. The guy next to me is from Milwaukee, and so even if I have to take my eyes off the tube while I shovel deep dish into my mouth I don’t miss anything because he is giving the play by play. When the Brewers clinch, he buys shots of Patron for the entire bar. This is officially the best race EVER. With shots in front of us, for the first and probably the only time there will ever be, my Coach is visibly nervous and I am in my element. The tequila goes down like liquid silver. God, I love the Brewers.
Mr. Milwaukee lives one block over. This is his bar. He’s been a spectator at the Chicago marathon many times, cheering on various family members. He repeats the promise that I’ll love it and I’ll love this town. Still basking in the glow of a Milwaukee win, he buys the bar a second round of tequila, and poof! There goes my nervous for a few hours. I love this bar, and Chicago IS my kind of town.
By Emilie David October 5, 2011
No one I know has ever gone into a marathon saying "I have trained as much/well/hard as I possibly could for this one. I am going to knock it out of the park!" I keep trying to remember that but I still would have preferred to go into this monster run healthier than I am. Two weeks ago I was pretty sure I was going to run the first 3 miles with my friends, and then try and gracefully DNF myself to a bench and wait for someone to show up with crutches. Lots of rest and massage and electrical stimulation later, I am feeling much more positive about it, and I would even say excited to have at it and see how far I can get. I'll be running with a hamstring strain in my left thigh, and a quadriceps strain in my right that likes to mess up my knee alignment and poof everything up into a nice round pillow. It's possible that I will still only make it those three miles, but it's possible I will make it further. Or even much further. There is no way of knowing unless I go find out.
There is not much I can do now about my body. The prescription is rest, massage, ice, more rest. It's all mental training from here on out, which, in many ways, is harder than the physical part. I am buoyed by and grateful for the wealth of support I have been getting, from the people I work with, the people I train with, and the people I love. They have offered words of encouragement, of inspiration, and words that helped me laugh my way out of my worry. I'm keeping all of them, and I'll call on them every mile of the way. These nuggets from other people (and the occasional Disney song that will probably get stuck in my head) will save me, I'm sure of it. I'm not done collecting them yet either, so feel free to write below or to get in touch with me the way you usually do. If you know me, and you don't see your nugget here, trust that it is no less important than the ones I am mentioning. I'm a selfish person, and some things I just want to keep for myself.
The Nuggets
I think of Megan, the chief cheerleader of my training group, as a bit of sunshine on a stick. My first marathon will be her third, which gives me hope because it means life was still worth living to her after her first marathon. But I will just say, as a demonstration of her character, that her first marathon was unbearably hot, and her second was miserably rainy (all 26.2 miles) and cold, and she still signed up for a third! This is her Charm marathon then, and she is going into it totally charming. When I was getting ready for my first half marathon, her advice to the group was to repeat a mantra. Hers was "I feel fine!" Just those 3 words over and over again. I know it works because I've used it. This time around, she wrote this to all of us newbies: "This race is for you and your own personal glory. And, it WILL be glorious! (Think of me saying "glorious" in a Mrs. Doubtfire voice, because that's how I just said it in my office)." I am going to have a glorious time imagining a Mrs. Doubfire voice coming out of tall, slender, sleek haired Megan.
The next nugget comes from my brother. My brother and I have been trying to out-droll each other our whole relationship long. We are both also of the mind that when someone is feeling bad, the only cure is to make them feel worse, because then they will feel better about how they felt before you said something rude and obnoxious to them. So when I sent him a picture of my puffed up knee-ball accompanied by a description belaying my sadness and anxiety, he texted back with this advice: "Cut the good one off and the other will adapt!"
This is similar to the advice my work buddies Randy and Will have given me, which is that I should just amputate and get interchangeable prostheses, including a wheel, a chainsaw (because that would be awesome), and a shotgun (defense against zombies).
Tianna works in my office and for the first month or more she didn't say a thing to me. I thought she was maybe a little stuck up. Then we went out for frozen yogurt and she did not shut up but still managed to inhale her yogurt before I finished mine. I knew two things immediately: 1. She was A-OK; 2. She was a racer. I've run two 5k's with her and she just keeps getting faster. I tried peer pressuring her into doing a Half Marathon with me in February. When the timing wasn't right, she signed herself up to do one on her own. I saw her just before the 9 mile marker last weekend. That was my half marathon wall - it didn't beat me, but I remember it slowed me down. When Tianna saw me on the sidelines, she yelled my name and I started jogging beside her so I had time to say a few inspirational things. But all she saw was someone running next to her, which prompted her to say, in a DeNiro sort of way, "Are you racing me??!!" and then she picked up the pace and made me chase her! I hope I can channel some of that good stuff!
The nugget that has been helping me the most these past few days, however, aptly comes from my coach, Taneen Carvell. She trains at least 3 training programs' worth of runners and numerous individuals. That's a lot of moods and frustrations and needs to meet on a daily basis, and somehow she knows how to handle them. She knows when to get the rally going, and when to hop and cheer you into a better run. She also knows that the closer you get to race day, the more pressure you put on yourself. That it can make you good and miserable and blow out all the positive energy you try to kindle in yourself so that you forget that you run because it's fun. And that at these times, the only thing that's going to work is some bluntly but lovingly given perspective: "I hate to tell you, but you are not going to beat the Kenyans."
By Emilie David September 29, 2011
The marathon is just a hair over a week away, so a subset of my running gang met tonight for our first strategy session. You know, to discuss what we would do, when we would do it, how we would pack, but mostly to drink beer and eat Mexican food and alternately freak out and reassure each other. Basically, all we settled tonight is that two of us were not sure what airport we were leaving out of. So, off to a good start.
Unfortunately, what we did not resolve was just what, exactly, I was going to carry in all slots on my hydration belt. So now, I present to you, dear reader, a few of the options. Maybe you can help me decide.
The conundrum: What to put in the 4th bottle clip?
Kleenex: In case my friend Leigh is still a crying mess
Dark Chocolate Peanutbutter: There is 1 Gel stop, but 5 banana stops on the course
Pepto: No additional explanation needed
Ibuprofen: Because I haven't got time for the pain
Hand-held Stim machine: If the battery dies, push electricity through it
Kinesio Tape: To hold it all together when it starts to fall apart
Stuffed Eeyore: Sometimes you just need a stuffed Eeyore
Rum: Let's face it. This has the best chance of actually working.
By Emilie David, September 22, 2011 Here is what I know. I am a breakfast girl. Love pancakes. Love the 2 Eggs combo. Love French toast. Nothing wrong with oatmeal. It tends to be my largest meal of the day, and I need it. My brain doesn’t function well without it. I don’t, however, love breakfast in those early morning hours before the sun and most sane people are up when I am maybe a little nervous about the big workout I’m about to do. This makes fueling before the run a bit of a challenge for me.
On race days I’ve got it down. Most don’t start until 8:30 or so. That means I’m having my half a peanut butter sandwich at 6:30. Totally doable! But this summer, long training runs started at *gasp!* 6:30am! That meant I had to be awake BEFORE 4:30 so I could start eating at 4:30. I’m afraid of my kitchen at 4:30. It’s dark in there! But I approached this like I approach every food challenge; with lots of experimenting.
First I started fiddling with the time. Maybe I really didn’t need to eat so early. I got up at 5:00 and waited 15 minutes for my tummy to be ready to accept food. At 5:50, when I was supposed to be in my car and on my way to the run, I was in the bathroom instead.
Next, I tried waking up at 4:45 and eating at 5:00. This time, I was not late getting into my car. But ½ a sandwich wasn’t quite enough for a longer run. 3 miles in I was deflating and nibbling at my Shot Bloks like a starved raccoon.
Next, I tried a whole peanut butter sandwich at 5:00. Half way through with a wad of sandwich stuck to the top of my mouth and not budging, the sight of the rest of it made me heave out the first half.
I went back to smaller portions but tried to find other foods that might have more energy in them. It went like this:
½ a bowl of Oatmeal (BONK!), cold cereal (BONK!), eggo with honey stinger gel (BONK!), cereal with yogurt (BONK with massive bloating!)
It was pretty clear. I needed to embrace the 4:30 wakeup and give my stomach enough time to be ready for a full sandwich. I would eat it and be on time to the run and feel awesome!!
The morning I put this plan into motion the alarm went off at 4:15 and I hit the snooze button. 8 times. Until I managed to force myself onto my feet at 4:50.
And then it happened.
On the way to the kitchen, my one open eye spotted it. There, on the table. In one of those round, Rubbermaid snack containers. A leftover Boston Cream donut. All ready for eating!
Now, I have just spent approximately 400 words describing to you my difficulty with consuming breakfast foods first thing in the morning. So what happened next will appear to make absolutely no sense whatsoever. Except that I am a creature of habit. And what happened when my eye spied that puffy pillow of chocolate iced, cream filled perfection regardless of time of day is what happens EVERY TIME I encounter such gloriousness. Involuntarily, my lips parted and the words “Ooooooooo! Donut!!!” came rushing out of them. And the blood rushed up to my head and popped open the other eye and then it rushed down through my stomach to my feet where I started feeling the beat of the “Donut Time!” song (which is the theme song I made up for Donut Day which is every Saturday which of course everybody knows so I didn’t need to bother with this parentheses, did I?) that was starting to play in my head. And not only did I totally consume that donut, but I had it with coffee. More coffee than I usually permit myself before running because we aren’t talking about a glazed donut here. Or a cinnamon. We are talking about a Boston Cream and that thing needs to be savored.
I do not endorse this as a pre-run meal. I fully support finding something healthier, with actual nutrients, that is going to fortify you without clogging your arteries. But I won’t lie either. That was my best 12 miles to date. If you leave the house at 5:50am singing a donut song, chances are you are going to have a happy run. And the extra coffee is going to get the factory that is your digestive system moving nice and quick, so you can get all your pre-run business taken care of and get out the door. And then that coffee is going to keep working so you run extra fast from the caffeine, and because you will really need to pee and none of the porta potties will be open and your route will end up being a hyper crazed weaving along the mall to find one that is actually unlocked. And the sugar – have I mentioned the sugar?!?!!!
I’m sure that ultimately, the key to this particular fueling success had more to do with the coffee and the happy donut feeling than any sort of carbo magic in the donut. And really what I need to do is find a way to be childishly happy about some nice shredded wheat. But in the mean time, I know exactly what I’m going to start training for as soon as the fall racing season is over: The Krispy Kreme Challenge (2 miles, 12 donuts, 2 miles) http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-239-582--13836-0,00.html.
I start to feel it when I get to Keene. Like I have fallen through a hole and ended up in some secret chasm. It has something to do with the pines, which line the road like ageless towering sentinels, guarding the history that the Ausable River speaks of as it burbles over its rocky bed. Since I spend my days now in DC, where my trees are boxy buildings that uniformly stop at 12 stories and everything feels neatly and geometrically arranged, I feel a little bit like I am in a fairytale. Helping this feeling along is the timelessness of this part of New York. Or maybe the timefulness. Rustic and traditional Adirondack architecture stands side by side with little motor inns that obstinately sport a look that has not been updated since the early 80’s with the occasional modern store front popping up here and there. It is the backdrop from 2 Olympics and 12 Ironman competitions. There are stories of greatness here.
If this isn’t fully evident in Keene, it is obvious when you see the ski jumps. High above the pines. I can’t help staring at them. At first because in their towering swoopiness, it is like catching that first glimpse of the tallest, scariest roller coaster in the theme park. It brings on a sort of childish hyper-excitement in my stomach. And then, as the car ascends up the road, my brain starts to understand that distance. Between the bottom of the jump and the earth beneath it. And the jaw drops, and the excitement turns to awe. And respect. Because WHO would do that?
I am pulling into town, this time, the Thursday before the 2011 Lake Placid Ironman competition. I am not there to race, but in my own way, I have been preparing and waiting for this day. When I first see the tents, set up for the Friday night banquet, I feel a mix of anxiety, and wonder, expectation, and relief. I am there in support of the athlete I most enjoy cheering for, my friend and my mentor, and, if I am honest, the person I still have a crush on despite our strangely fractured relationship. It seems ridiculous that I should be stressed at all, since I am not the one facing a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, and a full marathon, but I am. A good Sherpa will run interference – keeping the stressors at bay, keeping an eye on her athlete and making sure he eats and sleeps without stressing him out about it, acting as a constant positive energy source without being annoying about it. I am motivated to do these things and I hope I can do them well, but let’s face it. I’m a bit of a whiner.
Thankfully, though, there are lots of other distractions to distract me from me. We pull in downtown on a Thursday, and in a stroke of luck that will hopefully set the tone for the weekend to come, we get a parking spot right on the street, right outside the Olympic Oval. It’s fairly quiet at this point, with just a few early birds who have opted to beat the masses who will not arrive until Friday. But I can already hear it. The thunking of hearts. The corresponding arms of which are sporting hospital bracelets, the free jewelry of Ironman.
Weighing in
I get in the registration line with Chris and the other athletes, all of them quietly sizing eachother up, some less obviously than others. It’s a long process, but the volunteers are plentiful and cheerful. I stalk about like a tourist trying to capture as many stages of the phenomenon that is Ironman as I can on film. I am conflicted about whether this is appropriate or annoying. I try to be covert about it. This just feels creepy. But I get some good shots.
We meet up with friends. There is a little strategy talk and a little dinner talk. We hit the “store”. Everything in it is branded with the Ironman logo. Also, notably, everything is in a small size. Looking around it starts to sink in. I am in a microcosm populated only with supremely fit beings. Bumping into any of these people might actually hurt me.
In the days leading up to the race there is eating. There is resting. The Tour de France is being shown on a big screen in the parking lot of Placid Planet’s bike shop. I run while Chris bikes. He does a practice swim. I do a wetsuit testing swim. There is a lot to do, but even for me, it is a lot of time to sustain one’s anticipation. Yet everyone seems pretty upbeat. Possibly it is just part of competitive strategy. With the exception of one really bad sandwich, Chris seems calm. Perhaps it is resignation, but I don’t see the itchiness on him that is starting to show up in some of the others. Until his car throws its belt a quarter mile or more from bike racking half an hour before it closes. Even then, it is still pretty tempered anxiety. There is zero hesitation about what is worth worrying over now. Dump the car, get the bike racked.
Ironman Lake Placid is a well run event, and it is like no other race that I have been to. Boston Marathon is big, and the big city of Boston owns and loves that race. But make no mistake about it – marathon weekend it’s the blue and the yellow and the Unicorn. It’s Heartbreak Hill. The Race is the star. Ironman Lake Placid takes a different approach. It is, unabashedly, about the athlete. Yeah, the lake is gorgeous. Yeah, the course is long. Yeah, the descent into Keene is treacherous. But you… YOU are effing awesome! And the locals think you are so awesome they are giving YOU a free pancake breakfast. And you are going to finish on the Olympic Oval like the champion YOU are. And when you do, announcer Mike Reilly will call your name and remind you and everyone on the Oval that YOU are an Ironman.
It’s a race that starts rewarding you before the gun even goes off. For making the commitment. For the hard work and the sacrifices that have gotten you to the Friday night Welcome Dinner. The race is just the recital that you get to show off at. It’s a brilliant tactic. It gets the athletes ready, and it makes many of their cheerleaders get up early the day after the race so they can be next year’s Ironmen.
And what a recital it is for the spectator. It begins with 2500 mostly wetsuit clad competitors, in brightly colored swim caps swarming the beach and the shallow waters of Mirror Lake. Each of them getting into their game whichever way they need to – some doing warm up laps, others joking around with eachother, their families, or random spectators, still others are silent and still and focused. It’s a thrilling atmosphere. All that confidence. That hungry expectation.
Chris is the one in the green cap
For all its distance and its mass start, this is the first time I am not nervous for Chris. I cannot even pick him out in the throng – everyone seems tall and lean and capable. It could be that he has enough triathlons under his belt now and there is no need for worry. It could be that the Patron Saints of water safety, the volunteers in kayaks and in diving gear, are many and all over the lake. Or it could just be that this space and this race seem perfectly suited for him. It’s his show to make what he will of it.
He will finish well. A first timer on the first page of wetsuit finishers, way beyond the comprehension of many of us who swim, bike and run. I will learn from him later that it is not as well as he would like or knows he is capable of in a completely healthy state. This is his curse – knowing what he is made of before he finishes the race.
Despite this, I will feel I have witnessed a truly amazing performance. The course is arranged marvelously for spectators, so that even the slowest and least agile can see their athlete multiple times during the race. On race day, I see him fly by on the bike on both loops – so fast that by the time I yell for him it is too late to catch him with my camera. On the run I see him many times. I yell and wave and tell the people next to me that yes, I know that fast athlete. He has a lot of fans out there on this day, and even when he is still trying to find his running form off the bike, he is smiling and pointing every time he hears his name. Smiling and pointing on the second loop with sponges stuffed into the tops of the arms of his jersey to keep him from burning more, smiling at the 140th mile, around the Oval, and over the finish line.
I hope there are many moments from that race that he can remember and be proud of. For me, his most perfect moment was on the bike. It’s a snapshot that I missed with my camera, but that I can see perfectly in my head. Coming out of T1 on the bike he would be the fourth cyclist I’d see wearing his tri team’s jersey. By the second loop, he would catch two of them. I can see him getting closer to my spot on the sidelines, flanked by the two of them for a bit before leaving them behind, and grinning the grin of a teenager who is still high from racing too fast down the street in a dangerous machine. His race another story of amazing feats and fierce will for the Ausable River to keep and to whisper over the ages.
