I was trying to remember the last time I'd set foot on a track. I guess it was high school gym class, during the running unit, which I dreaded. And now, not too many years later, I voluntarily brought myself to a high school track and pledged to run around it for twelve hours straight. I was doing the 12-hour race at Dawn to Dusk to Dawn Ultras (just the Dusk-to-Dawn portion).
Now that I've done a few 100-mile races—and only the first of them was truly terrible, taking almost 32 hours—running for twelve hours wasn't a big deal. The whole running-around-a-track thing might have been really bad, boring, etc., or maybe not. That's what I wanted to find out—it's why I signed up back in January.
But I really wasn't feeling great about this run, on the day of. I played capture the flag with my Students Run team on Thursday instead of our shoulda-been easy few miles, and I was embarrassingly sore from the sprinting on a hot day. Then there was the whole 7pm start, which meant I wouldn't be running shortly after waking, but rather after I'd been up the whole day. I tried taking a midday nap, but I didn't get much sleep. And with being awake comes eating—I usually toe the line basically fasted with maybe a little food in my stomach, but today I must have had all sorts of stuff along the digestive party line. I tried to stick with easily digestible stuff—collagen-infused liquids, no fiber—but you never know. And then it was raining.
Still, it's not like I was going to not run, so I packed up my duffel bag at 4 and went to catch the 5:21 trolley out west. The trolley was 15 minutes late, which made me nervous—I was downloading the Uber app when it finally came. And then it was a 20-minute walk from the Darby Transportation Center to the high school in Sharon Hill. Trolley tardiness notwithstanding, this was the easiest commute to a race start I'd ever had!
In the rain I met Bill, one of the race directors, who checked me in and showed me around, and then I sat under a canopy until the 7pm start with some of the Valley Forge Military Academy cadets who were volunteering at the race.
Buckling down in the final hour. It was hard to keep myself running after I hit my goal of 100k... but there were 40 minutes to go! Photo by Israel Archuletta.
At 7pm the rain stopped and the race started. The track was splashy for the first few hours, so I stopped periodically to dry off my feet and sandals (I was worried about getting blisters). And at sunset they were having some trouble getting the track lights on, so we had some wonderful peacefulness in the dark for a while.
I really loved running around in circles. Wonder what that says about me. It was relaxing, mind-emptying, wonderful. I didn't have to pick out my footsteps or watch out for anything. I didn't have to worry about getting lost. It was regular, predictable—hard to come by in a sport characterized by its irregularity and unpredictability.
The thing I didn't like was how competitive it made me. When I run ultras, I never think about place or winning or whatever. I just focus on staying comfortable and strong the whole time—or as long as I can, at any rate. But at this race I could see my stats every 400 meters: how long that lap took me, how much slower it was than my previous lap, what place I was in, how far I was behind the next guy. I was in second place from the get-go, where I stayed for a few hours. But I was only 2–3 laps behind the leader, depending when you checked. And of course I could see him across the track at any given point, so it naturally became my mission to overtake him, like it or not. Once I did, around the fifth hour, I think, I was paranoid about losing my lead, which pushed me to keep running. I barely talked to anyone—also somewhat unusual for me, when it comes to ultrarunning—because for the most part our paces were so different, and because I didn't want to slow or speed even a little bit.
Things got tough in the deep night, so I put on music. I listened to an audiobook for a while, but I couldn't pay attention to it for more than an hour. My legs gradually became sorer, and my calf muscles were threatening to strain, and my feet were getting tender. I put on my calf-compression socks and kept going. There was nothing left in my brain to try and stop me, I guess. My stomach was a bit upset, too. (Good thing I didn't go for the pizza in the first hour, or things would have been even worse!) I tried eating things and I tried not eating things, and then I decided to just ignore it.
Sunrise, as usual, was rebirth. Though I wasn't as tired in the night as I've gotten during 100-milers, I still experienced a surge of energy when I saw it getting light out, and that energy stayed with me till the end.
In the end I completed 261 laps (almost 65 miles). My final lap was my fastest—1:48. Most laps were about 2:30, but the ones where I stopped to rifle through my bag or take a bathroom break were slower. Considering I don't feel 100% yet after my last 100-mile, and how I was feeling pretty sore starting out, I'm happy! (My main goal was 100k (62 miles), and my stretch goal was 75 miles.)
In any case, my performance was enough to get first place. It was the first time I'd ever won a race!
Cool handmade awards
And I have to say, it was inspiring seeing the 24-hour folks out there. Some of them (world record and/or Team USA contenders) were running faster than me, and they'd been going for twelve hours longer! I've got half a mind to sign up for the 24 next year to see how far I get...
Me at the awards ceremony, awards in hand. Photo by Israel Archuletta. As RD Bill Schultz keeps saying, "May your goals forever be in sight."
Chart of my lap times. You can see where I was getting pretty tired around the 50-mile mark, as well as after I hit 100k.
Last summer I started seriously kicking around the idea of running a hundred-mile race. This came as a surprise because it was something I assumed I'd never do. Granted, there was a time not too many years ago when I assumed I'd never be bothered to even attempt a half marathon.
In October I signed up for Lake Martin 100, and I started counting down the days to March 21, 2015. In the interim I had another marathon and 50 mile to think about, and I'd likely want to find another 50 mile as a training stimulus in late January or February.
I had a great fall season, even jumping into a community 50k, and then I went to Japan and Hong Kong for two weeks, during which time I only ran two or three times. I thought I could use a little break, anyway. But then around Christmastime I jumped back into 70-mile-a-week training... and quickly found myself with a severe shin splint in my right leg. I powered through a 14-mile run when I thought it was just a little nagging pain, and then the next day I couldn't run at all.
The next several weeks were pretty dismal. I could only manage to run 5 miles at a time, and the injury showed no signs of clearing up. I stopped running completely for a few several-day stretches, but nothing. I dialed in my diet, slept excessively, worked on mobility... doing everything I could think of short of seeing a physical therapist (which probably would have been wise, but not wallet-friendly, especially given that mine is empty).
In the eight weeks leading up to the race, I averaged 30 miles per week. The day I was supposed to do a 50-mile training run, I couldn't run at all, and instead went for a 7-hour walk (I was hoping to go longer, but it started snowing). Finally, a week out from Lake Martin 100, my shin splint started to clear up. I credit this to my last-ditch recovery effort: taking high doses of fish oil, to the tune of 15-20 grams per day. But I was still woefully undertrained.
I discussed my options with my coach. He was confident that I'd be able to finish the race if I was feeling 100% on race day morning and, importantly, wanted to. (Wanting to finish, and reminding yourself why and that you want to finish, especially when you're feeling horrible, seems to be the key to finishing a hundred miler.) This lifted my spirits. Hearing a finisher from the previous year talking to me after the pre-race dinner about how horrible it is to run a hundred miles and how you probably won't finish without a pacer and how you should rethink your drop bag strategy, etc., in turn lowered my spirits.
A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on
On race morning I wasn't feeling quite 100%, but I thought I'd give it a try.
I should also mention for posterity that I was feeling extremely nervous the week leading up to the race. It's been a long time since I had the pre-race jitters! And on the morning of the race I was almost nauseous, just feeling so miserable about all the unknowns. As soon as I started running, through, that went away. Running is a nice feeling.
Since I could still feel my shin splint, I wore a brand new pair of calf compression sleeves and reminded myself that I would just go until I felt that I couldn't or shouldn't anymore. This was a double-edged sword: I gave myself an out that I'd surely take even if I didn't necessarily need to.
Normally I'm pretty determined and tenacious when it comes to this kind of thing, but in this case I couldn't fall back on the comfort that I'd trained sufficiently. I also had to think about the future: I was signed up for another 50 mile in about a month, and I'm planning to run a BQ marathon this fall. If I were to further injure myself running a hundred miles, then all bets would be off for the rest of the season.
Photo courtesy of Tiki Merritt Curry on Facebook (BUTS member)
Running, I took it easy. I walked up all the hills, ran at an easy pace, and chatted with other runners. There weren't too many of us on the course. However, my mental outlook was totally different during this race—solemnified by the prospect of going 100 miles. Since I'd only ever run 50 total, I couldn't wrap my head around going twice that. When I was around mile 25, it really hit me: I was almost at the end of a marathon (and by this distance my mom and our friends, who were running the 27-mile race, would be wrapping up), and if I were running 50 miles I'd be halfway done, but since I was going for 100 I was nowhere near done. To have run for more than five hours and be nowhere near done is a pretty extraordinary feeling. It's easy to connect the dots and feel utterly hopeless.
For a long stretch around this time I was by myself; at an aid station I'd gotten disconnected from the guy I'd been running with, and human contact was at a premium. I tried listening to an audiobook but that just stressed me out. I settled on listening to Kanye West's "All Day" on repeat, which I kept going for a few hours. I checked behind me frequently and pulled out the headphones any time I encountered another runner and usually we exchanged a few words.
Found a snake on the course
Red gravel and ashen leaves. Awesome combo.
At some point I was feeling pretty meh and was walking, and two other hundred-runners passed by and asked how I was doing. "Ehh," I said. "You're doing better than you think," said the woman. That simple sentence was really encouraging, somehow. Shortly thereafter, I found another wind. (The woman went on to be the second female finisher. She's awesome!)
A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on
When I hit the mile 43 aid station, my mom and our friends were there hanging out, and it was nice to see them. I also got sent on a fun errand: to deliver a headlamp to two elderly women who were ahead a bit on the 27-mile run and were worried about not finishing before sunset. I was really excited and flew off at an extraordinary clip. Maybe this was actually my downfall, in retrospect.
Here's a pretty typical image of what the trail looked like
Furry forest
The view from atop Heaven Hill
Not long after I gave the women their headlamp, my legs started cramping up a bit in the lower quads, and I could feel everything beginning to seize. I could feel things getting progressively worse, and by mile 47 or so I had to walk all the way to 50 (which I hit at almost exactly the 12-hour mark).
Oh, I was taking little notes as I went along. I'll reproduce them here:
Mile 10: Yay! I love running!
Mile 15: Okay 100 miles is a long way...
Mile 16: New running buddy
Mile 25: Cabin yay! First lap done!
Mile 25.5: Can't keep up with running buddy, goodbye
Mile 27: It's too hot for this crap
Mile 27.5: I'm dropping out
Mile 28: Okay I'm out of water I'm going to die
Mile 29: Nice guy gives me water. Salvation!
Mile 31: I'm dropping out.
Mile 32: Aid station! Thank you Jesus
Mile 33: Deer sighting. They can run way faster than me.
Mile 34: Found new friend and we're running to Heaven Hill together
Mile 40: I FOUND ENERGY!
Mile 43: It's starting to drizzle. Forecast: till forever.
Mile 45: Starting to feel a bit tired
Mile 45.5: Some cramps thighs and above knees
Mile 46: Delivered headlamp!
Mile 48: Where are all the humans?
Approaching the 50-mile mark I was feeling extremely tired and a bit nauseous and had decided to drop out. Even if I could possibly finish, I thought I'd be completely broken by the time I did and would have to throw out the rest of my season. I'd already decided it wasn't the end of the world, and I was proud of myself for even making it 50 miles with little training and an injury.
A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on
But that wasn't quite the end of it:
The awesome race director David Tosch wanted me to keep going (possibly at the behest of my mother?). He told me he'd never seen someone look so good at mile 50 (this may have been a lie, but it was nice), and that I was on track to finish in 24 hours and not many people could run 100 miles in 24 hours. He assured me that in 100 milers you go through high highs and low lows, and I just had to push through. He told me to walk—not even try to run—to the next aid station, and then reassess. If I couldn't make it, he said he'd personally come and pick me up. What an amazing guy. An older woman, a seasoned ultrarunner, came to his side and echoed his sentiments. They all wanted me to keep going. Even if I walked the entire rest of the course, I'd likely still make the cutoff. (Of course, walking 18 hours did not seem appetizing at that point.)
Now, this was unexpectedly inspirational. Directly at odds with me already deciding to drop. But then I saw, for a glimmer of a second, that I could finish. That I should finish! But I'd already decided to drop, and who could change that? And did I really want to go back out for potentially 18 more hours? But hey, that buckle... I didn't know what to do. I relaxed at the aid station for a little while... Had some chili, put my legs up, sat by the fire, and then decided to go out and see how it was. It was the first time "running" at night with a headlamp, and it was drizzling. More than anything I just wanted to go past 50 miles for the sake of going farther than ever before. And, somehow, I was actually terrified that I might start feeling better and have no excuse not to finish the race. It was a whole confusing assortment of different feelings. Could I actually finish? Would I get hurt? Should I try to finish? I was told multiple times by other people that there's no shame in DNF—heck, I hadn't even seriously started the day thinking I would come close to finishing—but all the same I couldn't help but feel a distinct sense of cowardice.
On my walk after 50 I heard some rustling in the bushes beside the trail, which really freaked me out. It turned out to be an armadillo. That was cool; I'd never seen one before. We saw another later on, which was a 100% increase. Bonus!
The next day was pretty depressing. It was gray and raining outside, and even a delicious brunch couldn't lift my spirits much. By this time the 30-hour cutoff had gone, and I hadn't been among the finishers. These were feelings that my logical mind, which ultimately convinced me to drop out, couldn't have anticipated. I felt then that I really should have kept going, and I was regretting my decision to DNF. I'm going to think back to that feeling in the future, though, if I'm ever thinking about dropping out of a race. I don't think DNF should ever be discretionary—it should only be done out of medical necessity.
The malaise continues to this day (writing this has helped). Should I have finished, or was it prudent to drop out when I did? I'll never know, really. But luckily it's not the end of the world. I've already signed up for my next 100 mile race—June 20 in Ohio.
And I had so much fun in Alabama that I can't wait to be back. I'm looking for a trail marathon to do yet in 2015, or maybe I'll have to settle for doing Lake Martin next March (hopefully I can wait that long).
It sure was a beautiful day, but I kind of wanted to die.
Every so often I like to reflect on my current affairs: "If someone told me a year or two ago that I'd be doing this today, what would I say?" Living in Warsaw and later in Madrid... writing a master's thesis about capital letters... walking around an island in Wales for a week... living at home for a year after getting home from abroad (see?—it's not always glamorous). I have a habit of finding myself in unexpected places.
Me at mile 9. Don't get mistaken by the easy-looking terrain... after this 9-mile loop that all changed.
Here's a peek of the single-track trail. Sure looks nice. It wasn't all this casual, though; most of it was endless hills and turns.
This weekend I had another one of those moments. I was running my first 50-mile race, a distance that not so long ago was truly unfathomable.
The first 30 or so miles were a cakewalk. I guess that's how it is when you have so long to go. My favorite part was this old guy bouncing around and shouting about how wonderful life was and how he felt like a little kid again and I thought that was really cool. I remember wondering to myself if it would ever get difficult—I pictured myself at the finish line remarking at how much easier it was than my first marathon—and then it occurred to me that maybe if it wasn't truly difficult, it wouldn't have been worth it.
And then I got my wish. Around mile 30, my legs started cramping up. First it was just a little spasm on my inner right thigh that eased up with a bit of walking. Then it was the left. A few miles later it was everything. By mile 35 I couldn't really run except for 30-second intervals every few minutes, leaving me to power-walk-slash-hobble for the remainder of the course. And then it got worse: Some parts of the course were so steep that even walking induced cramps, and a few times I was almost immobilized for stretches of a few seconds. And amidst all this my stomach was fighting its own battles, and I felt vaguely like I'd be throwing up in the next hour (though I never did). But I kept going, because I don't know why. It just seemed like the appropriate thing to do.
I carried on. Around mile 49 my legs got a little happier and I was able to run through the finish. I finished in 10:37:56, so I made the 12-hour cutoff and got my awesome belt buckle. Through all the 30s and 40s I felt like such a failure. I had planned on finishing in 9 hours (conservatively!), and somehow I managed to screw it up. But then, once I finished, I felt really good. Like really good.
Me after the finish, still standing
Finisher's belt buckle
To learn from anything, you need to analyze what went wrong. As usual, there were countless challenges for me in this race.
It was a hot day, peaking in the high 70s, whereas it'd been in the 40s and lower for weeks (though it did start out beautifully in the 40s and 50s). I guess I should have been taking some salt tablets along the run (I didn't until like mile 35 when an aid station guy suggested it). I think those helped ease up the cramping.
It was a tough course, and it was back-loaded: The first 9-mile loop was on easy ski trails, the next 26-mile segment was on rolling single-track, and the final out-and-back had the highest climbs and most treacherous turns of all.
Maybe my training was on the minimal side (I had a couple 70-mile weeks, but no run since my February 50k that was over 24 miles).
I still haven't mastered ultra-nutrition; I tend to do fasted training runs and I just haven't focused on in-race nutrition enough.
I think pacing might have come into play; since the easiest part was at the beginning, I figured I should take it a little faster while still trying to keep a realistic pace given the remaining distance. All said, I started out around 9:30/mile, which was probably simply too fast. By the marathon mark I was around 10:30, and I fell apart shortly thereafter. (Granted, I'm not convinced the cramping was entirely due to speed.)
And of course it was my first 50... going up a distance is always something of a crapshoot.
I distinctly recall promising myself that I'd never do another 50 (or was it that I'd never run, period?), but I'm already planning one for the fall. I really am hopeless, aren't I?
Other Things to Work On:
Fine-tuning 50-mile nutrition plan
Figuring out what drop bags are for
Random:
I hit the 26.2-mile mark and I felt like I hadn't even gotten started. My watch read 4:40, meaning if that had been a marathon event, it wouldn't nearly have been my worst.
When 50 miles started to seem like too long a distance for me to go, when those thoughts of dropping out crossed my mind, I told myself that if I kept being such a baby I'd have to run home after the race, which would be another 50 miles. It made the first 50 miles seem a bit easier.
When my brain got to smart for that little trick, I told myself I'd sign up for the Kettle 100 in a few weeks and that if I couldn't even finish 50 miles then that one would be truly horrible.
I brought my iPod as an in-case-of-emergency device, but I didn't really need it. For a bit I thought I did, but that only lasted an hour or so. In retrospect, I think that was my lowest point in the race mentally, and I don't think it was in spite of the music, but rather because of it.
When it got really hard, I focused on thinking of things that I was grateful for. Even in such strange adversity, there's much to be grateful for. That helped a lot.
It must be easier if you have loved ones crewing for you. I didn't feel like I really needed supplies or anything, but getting to see a familiar face every now and then would have been nice.
It's now two days after the fact, and I still feel different. This race shook me down to my core. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but I wonder if I'll ever be the same. When you get to the point where you'd honestly deny all the money in the world for the simple chance to just sit down—even for a minute!—you're not so quick to come back from that place.
Suddenly 26.2 miles doesn't seem all that far to run. What a strange thought. Although I shouldn't pretend I didn't think about throwing in the towel yesterday as early as mile 19...
Still looking pretty chipper. This was in the first 10 miles.
My first 50k was just about as hospitable as my first trail marathon a few weeks ago—terrible, that is. We ran on snow-covered trails (with a layer of ice beneath the snow) as more snow yet continued to fall. (Fortunately it was up to 15 degrees... Just a few days prior we had -15 with bitter winds, so I'm grateful I didn't have to run 6 hours in that!) With every step I took my foot slipped a few inches back, and it was easy to get discouraged. Even so, I somehow convinced myself to carry on. (It wasn't easy. Actually, it was probably the hardest thing I've ever done.) The course consisted of five loops, and with each loop we checked in at the aid station/shelter/finish line. It would have been so easy to just stop... especially when it became clear that each loop was going to take longer than the last.
I finally finished in 6 hours and 15 minutes, coming in 31st of 78 finishers. I was glad to finish, if a bit appalled by my time. But if you take into account that the first-place finisher came in at 4:40 or so, I guess it wasn't all that bad. It also turned out that I was the youngest one there. (There were two 25-year-olds, and everyone else was older.)
What did I learn? (a.k.a. rookie mistakes... You'd think this was my first run ever.)
Don't do a strenuous back workout two days before a race. My lower back was tired from the start, and I was fantasizing about lying down for pretty much the entire race. (Granted, an easy fantasy to achieve.)
Don't eat new things on race day. I thought I'd give this herbal vitamin supplement drink thing a try, and I think it really upset my stomach.
Don't eat too much the day before a race. I was still pretty stuffed the morning of (I woke up before 4 a.m.), but I still wanted to eat breakfast so I shoved some more calories down the gullet. This certainly also contributed to some of the stomach upset I was experiencing.
Don't eat snow. I was a bit thirsty (or bored?) and there was snow everywhere, so I thought, "Why not?" It was fine the first two or three times, but my gloves quickly froze and my hands got pretty cold. Luckily I had a spare pair in the shelter that I picked up the next time I checked in.
Cramps aren't always a death knell. My first marathon was sabotaged by debilitating cramping around mile 15, and I've known the cramps every once in a while since then. My legs started cramping up during the 50k, and I was able to assuage them both physically and mentally so that I could keep running. Nice!
What do I still need to learn?
How much should I eat on the run? When I do marathons, I have a pretty good system. I have a Vespa before I start and around the half marathon mark, I typically eat part of a Clif or similar bar somewhere around the half, and I sometimes eat another small thing around mile 20. But with trail marathons I'm out there so much longer because of the slower pace, and I still haven't nailed how much or when I should be eating. This is something I'm going to focus on in training.
Mental game. Ultrarunning seems to take an awful long time, and it's clear that I need to work more on the mental aspect. I'm going to start taking more runs without any audio (Typically I listen to podcasts, but I generally do one run a week with nothing. I'm going to do more, longer runs this way.) I'm also going to get back to my daily meditation practice.
All in all, it was so great to once again run farther than I ever had in the past. It's something I hadn't experienced since my first marathon. And I suppose I won't again until the Ice Age 50. It does seem a bit crazy to be planning to run 20 miles more than I just did, especially when I haven't yet recovered and I'm still quite in shambles, but that's just how it goes. A seasoned ultrarunner and new friend who I talked to after the run said it well when he calmly told me, "You're ultra."
Here's the short version: To say it wasn't an ideal race would be an overstatement. But I loved it. I must have something messed up in my head.
Here's the long version:
I woke up at 5:40 and started getting ready in the dark. I'd set everything out the night before, so it was only a short matter of assembling myself, but I still took it slowly. At some point my mom woke up and she pointed out the stream of runners we could see crossing the bridge on Columbus, heading toward Grant Park. There were so many of them.
I left around 6:20 and stepped onto an elevator full of other runners. "What's going on today?" one of them said.
I walked the mile to the start area without any issue, went to the bathroom and found my start corral. I was going to start with the 4:30 pace group because I wanted to run the first 4 miles at a 10 minute/mile pace, then pick it up to 9 minutes/mile for the next 18, and then do 8-minute miles for the remainder of the race. That would put me finishing under 4 hours, so I figured if I didn't quite stick to my schedule I'd still be okay. I just didn't realize how far off I'd end up being.
The overwhelming advice I got from other marathoners was to start slow—slower than I'd think I ought to—and then pick it up gradually. I was prepared, and I was really excited for the rush of cruising by all the exhausted slowpokes in the final miles. (I turned out to be one of those zombies.)
The first four miles were easy; I hardly noticed them go by, even though I was trotting along at a comfortable 10-minute pace. I sped up a bit as planned, and went the next 10 miles or so without any issue. I hit 10k around the hour mark, and I hit the halfway mark at 2:08. I had plenty of juice left.
But then things started going sour... I noticed threats of cramping in my calf muscles, but those spasms were few and far between, and they weren't severe. But by mile 15, it got really bad. I had to mix in more walking then I wanted to because after a few minutes of running my muscles would seize a bit. I didn't want them to seize completely, so I opted not to test their limits—I'd rather finish a little behind schedule than not finish at all.
I tried to suck it up until at least mile 17 so I could be running, rather than walking, when I saw my mom and Ricky Boy in the crowd. Success. But shortly after that, it got so bad that I couldn't run at all. I tried to run every now and then, but I couldn't make it more than 20 seconds without my legs cramping. And it wasn't just in my calf muscles anymore; my hamstrings, quads and even glutes joined the fun.
This was awful, because I wasn't winded at all—I barely felt tired—but I had to walk because my legs wouldn't cooperate. I knew I had to keep moving (I tried stopping to stretch once, thinking that would help the situation, but it caused me to hobble stiff-leggedly for a few dozen feet before my legs returned to normal. So I decided just to power onward, walking as quickly as I could, trying not to calculate how long it might take me to walk 8+ miles. Sometimes I tried to run without bending my legs... that worked a little but, but even then I got those threats of cramping.
I made it eventually, in 5:03. It was 80-something degrees out—ugh. I guess I was walking pretty fast, then, since I'm sure I didn't run more than half of a mile after the 18-mile mark. I guess I should be more disappointed than I am... But I'm not because I know there are going to be a lot more marathons in my future (I'm already planning to do several around the world over the next few years). It's just a shame that my first one couldn't have been picture-perfect. Oh, speaking of pictures, I did try to run—and even smile—for the photographers, so hopefully there are some nice pictures.
But enough about the logistics: Let's talk about the course. It was incredible. The crowd support was phenomenal... more people were cheering than I ever could have expected. There were a few parts in which the crowd thinned a bit, but nowhere was there nobody. And the crowd was so diverse: Sometimes there were screaming people crammed shoulder to shoulder everywhere I could so—both at my flanks and at overpasses. People held all sorts of signs ("Toenails are overrated," "Chuck Norris never ran a marathon," "I love your stamina! My number is xxx-xxx-xxxx," and "I thought you said 2.62 miles!" are a few I remember) Cars that drove on roads adjacent to the course honked in support. Random people held out bowls of pretzels and fruit for us runners. There was an entire school pep band playing at one point. Somewhere around Mile 20, there were some people with a keg or two handing out free beer. I got a popsicle from a guy in the Mexican neighborhood. There were dancing dragon people in Chinatown. Several churches had their congregations out front cheering and playing upbeat music.
Maybe the best park was the Nike Inspiration Zone, I think around Mile 24. At that point I kept crying (I think?) but it turned out that I was laughing. I think I'm a lunatic. Anyway, that part was awesome; can't really describe it.
When I crossed the finish line, all the pain in my feet and the looming spasms in my legs went away. It was incredible. It was the most amazing feeling of accomplishment I've ever known. I got my weird thermal blanket thing I'm still not sure of the purpose of, my medal, a bag of yummies and a 312. I couldn't drink more than a few sips of the 312—my belly was so full of the Gatorade I kept drowning myself in with the hope that it'd cure my cramping (it didn't). And after a few minutes of walking (it was another mile to the point at which I'd arranged to meet my mom and brother) the pain came back. I saw people laying on the ground and I just wanted to do the same, but I figured I ought to find my family first...
Anyway, I told myself around Mile 20 that I'd never do it again, but I changed my mind by Mile 24. Bring it on.
