And so, with that bad -- and rather tired (much like my legs) -- joke, the story of my running of the San Francisco Marathon, presented by Runner's World (I don't think I saw a sign about the marathon all weekend without the "presented by Runner's World" tag).
TrainingWhen I talk about running a marathon in the worst way, this is what I'm talking about. I trained in February and March, but once I started hitting 25 miles a week or so, I was getting too many leg/foot problems, so I pretty much stopped running. Until July 17:
Sunday: 1.5 miles (but it was 100 degrees, which has to count for something)
Monday: 2 miles
Wednesday: 3 miles
Friday: 5 miles
Sunday: 12 miles
Tuesday: 2 miles
Thursday: 3 miles (skipped -- figured I might as well save my legs)
Saturday: 1.5 miles (skipped -- same reason as above)
Sunday: run marathon
In my defense, I did work up to a long run, and then I tapered. It was just marathon training in fast-forward, that's all.
PreparationSaturday night, I carefully laid out my clothes for the next day. I pinned my bib to my shirt, attached my timing chip to my shoe, and called a cab to schedule a pickup for the next morning. fn1. I crafted a mini-ziploc bag for my money/id card out of a big ziploc bag and a lot of scotch tape. I set two alarms for 3:30 and went to bed around 10:30.
Then, I couldn't sleep. I was nervous about the race, about my lack of preparation, and about my potential to pass out at mile 16 and feeling like a complete failure. I was afraid my legs, or my lungs, or my mind, would give out too soon. Finally, I slept, but fitfully.
I was up with a start when my alarms went off. I was wide awake instantly. I showered and put on my contacts, then started with the real race prep. Vaseline was applied to various areas down below to prevent chafing. I tried to use Liquid Skin to prevent more damage to the mostly-recovered right heel blister from my long run the week before. It wouldn't dry, so I wiped it off and put on a Band-Aid instead. After applying Vaseline to my feet to minimize other blisters, my socks and shoes went on.
Then, it was time to tape up my nips to prevent a repeat of the painful chafing from my long run. However, my veritable thicket of chest hair posed a problem, as the first band-aid fell off as soon as I applied it. I had little choice but to pull out the razor and shave band-aid sized strips around the nips. fn2. Of course, with my luck, I was suffering from some THO and managed to nick my right nip with the razor. Not enough that it bled, but just enough that it felt chafed. Which,when you think about it, kind of defeats the idea of putting on band-aids to prevent chafing.
Finally having protected my man boobies, I put on my shirt and did my hair. Yes, of course I put wax in my hair. If you're going to run a marathon as slow as I was about to, you at least better look good running the marathon, ya know?
And then, I was off. The cab was quick. Not surprisingly, the streets of San Francisco were pretty deserted at 4:45 am. Pulling up near the Embarcadero, I encountered my first serious problem of the morning (nipple nicking excepted). I had $58 cash (a 50, a 5, and three 1s) and a credit card with me. fn3. I was going to give the cabbie $21. It was his first run of the day, so he had no change -- nothing but a wad of 1s. He couldn't take credit cards. I was pretty near screwed...
Until someone even more desperate than me came to my rescue. A runner came up, and asked if the cabbie could get him to the Castro and back in 20 minutes. Dude must have forgotten his timing chip, because I can think of no other reason he would be so desperate to get back home before the race. He knew my situation, and knew that my cabbie was not going to be available until it was straightened out. He
really needed a cab. So he said, "Listen, I'll pay this guy's fare if you just get me to the Castro and back asap." I thanked him profusely, gave him the $8 of small bills I had, and wished him luck. Crisis averted.
I stretched a little, hit the porta-john (fortunately, it was my last pit stop until after I got home from the race), checked my sweats, and got a cup of water. As I made my way to the starting line, I ended up in a conversation with a nice Japanese gentleman, who was running the half. Of course, he had already done two marathons this year, and twenty-some in his life, so he was just here to run the Golden Gate. I was feeling rather embarrassed that this guy more than twice my age could easily outpace me. I'm such a slacker.
I found my starting pen and was united with my pace group and pace group leader, Dick. Dick was a tall, white-haired man with glasses who could probably be my grandfather. Ok, I'm getting older. He's probably not old enough to be my grandfather. But he had to be north of 65. Regardless, he was going to lead us for the first 13.1 at a pace to finish in 4:30. Yeah, I wanted to run in under 4:00. But I had to be reasonable. I was going to be lucky to finish. 4:30 seemed like something I could do without burning out at mile 15.
I had butterflies as the count-down to the start began. It's the moment of truth....there's no more training, stretching, or planning you can do. And I told myself, in the old cliche, "There is no try. Only do." It was a phrase I would repeat often over the next few hours.
The RaceStarting: At 5:20, the starting gun (which wasn't really a gun at all -- who are we kidding, this is San Fran, the most liberal large city in the country. I'm surprised they didn't light a starting hash pipe or something) went off and the elite runners took off in front of us. At 5:27, our pen (pen 3) was released.
We were well behind the starting line, and so the first couple minutes were more of a shuffle than a run. People were whooping and hollering, but I was conserving my breath. I needed all my energy for other purposes. Finally, we crossed the starting mats and broke out into a slow jog.
Overall, we were pacing for 10:17 miles. However, because we were running using the Galloway method, our runs were at about a 9:40 pace. fn4. It was an easy gait -- it was almost too slow, as I felt like I was having to check my stride too much. Our first walk break came so soon. It was a nice surprise -- it's like you hardly work and you already get a break. Kind of like being a summer associate in a law firm, except with less food and more physical exertion.
Mile 1: My right foot is acting up. It wasn't exactly hurting. I'm striking too much on my forefoot and not enough on my heel. Probably a subconscious desire to avoid aggravating my blister-prone right heel, but it's making my foot feel stiff and putting too much pressure on my right knee. Seems like it may be a problem later in the race.
I run past two women wearing black-and-white striped inmates outfits. Escapees from Alcatraz, I assume.
Mile 3: The first water station is a mess. The pack is too clustered right now, and they volunteers can't keep up. Runners are running into each other, there is no water, and when I finally get a cup it has about two ounces of water. I'm separated from my pace group, and have no idea how far ahead they are.
Now, the first real hill. It's an extremely steep climb -- you could almost have stairs. I'm having no problem climbing it -- it's not much steeper than West End Ave. coming down from 95th to 96th St. The other people who are making it impossible to move forward quickly are a difficulty, but that's life in a large race.
I catch up with my pace group. Dick and the gang are chugging along like well-oiled machines.
Mile 4: An extremely hot female police officer is standing by her squad car, holding up a sign in support of the SFPD team. Wow. I didn't know they made cops like that. Must have been someone like her who inspired RHCP's "Sir Psycho Sexy." fn5.
Mile 5: Now, the real hills begin. 120 feet of elevation over .2 miles. Dick is telling us to own the hill. I am owning the hill. I'm imposing my will on this hill, and the hill is enjoying it. That's what I tell myself over and over.
At the top, we pass the marker for mile 5. I'm still feeling fresh, and almost 20% of the trip is over.
Mile 6: Another hill, much more mild, as we climb onto the Golden Gate Bridge. It's cool and very misty. The bridge towers aren't even visible until we get under them.
Runner traffic on the bridge is terrible. Everyone's bumping and grinding like it's Saturday night at Pretty Boys n Thugs.
Mile 9: We've run out over the bridge, looped around Point Vista (or some other such originally-named view area) and are headed back toward SF. I look at my yellow pace team wristband, which has cumulative pace time for each mile split. It's so wet, with the mist, and my sweat, that the ink-jetted numbers are almost totally obscured in a mess of blue and red. All I can see is the large numbers at the bottom: 4:30. Eyes on the prize.
Mile 10: This seems like a milestone. I'm still feeling fine, still staying with the pace, and we've run ten miles.
Our group seems to be losing people. I don't know if they're outrunning us or dropping back from us.
Mile 11-12: A lot of hills, heading from the Presidio into Golden Gate Park. I'm still owning them though, easily outpacing my group on most of the hills by virtue of using a longer stride. That allows me to take it easier on the downhill side, hopefully saving some pounding on my knees.
Mile 13.1: We pass the halfway point in 2:15:45. A bit slow, but we had a lot of traffic and some brutal hills to deal with in the first half. Dick is relieved by Leslie, our second-half pace leader.
Leslie is probably in her early 30s. She's run 16 marathons in the past eight years. She usually runs around 3:40s, but she had a baby 10 months ago. She had to keep running to "get her butt in shape," in her own words. Now by virtue of her recent pregnancy, she's at a mere 4:30 pace. Once again, I feel like an incredible slacker.
I'm into uncharted territory now, as I'm beyond the longest run I've ever done. But I'm still feeling ok. No, more than ok. Good. I feel as good as I did at mile 3. I'm wondering if I should have joined the 4:10 or 4:20 pace group, and if I'm going to have enough juice to kick it up a notch around mile 24...maybe I can get closer to 4:25 than 4:30.
Mile 14: Coming around a turn just before the mile 14 marker, loudspeakers are set up, blasting Beck's "Devil's Haircut." Great, kicking tune.
Mile 15: After a water station, I start to hear the strains of Pearl Jam's "Alive." Now I can't say that I have a favorite PJ song -- that's like asking a parent to pick their favorite child. But "Alive" is right up there. fn6. Hearing it gives me a kick, and inspiration, especially the chorus: "I'm still alive." I am still alive. My legs are still alive. My body is still alive. A little more than ten miles to go and I'm still alive!
The water station just before mile 16 was sponsored by a local bar, which was also handing out beer. Just what everyone needs: some carbs -- and alcohol -- in the middle of their marathon.
Miles 16-18: We're running loops in Golden Gate Park. Hilly loops. The hills are getting tougher. They may be alive with the sounds of music, but my legs are dead with the sounds of lactic acid.
I just wanted to get to mile 18 and be feeling ok. I'm here now, but suddenly realizing that I still have eight miles to go. That's kind of a lot. I tell myself, "There is no try. Only do." Next goal: Make it to mile 20. That's a nice round number.
Mile 19: A family is celebrating some Mexican lady's 100th birthday by passing out orange slices. My orange slice tastes mighty good. Believe me folks, that gesture was much appreciated.
Leslie is a great coach, I must say. She's perky and yells encouragement to us constantly. She tells us we're looking great. She's lying, but it's a nice lie for her to tell. We're also on pace, she says. In fact, we're "so on pace if we were any more on pace we'd be on pace." I'm not sure what that means, but hey, I'm still in line to finish at 4:30. But Leslie's following seems to be getting smaller. We've picked up a few people since mile 13 -- people who were running faster but now join in with us for a 4:30. Our original group, however, is down to about four.
Mile 20: We're in the Haight now. A guy is standing by the course holding up a neon-green posterboard reading "Today, You are all Kenyans." It's a nice thought. I'd settle for being a slow Kenyan.
We cross mile 20, and the sun finally breaks through the clouds. Leslie yells out, "It's 9:00 am, you people have already run 20 miles, and you look great!" I shake my head. "That is just wrong," I say. "I should still be in bed at this time." Everyone laughs. Not too much, because we don't have much breath to laugh. Or because my joke wasn't funny. Something like that.
My hands, which have been going numb for a few miles now, are almost completely numb. My arms are tingling, and my shoulders are killing me.
Mile 21-22: More hills, and they're getting more and more difficult. Now, it's all I can do to keep up with the pace group going up them, and my knees are starting to feel it bad, meaning that the descent is no easier.
Leslie keeps telling us to keep our eyes on the top of the hill. "Look up! You run slower when you look at the ground." But I'm so tired that I can't spare the energy to lift my head high enough to see the top of the hill. So I stare at the pavement a few feet in front of me, hoping not to trip over a pothole. I try to tell myself that I'm dominating the hill, and the hill is going to smile and take it, but it doesn't seem so convincing anymore.
"There is no try. Only do." "I never try anything. I just do it. Wanna try me?" fn7. "I'm still alive." The motivational phrases sound like a cruel joke, but I'm still putting one foot in front of the other. I'm basically running so that I can have my one minute walking break. But somehow, the running intervals seem longer and longer. And after each walk break, it's more difficult to start running again.
The clouds are gone, revealing a glorious blue sky. The sun is beating down, and there is no shelter.
Mile 22: We cross an intersection lined with spectators. One of them is holding up a poster that says "My boyfriend is a runner." Yup, we're in SF.
Mile 23-25: My head is pounding. My Achilles tendons and calf muscles will hardly move. My knees are on fire. My right heel is clearly blistered. I can see what looks like dark wetness at the toes of my shoes. I can't tell if it's water or if I've lost a toenail and am bleeding. I doubt I could feel it if I had.
We pass mile marker 22 and slow to a walk to get water and Cytomax. fn8. But as the pace group speeds back up into a run, I keep walking. I can't run anymore. My body is spent. I'm afraid that if I keep running, I am going to pass out, or at least collapse and be unable to finish.
So with my head down, sun scorching me, I drink my water and walk. My walk is jerky because my legs are so stiff and tight. It's slow too, although I am passing a few other walkers. People keep running by me. I envy them. I wish I had the physical ability to run right now, but I just don't.
My head is swimming. I walk slowly, hoping that I don't pass out. The course is taking is through a deserted, god-forsaken section of SF, filled with warehouses and industrial buildings. There are not spectators, and there certainly isn't scenery. Just other runners, me, and the hot sun.
I think that I'll walk mile 23, then see if I can run 24, walk 25, then run the last 1.2. Somehow, though, I miss marker 23. I keep walking. This seems like the longest mile ever. Either I missed the mile marker, or I'm never going to finish this marathon. When I started walking, I still had 4.2 miles to go. Two weeks ago, I could hardly run 4 miles without stopping. Now, four miles stood between me and the finish line.
In preparation for the marathon, the SFPD had put up a number of "No Stopping" signs along the streets making up the course. This became a personal command for me. No stopping. Despite my desire to sit on the curb and put my head in my hands, I could not stop. The signs told me I couldn't. I keep walking.
Somewhere along the way, Dick, our intrepid pace leader, shuffled past me. He had dropped off the pace somewhere in the second half, but with tortoise and hare justice, he's still going, and I'm not.
Finally, I pass the mile 24 marker, and I realize that I missed the marker for 23. Only 2.2 miles to go now. I decide to walk to mile 25, then try to run the rest of the way in.
The course was approaching SBC Park, site of many a steroid-aided Barry Bonds home run. In front of the stadium there's another DJ, blasting The Who's "I Can See for Miles." Roger Daltry might as well have been singing "I can run for miles and miles/I can run for miles and miles and miles." John Entwhistle's thundering bass-line provided rhythm to go on. Then, the CD got stuck: "I can see for mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi-mi...." It seems rather appropriate, as I feel like I'm stuck in a loop of miles that seems like it will never end.
Walking between the stadium and the bay, I'm almost to the mile 25 marker when the 4:40 pace leader runs up next to me. It seems like a perfect time to start running again.
I had walked long enough that by now I feel ok. I'm closing in on the end -- I could taste it. "No Stopping" seemed like a friendly reminder now.
Finally, there are spectators. Both sides of the road lined with cheering people, telling us we're almost there. It's the extra boost we need. I'm gaining speed now. We're closing in on mile 26 -- I start to sprint.
I see the guy who passed me earlier with the Dodge symbol tattooed on his shoulder. (Who the hell gets the symbol of an automaker, particularly Dodge, tattooed on themselves??) No way is Dodge man going to beat me. I pass him.
I can't really think about anything, see anything, feel anything. All I know is the sound of my shoes slapping the pavement and my chest heaving as I run for the finish. From somewhere, I find an extra store of energy to push myself even faster. I can see the finish line. I think people are yelling and cheering, but it doesn't register.
I can see the timing mats at the finish line. I'm straining for them.
Then, I'm over. I hear the timing system beep as it registers my time. I'm finished. It's over. I've done it.
1. San Francisco's public transportation system, I've discovered, is virtually useless. It's operating hours are similar to the hours banks are open (and no, I'm not talking about I-bankers) and stations aren't exactly everywhere.
2. I was shocked by how freaking much chest hair I actually have. I had to clean the razor every two seconds. The sink was carpeted with the hair. And this was from shaving a total of three to four square inches.
3. I am really annoyed with Chase for their habit of putting 50s in their ATMs. 50s are useless in most contexts. The dude at the bodega is pissed if you give him a 20. He certainly doesn't want a 50. Same with cabbies, most of the time. And by 50, I mean 50 dollar bills. I don't mean Fitty Cent, S4's favorite musician.
4. The "Galloway Method" is a system of long-distance running developed and popularized by former Olympian Jeff Galloway. It is designed for slower runners (ie - people running over 3:20s or so), not elite athletes. The idea is that by taking walking breaks allows the body to rest and allows oxygen to flow to the legs, preventing muscle fatigue from setting in as soon. Also, because ones walking pace is not too much slower than the running pace at slower speeds, one does not lose too much time by taking the walk breaks. So in short, the system is designed to allow you to reach your time goals with less risk of fatigue. We were running for 6 minutes, then walking for 1 minute.
5. As this is a family website, I'll let you find lyrics to that song on your own.
6. Ever since seeing them live for the first time in Cleveland, I get goose bumps almost every time I hear that song. The guitar solo takes me back to that night in Cleveland, already an emotional night, and then the power of Alive. The single white spotlight shining down on Mike, making his dyed-blond hair glow like a halo. Head thrown back, wailing away on his battered brown-sunburst Strat. (Note: if you ever are watching PJ and see the tech give McCready that Strat, prepare to get your ass rocked. It seems to be his favorite axe for amazing solos.) The crowd chanting "Yeah!" and pumping their fist on every beat, thinking that if we just yelled loud enough, we could make this moment last forever. And Mike doing his best to make it last forever, extending the solo in improbable ways to unfathomable lengths. Yeah, I like "Alive."
7. White Zombie, "Thunderkiss 69"
8. Cytomax is like Gatorade or Powerade, except twice as good. It's not like sweet syrup, and it's actually low in sugar.
