Oklahoma City Memorial Marathon: April 27, 2014
4am
I’ve had a couple of hours of sleep, and it’ll have to do. I
wasn’t expecting much anyway. I’ve been a weird/wired mix of a little kid
waiting for Christmas and a dental patient waiting for the drill for days now.
I’m hopped up on carbs and equal measures of fear and excitement. I’m so ready
for this—and so not! What the hell am I doing here? Eight months ago, when I
started Couch25K, I could barely run to the end of my road. What makes me think
I can suddenly run a marathon? I chow down distractedly on a handful of
chocolate-covered coffee beans and a banana and swallow a mug of hotel coffee.
That should do it!
5am
We’re getting on the DRC Party Bus and headed downtown to
check our race bags and line up. Everyone’s
anxiously watching phone apps for
news of the weather. This is “Tornado Alley,” after all, and there’s a big storm
brewing. There are porta-potties everywhere when we get near the starting line,
and I need all of them! I lose my DRC friends somewhere between the bag check
and the loos but figure I’ll find them again at the race. I don’t. From this
point on, I’m pretty much on my own.
6:30-8:00am
The race has been postponed… and postponed… and postponed
again. I’m wet and hungry and depressed and tired. We had all fine-tuned our
nutrition and our repeated visits to the porta-potties for an exact 6:30 start.
Runners obsess about such things—what goes in, what comes out, and when. No one
here cares about getting wet, but there is a dangerous storm system overhead.
The race directors have to make a tough call to ensure our safety, and things
are looking dicey out there.
More than 26,000 runners are huddled in doorways, parking
garages, and buildings across the city in varying degrees of optimism and
despair, waiting for more news. I find myself in the hall of a local Methodist church
that opened its doors and started serving pancakes and coffee. I can’t be
bothered to stand in line, and someone in the street gave me a cinnamon roll
anyway. I don’t much like sugary pastries, but I’m grateful for the carbs
because I’m still hoping to be able to run, and my breakfast has long since drained
away with much of my energy and hope. . . I share half of my roll with some guy
who can’t stop staring at it: he gives half of that to the guy next to him—the girl
opposite me splits a sausage and gives half to me. It’s a modern day loaves and
fishes scenario in this church, but this crowd just wants to run.
Eventually, I wander into the sanctuary. There are hundreds
of runners filling the pews, and some of them may well be praying. Behind the
cross on the altar, a big screen is blaring out Fox News weather reports. Could
life get any weirder? They are talking about the possible need to cancel. 8:00am
was the last window of opportunity, they say. The city roads need to open again
at 1:30pm, and lots of the marathoners won’t make it round by then. Plus, the
day’s going to get very hot and humid. If the storm doesn’t get us, the traffic
or heat will. I am about to lose it. All the planning, all the work, all these
runners with nowhere to run…
And then suddenly the race is back on. They’ve pushed the
window just a little further out, and we’re pouring out of churches and parking
garages back onto the course. I think someone is singing the Star-Spangled
Banner. The mood is wild; we’re elated. I line up near some firemen, and I
realize I’m crying. This is really happening. We’re going to run… I’M going to
run…
8:15am
The press of people is huge, but there isn’t any rudeness or
shoving that I can tell. The patience and grace of these people is helping me
get a grip. I catch the eye of someone I think I might know, smile through my
tears… And we’re off!
Holy crap, this is happening!!!
Crowds are cheering, feet are pounding, and everything’s
moving very fast. It’s so easy to get caught up in the wave of speed, but I
have 26.2 long miles ahead of me, and I need to hang onto some drive for the
hours ahead. I need discipline like I’ve never needed it before. I check my
watch religiously, every few seconds, to make sure I’m not getting carried away.
It’s a rookie mistake to take off like a rat from a trap on the adrenaline
high. I read on a running website recently that in those first few miles you
should feel like you’re “just poking along.” That phrase is resonating with me
now. That’s what I’m doing. It’s effort, but it’s far from all-out effort. All
that training at differing speeds has given me a real feel for what might work,
and I’m hanging onto it tight in the face of a killer desire to just take off
as fast as I can move.
I run the first mile in 11:07 minutes, according to my Garmin,
and then I reassess. Right now, this pace seems nicely doable. I’ll stick with
it for a while. I run miles 2 through 4, from Bricktown through the State
Capitol Complex, at 11:08, 11:01, and 11:09. I’ve decided the Garmin is the
boss of me for the duration of the race. I read an article recently which
suggested our bodies lie about what they can do and shut down early to protect
themselves. We’ll be having none of that malarkey here today! Whenever I see my
pace fall off, I tell my body she can never get these minutes back if she loses
them. So, step it up!
Perhaps I should pause at this point and say I was kind of
hoping I would find an inner serenity out on the course, a runners’ version of Zen
enlightenment, an inner Dalai Llama, if you will. I was waiting for the
appearance of this sweet fuzzy encourager who would say inspiring things like
some of the posters held up by the crowds: “You are so awesome!” “You’ve got
this!” “You’re an inspiration!” It turns out, what I have is a harsh task
master who takes no prisoners and snorts at failure, who has much more in
keeping with those other posters out on the road: “If it was easy, everyone
would do it, so suck it up!” and “One in every 100 runners poops their pants.
Are you that one?” Oh dear… Out on the course this day, I have discovered my
inner Commandant, and this is a character not to be messed with! It tells my
body whenever she starts to whimper, “You are a machine! Your job is just to do
this, so DO IT! DO IT TILL IT’S DONE!”
Somewhere around those miles where I’m settling in with my
inner Bossy Boots and my body is giving up the
reins, I see a DRC sign and
yell out. My friend Jennifer comes running after me, holding up her other sign
which reads, “GO SCARLETT. THE BRITISH ARE COMING!” I am so happy to see a face
I recognize, and I kick it up a notch. C’mon, body, move it!!!
Mile 5, I run at 10:59, and this is where I admit that all
that wise counsel that I should let go of my time goals for my first marathon
has fallen on interested but decidedly ambivalent ears. I got injured in the
last few weeks, and though I’m getting back on form thanks to excellent
physiotherapy, I’m not where I was, so I’m not looking for a 4:40 finish
anymore--but I do have a secret need to beat the five hour clock. If I can
stick close either side to the 11-minute mile mark, I can probably manage it
even with a visit to the loo! I need to time it right though. In the first few
miles, there are long lines at every porta-potty stop. There’s no way I’m
standing in a line watching the seconds tick away. I decide to wait till the
Half Marathoners peel away on a separate route, little knowing that’s not till
around mile 10.
Miles 6, 7, 8, and 9, I run in tightly disciplined splits: 11:03,
11:04, 11:05, 11:03. It looks like calm assurance—who would know there is a war
going on inside? From time to time, my body mentions that her feet are sore,
and wet, and that she’s not sure I’m doing the math right, that maybe we should
slow it down. I tell her it’s well known bodies tell lies. I tell her she’s a machine,
that sometime this will all be over, but now is not that time; she’ll be sorry
if she doesn’t give it everything she has!
We hit the infamous Gorilla Hill around mile 7: it’s steep
and seemingly endless. I power up, armed with the insider knowledge from my
friend Jennifer that at the top will be people dressed like bananas. What she
didn’t warn me was the banana-people are handing out actual bananas to runners,
who are chowing down and trampling the skins! Who orchestrates a road for
marathoners that’s covered in banana peel? I pick my way through, laughing at
the craziness, and run on.
I thought I’d be settling in and listening to my music by
this time, almost two hours into the race and with another three to go, but I’m
not. The internal argument is taking all my concentration. When the Half
Marathoners peel off and the crowd of runners thins significantly, I spend a
precious minute and twenty seconds (Hell, yes, I counted—runners love data!) in
a smelly loo. It costs me dearly. Mile 10 registers 12:23 on the Garmin. My
inner Commandant is not amused!
Mile 11, I’m back to 11:10, but it’s rough going. I’ve been
chewing the healthy nutty-datey snacks I’m lugging round with me because I’ve
been warned that by the time I realize I need energy, it’ll be too late. It’s
getting harder to chew, and I’m starting to worry my body’s right after all; I picked
a too aggressive pace. The race delay means we’re running right through the heat
of the day. The sun’s beating down, and the air is thick with humidity; the
medical tents at regular intervals along the route are keeping busy. My body
mentions she might need to sit down in one. My inner Commandant ignores her. That
body is such a liar!
Mile 12 and 13, I’m heading towards the lake at 11:25 and
11:38. Dammit, I’m slowing down. My feet feel like lead, and I have a sudden
certainty that the store sold me mismatched shoes—the right one is definitely
too small. I love water. If only I can get to the lake, there’ll be a breeze… But
damn, if you’ve ever read the Pilgrim’s Progress, you’ve heard of the Slough of
Despond, and that’s what that lake is to me today--and to many others. This is the
only place the route loops, so you can see runners slogging back from where you’re
going. It feels pointless and like you’re heading the wrong way only to turn around.
I’ve always hated U-turns, and this one is the absolute worst. The air coming
off the water is hard, and hot, and thick with humidity and misery. I’m overheated
and overwrought and not even halfway home. Mile 14 is the turn at the lake, and
I somehow beat my way back to 11:22, but by mile 15 I’m in trouble. My right
leg has cramped, and it feels like I’m running on a stump. I’ve been warned,
just on the bus coming down here, that stopping to uncramp is a mistake. If I try
it, I’ll never get moving again. I can see a medical tent and some helpful
looking people. I lurch past them at a halting 12:11, aware I have a couple of
hours more of this with no hope of relief. I’m distraught, but I’m in it for
the long haul. Doggedness is my superpower.
Somewhere around mile 16, my miracle shows up. Through the
fog in my head, I start to hear my name, and through my misted-up sunglasses, I
see Douglas running at my side. He’s holding a book (he’s running
and reading?) and has pockets full of stuff. He tells me later he had been
calling a while and had real trouble getting through to me. I wasn’t very
coherent apparently. He lets me know he has painkillers; do I need them? I’m
confused and refuse, but he asks again. I figure out a couple of ibuprofen
might be a good idea and eventually ask for four. He runs beside me till he finds a water tent when he gives me both at once. I chug
them down and run on, leaving him and his book in the dust, but I hang onto the
water bottle. I’m so happy to have seen him, but I know if I stop, I’ll
never start again.
Someone has handed me a sachet of gu, an energy gel. I’ve
never tried one. I prefer the natural gunk I’ve been hauling round unable to
chew. I feel a little like I did when, in labor with my first child, I gave up
on the idea of a drug-free childbirth around hour 20 and took the shot—a chemical-dependent
failure. Nevertheless, I tear the top off and suck it down slowly between miles
17 (12:51) and 18 (13:12). The gu is like sugary glue and tastes like hell, but
I’m starting to feel clearer. I couldn’t have swallowed it without my magical bottle
of water. There have been plenty of water stops along the way, but I’m bad at
drinking out of paper cups while running, and I daren’t stop. The water bottle
feels miraculous as I sip and run.
My right leg is still cramped, and it occurs to me, vaguely,
that it might snap off with the constant pounding. I alter my gait to try to
stretch it a bit. My body, which has been moodily silent for a while, mentions
that legs are not really designed for this kind of treatment. Also, it thinks
its right foot is probably bleeding and has a huge lump on the side which might
burst at any moment. And, of course, that’s
when the chest pain kicks in.
Apparently, in addition to an inner Commandant, I
have an inner hypochondriac. For a while, I wonder whether this tight band
around me is the beginning of a heart attack—and then I realize that it’s just
the bottom of my sports bra feeling too tight. I shake off the fear and remind myself
it’s well known bodies lie—she was just trying to get in another medical tent,
dammit! I remind her she’s just a machine, so she better keep doing what
machines do.
I get someone to fill up my miraculous water bottle at the
next station, and then I start work on a second gu which tastes even nastier
than the last. At some point, someone hands me a big cup of something, and I take
a giant swallow. Holy hell; it’s beer! Much as I want it, I throw it away. I
can’t afford the dehydration or the distraction right now.
Mile 19, and something has changed. I’m still running on
stumps, but I can feel an energy lift and I move through it in 11:18. And then
I feel it coming back to me: hope, the thing with feathers. All this time, even
at my worst, I’ve been running the data in my head, and as far as I can tell, a
sub-5 marathon is still in sight. I power up a hill and kick mile 20 in 10:22.
Am I making a mistake? Kicking it into gear too soon? I don’t think so... Mile
21: 11:06. Mile 22: 10:48. Mile 23: 10:55. Oh my God: I’m going to make it! I’m
going to finish, and in a time that won’t make me ashamed. Mile 24: 11:13. Mile
25: 10:39. Mile 26: 10:31. And then I can see the finish. It’s slow and it’s
fast all at the same time, and my vision has narrowed to a tunnel. I can’t feel
my right leg anymore, but it can’t have fallen off or I’d over-balance, so keep
moving, keep running, you’re almost, almost there…
As I cross the finish, still on my feet, still—miraculously—running,
I’m vaguely aware that there’s a discrepancy between my Garmin and the race
chip timer. It’s only in that last final burn that I realize I’m not quite
going to make sub-5 officially. According to my Garmin, I’ve run 26.6 miles in
five hours and one minute exactly.
According to the chip timer, it’s 26.2 in
five hours 42 seconds. At this point, it doesn't matter. Sub-5, not sub-5, who the
hell cares? I ran a marathon, dammit, a MARATHON, and I left every bit of me
out on the road. I slow down and start staggering, hear Douglas yelling
through the fence, and make it to him in time for a hug before I collapse on a delicious
pile of ice. There’s another marathon in Dallas in December: I can beat the
five-hour then.
____________________________________________
Footnote: This was a wonderfully well-organized race with awesome crowds who did everything they could to cheer on the runners, from handing out strips of fresh-cooked bacon to dancing in the streets to playing music. The water stops were fabulous. The organization was great, and the hospitality of the people of Oklahoma City was warm and welcoming.
Dallas Runners Club, it should also be noted, is the awesomest of all the awesomes, and I feel fortunate, lucky, blessed to count myself a member of this amazing group of people. When I joined, just a few short months ago, I felt intimidated to be among "real" runners. That only lasted until the first time I got to talk to the first one of them. I'm so glad to have found this wonderful, supportive community. Thank you for being!
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