Act II, Scenes 7-16: I Walk Alone

After A took off, I felt myself slowing down.  I hadn’t realized that having to fight through all that traffic at the start would wear me down so early, and I had counted on the fact that I’d have A as a pace runner for longer than 6 miles.  I was still a few minutes ahead of my pace bracelet, but I was slowing a lot sooner than I had originally intended. 

I didn’t take my headphones out just yet.  I wanted to wait as long as I could so that music would be both a reward and an energy boost when I needed it.  Fortunately, tunes were already provided in the form of a squat, older gentleman shuffling next to me carrying a boom box blaring mariachi music.  I flanked him for about 2 miles, unable to pull away.  I wondered what was wrong with me.

We rounded the newly restored Echo Park Lake and headed north into Silverlake.  There was good crowd support here – who knew hipsters woke up so early?  The crowd was so thick that I vaguely remembered that A and I had lunch on this street a few weekends before, but I couldn’t find the restaurant because there were too many people in the way.

I noticed in particular how every water stop was extremely well-manned, not just in Silverlake but throughout the entire course.  Each station was a well-oiled machine, from the people who poured the beverages, to those who held out color-coded cups of water or Gatorade, to the sweepers who dodged in and out between runners to whisk away the trash we threw onto the ground.  And I noticed how the volunteers were as diverse as the city itself.  All ages and ethnicities were represented; the only common denominator was that every single person was smiling, encouraging, and enthusiastic.  Far and away, the best thing about the LA Marathon was the volunteer army.

I approached the turn west heading into Hollywood.  As we ran down the Walk of Fame, I missed seeing all the famous Hollywood landmarks advertised on the course map because I was too distracted by a strange, ugly haze.  The morning light had changed from gray to brown and I couldn’t figure why it was starting to feel so hot even though it was still overcast.  After seeing photos from this point in the race, I realized what I thought was cloud coverage was actually something else LA is famous for, though definitely not featured on the course map: air pollution.

We shimmied south off Hollywood Boulevard and onto the Sunset Strip.  The haze gave way to hot sun as I crossed the halfway point.  I was over 15 minutes slower than the half marathon I ran last year and only mere seconds ahead of my pace bracelet.  It wasn’t good.  It was time for reinforcements.  I pulled out my iPod and cranked it up.

I was entering West Hollywood, where a few people I knew might be on the sidelines.  I didn’t want the indignity of being seen walking, so I used that as motivation.  I encountered a friend cheering for me around mile 15.  I was happy to see her face, but didn’t stop lest I be tempted to ask for a ride to the finish line.  The thought had seriously crossed my mind.  If I wasn’t going to make my goal, what was the point of even finishing?  I turned my music up loader and headed toward Beverly Hills as David Byrne was sang, “Run, run, run…run, run, run away….”

The sun was beating down so brightly that the blacktop looked white.  I had slowed so significantly, I was hemorrhaging time.  After mile 16, now about a minute off pace, I realized trying to make my goal time was a lost cause.  As that reality sunk in, I started to walk.  I was immediately angry with myself, and after just a few steps, started to run again.  I tried to compel myself to push, but it didn’t last long, and a block later, I stopped…again.  I walked almost the entire length of Rodeo Drive as the well-dressed mannequins watched me in haughty disgust.

At first I spent a lot of time justifying my decision to stop running.  It was hot, it was too crowded at the beginning, it just “wasn’t my day”.  I always hated that saying, and I couldn’t believe I was using it now.  It wasn’t the day’s fault; it was my fault.  Was my strategy to blame?  Should I have finished that bagel?  Should I have worn that tech shirt after all?  Did I train hard enough?  I ran 21 miles in training, why am I failing here at 16?

At the next water stop, I poured a cup of water on my head.  It felt glorious dripping down my hair and neck.  With a cooler head, I realized that whether by running, walking, skipping, or jumping, my legs were the only thing that would deliver me to the finish line, and I still had a long way to go.

Act II, Scenes 1-6: Slow Going

It took almost 3 minutes for A and I to shuffle across the start line.  As we stepped underneath the bright orange arch, the shuffle became a trot, and after a few yards, the trot became a jog.  There were a number of pushy racers who elbowed their way ahead.  Many of them were men sprinting to an adjacent berm to water the weeds in full view of the thousands running by.

The current picked up speed thanks to a steep downhill getting out of Dodger Stadium.  A and I were trying to advance our position while keeping track of each other.  I could hear A yelling at me, “Don’t look back!  Stop looking back!” because I kept turning my head to make sure I didn’t lose him in the crowd.

We ran like this all through downtown, dodging people, looking for pathways through clustered bodies, running on and off sidewalks.  There was a steep uphill for around mile 5 that A strategically thought we could take advantage of.  It might not have been the smartest idea for people who didn’t  train hills, but we were able to pass a lot of people, many of whom were already walking.

We had picked up pace bracelets at the expo.  The bracelet I wore had printed the aggregate time needed per mile to finish at 3 hours and 35 minutes.  A was wearing one for a 3 hour and 25 minute finish.

My strategy for the race was to hang with A at his pace for at least 10 miles in order to bank some time that I could burn during the second half.  Many people had warned me in advance that this plan of action was fraught, but I hadn’t trained for and didn’t think I was capable of running negative splits.

Around the 6-mile mark, A looked down at his wrist and said he wasn’t going to make his goal.

Even though we were finally able to run the pace A needed, he was at such a deficit thanks to the logjam at the start that he knew he had to run under pace to make up all the time lost.  I knew I couldn’t and shouldn’t run any faster.  I had found all the dodging and weaving very taxing and there was still many slower runners ahead.  I could hear the frustration in A’s voice, and I told him to go ahead without me.

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at me.

I told him to have a great race and I would see him at the finish.  He said goodbye and began to kick a little harder, pulling away into the crowd ahead.  The course made a sharp left off a freeway overpass.  I saw him running well after he made that turn, but a few minutes later I reached the corner myself and lost sight of him for good.  Now I was really on my own.

A Race in Three Acts: Act I

After nearly a week, I’m finally ready to write about my experience running the LA Marathon last Sunday.  Right off the bat, I must disclose that I did not come in under the time I was hoping for.  I didn’t even make my secondary goal, which was breaking the 4-hour mark; I missed that by 3 minutes.  But I’m happy to say I’ve processed my disappointment and have moved (or should I say hobbled?) on.  Therefore I will spare you the self-flagellation and commence in giving you my race report in three parts: the beginning, the middle, and the end.

In the beginning…

A and I had prepaid to park at the finish line and take a shuttle to the start.  There was a long line of cars to park and an even longer line of people to board the shuttles.  My anxiety and impatience kicked in immediately, but both lines moved pretty swiftly.  (A tip for future LA Marathoners: they ask you to pick a shuttle at half-hour increments, but you don’t need to abide by the time you signed up for since the shuttles run continuously and no one checks to make sure you’re boarding at your designated time.)

Since the daylight savings time change occurred mere hours before we boarded, it was still dark outside.  We took the freeway from Santa Monica to Dodger Stadium.  It was alarming how long the ride took going 60 miles per hour, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how much longer it will be at a tenth of that speed.

We were sitting next to a “legacy” runner, someone who’s run the LA Marathon every year since inception.  I’m not sure if it was because of his vaunted status or if he had a miracle race at his advanced age, but he was granted a place in Corral A, the fastest seeded corral, right behind the elite runners.  He told us he expected to finish in 5 and a half hours.

I felt a pit forming in my stomach, knowing we were at least ten thousand runners behind him thanks to the seeded corrals.

When we arrived at Dodger Stadium, A and I bee-lined to the portable toilets.  My ideal intake versus output ratio before a race can be summed up in this equation:

[Fluid ounces + (1.5 hours – X minutes in line)] x 2 = < 10 minutes till start time

As any good mathematician knows, X is always the variable.  In our first round of expulsion, X ended up being about 20 minutes.  We were in good shape.

Next, we hit up the gear check.  We had all our stuff in one of the clear plastic bags they provided at the expo.  As an added security measure after last year’s Boston marathon, you were required to use the bag the race provided.  Fortunately there were two of us running since one of the bags we got fell apart before we got home from the expo.

The gear check was a series of UPS trucks organized by badge number.  They were all manned by volunteers.  The confluence of famous brown trucks and large signage was easy to see and the denominations small enough that there was practically no wait.  It was a wonderful system. 

Since we were only using one bag, we checked it in under A’s number since, unless something went horribly awry, he would finish first.  We unzipped our hoodies and stuffed them into the bag.  I expected to be cold since the sun still hadn’t risen, but wasn’t.  This was a bad sign since if I wasn’t cold at 6 AM, I knew I would be hot by 7 AM.

After checking our gear, there was nothing to do but wait around.  Since we were in a ballpark, the best place to sit was the bleachers.  There were people milling all over the place and a commercial for Asics, the title sponsor, was on permanent loop on the big ballpark screen.  Tons of students wearing neon yellow vests teemed like ants everywhere I looked, with a large group of them taking up an entire bleacher section and reciting motivational cheers.  These were Students Run LA.

As the half hour mark approached, we decided to do one last pee.  The stadium restrooms were available to the runners, a nice perk over a smelly outhouse.  The line for the Men’s room was long.  The line for the Women’s was catastrophic.  It wrapped around almost to center field for a bathroom at home plate.  I saw my chance slipping away.  Then a woman came by and announced there were empty restrooms on the fourth floor.  A herd of us migrated to the stairwell.  They all darted up, but a security guard chased us down and said we weren’t allowed here.  Everyone ignored him but me.  I’d like to say that it was because of my respect for authority, but really I didn’t want to climb three flights of stairs before running 26.2 miles (little did I know I was already on the 2^nd floor).

Forced to the take the elevator, I waited for an eternity.  By the time I made it to the fourth floor, the secret was out and there was a small line, but including this line and the slow elevator, I still made out well.  X was about 25 minutes.

Confident with our empty bladders, A and I headed to the mess that was the start line just as the sun was rising.

We tried our best to follow the signs, but there were so many people in our way we couldn’t go far.  We found ourselves in a big traffic jam – trees who couldn’t see the forest.  Were we able to pan out, we’d realize we were outside the Open Corral, not even inside the chute.  People tried to push forward, but there was nowhere to go.  There was only a small opening to get into a small area already heaving with 21,000 other people.

The elite women took off 20 minutes before our start time.  People tried to surge ahead, little by little.  There were waves of movement as the countdown neared.  The mayor was talking as people shuffled forward.  Those in the corral started removing their excess sweatshirts and throwing them over the fence.  They landed on my head.  A and I held hands not to get separated.  Someone from American Idol sang the national anthem as patriots took off their hats in respect and traitors tried to take advantage and advance their positions.

The announcer started the countdown, “Five!  Four!  Three!  Two!  One!”

The horn blared, people cheered, and off we…walked. 

And Soon It Will Be Done

The marathon I’ve blogged incessantly about for months is finally this weekend.  Instead of feeling exciting, I find that I’m a strange combination of apprehensive and melancholy.

The apprehension I understand since nerves are normal before a race.  The melancholy is what is more surprising.  It’s not as if I relished the training.  I know I won’t miss running so much once the race is over.  Indeed, I’ve been saying for weeks how much I look forward to just being done.

I suspect my melancholy is born from the fact that I’m pretty convinced I will not make my goal.  I’m trying to justify the experience faced with anticipated disappointment.  I fear a mountain of regret, second guessing how I trained, lamenting my lack of mental fortitude.

I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to manage my expectations.  A few people have told me just to “have fun with it”, which is easy to say since most of them are much more accomplished runners than me.  Perhaps that is because they were able to follow their own advice.

I am trying to keep this whole thing in perspective.  Not accomplishing what I set out to do in this marathon is not a tragedy.  It will not portend failure for any future goals I have in life.  It does not impugn me as a person, no matter how much it feels like it would.  Life goes on.  It’s not as if world peace depends on me crossing the finish line at a certain time, which is a good thing since I could not fathom such pressure.

I reflect on the past four months and all the things that happened while we were training for this race.  I traveled through a super typhoon, logged countless miles on the treadmill, embraced a bedtime that most consider geriatric, said goodbye to a cheerleader and friend.  Four months is a long time to dedicate to anything, and now that the end is nigh, it feels like the end will be upon me too soon.  I probably won’t feel that way around mile 10, but it’s a nice reminder that the reward is the journey, not the destination.  I hope to carry that with me over all 26.2 miles.  If I can remember to do that, regardless of whether I make my goal or not, I know I will be able to have fun with it.

The Not O.K. Corral

So one of the many things that is giving me agita about the marathon is this newfangled “seeded corrals” situation that the organizers are implementing for (I think) the first time this year.  I had never heard of a seeded corral before and the concept was so ludicrous to me that I had to read the info multiple times to make sure that I really understood.

At most races, participants generally queue at the start line based on their expected finishing time.  At our race, they are reserving the front for people who have run a marathon in the past year, based on the time they finished ranked A through E.  If you haven’t run a marathon recently (like me), then you’re relegated to the “Open Corral” behind all the seeded corrals.

 

I wouldn’t have an issue with this if it weren’t for the unlimited finishing times and high corral capacities.  This means that faster runners who didn’t do a marathon in 2013 are stuck behind a lot of much slower runners who did.  To give you an indication, Corral E will hold 2,000 people who took over 5 hours to complete their last marathon.  As it stands, A and I hope to finish in front of the C, D, and E groups, which essentially means we need to negotiate past at least 5,500 slower runners the moment we start the race.  This is assuming we score a good position in the Open Corral.

I fear that the start line will be so crowded that we won’t be able to run our pace until the second mile or so.  The fact that we now need to squeeze past so many people further hurts our chances to make our goal time and that, in a word, sucks. 

Hopefully my utter abhorrence of this system will work to my advantage and I’ll be pleasantly surprised at how great it worked.  Since I could not hate it any more than I do, anything is possible.

Crappy Diem

I have never been good about living in the moment.  I am constantly looking ahead to brace myself for problems that the worrier in me is wired to expect.  It’s obviously not the most Zen state of mind, but I justify my pessimism by feeling that if the issues I anticipate never materialize, than whatever relief I feel is bonus good energy I wouldn’t otherwise have had.  It’s a lame trade-off but one that’s worked for me, more or less.

My long runs have become a microcosm of my anxious approach to life.  I find myself anticipating – actually fixating – on landmarks ahead on the course.  Once I pass them, I allow myself a brief moment of relief before moving on to the next one.  I find this keeps me fairly motivated and breaks up an otherwise brutal slog, although it is a double-edged sword.  Sometimes my landmark is so far out that the thought of how long it’ll take to reach can make giving up way too tempting.

Another issue is that I fear I’m robbing myself of an experience by constantly living in the future and ignoring the present.  A keeps reminding me that we love running, we should be happy while we’re running.  I think this is code to not obsess about what’s ahead but revel in the journey your own now, a concept I obviously do not embrace.  When I’ve tried practicing mindfulness and taking anatomical inventory (“checking in” with my body, so to speak), I’ve found it only makes me lose motivation and become negative.  So for me the challenge is how to stay grounded in the moment but still focused on the goal.

When we embarked on our marathon training, I foolishly thought the point was to get my body strong and ready for race day.  More and more I’m realizing that physical strength is linear, mechanical, and will be a natural byproduct of dedication and diligence.  It’s building mental strength that has been elusive and frustratingly nonlinear.  I hope that in these last few weeks leading up to the race I find the right alchemy to create the mental fortitude I need to help me reach my goal.

Milestoned

Yesterday marked the official home stretch: only one month to go before the marathon.  The day before yesterday marked our penultimate long run before the marathon: 21 miles.  And the day before that marked the opening ceremony for the 22nd Winter Olympic Games, which has nothing to do with our marathon training other than to provide a bit of context and inspiration.

Inspiration has been much needed as of late.  I was feeling really burnt out after four months of earnest training.  And then we suddenly found ourselves off-schedule when we both got sidelined by illness.  A fell first and I followed shortly after.  All told, we lost about ten training days, which meant that by last Saturday I hadn’t run long in over two weeks and A was going on almost three.

Starting off Saturday morning, I knew the 21-miler was a Must Do.  We’re both still trying to expel that last little bit of pulmonary phlegm, so we decided to be kind to ourselves and slow down.  Our philosophy was it’s more important to get the mileage in than to keep the pace.

Even with the slower speed, I still lost my resolve around the 10th mile.  I sent A ahead solo, although he stayed in my sightline for a good few miles after that.  I put music on and tried to find that place where imagination doesn’t exist.

Still nagged by negative feedback, I was ready to pack it in after 15.  I took an honest inventory of my body and told myself there was no real reason to quit.  I told myself that walking would hurt more than running and take longer to boot.  I reminded myself that this run was a Must Do, which meant that if I didn’t get ‘er done today, I’d have to do it later this week and all of today’s miles would be for naught.  I threw down a chew and FIDO-ed on.

Talking with a friend about the run afterward, I realized how long 21 miles actually is.  We came across a lot of whacky things on our run: spray-tanning body builders prepping for a competition at the civic center; a clean-up crew along the creek that were either volunteers, convicts, or both; an entire block that reeked of what was either fresh skunk roadkill or fresh skunk weed.

Towards the end of the run, I had moments were I thought I was really jamming.  Then I’d look down at my pace watch and realize, No, no I’m not.  Disappointed, I managed to take heart in the fact that at least I felt alright.  In the end, I ran much slower than I need to come race day, but A reminded me that that was our goal for this run.  He didn’t finish at pace either but was nonplussed.

These next two weeks will be focused on both recovery and getting up to speed, preparing ourselves for our last long run before the race.