“I’m going to knock you the fuck out.” I said to myself. It was the sort of promise I found myself making several times during the race. The first instance was at mile 8, when the course doubled back on itself, and racers passed shoulder to shoulder on one lane of the road. A lady with an orange bib (marathon relay) running in the opposite direction was furious, screaming at everyone she passed “Why are you running this way? Why are you running this way?” Of course, she had been shuttled to mile 6, and ran the return loop to the 13.1 mark, and had not run past the convergence. Still though, after passing several dozen, if not several hundred other runners, a pile of orange cones, and race officials, a sane person would have gotten it.
Now I’m a cheerful lad, and I was cruising along, barely a third of the way into my race. And she pulled me out of my zone. Crazy bitch. Something needed to be done, someone needed to look out for every other innocent runner on the course.
I never let her get further with me than “Why are you”. I raised two fingers, pointing my right index finger at the bird I flipped her with the left. She gave me a good hard glare, but shut up. Runners of the 30th Hyannis marathon, you’re welcome. Still though, I made a mental note to jab her in the throat if I ever saw her again – not that I’m condoning violence against women, I just never wanted to hear her voice again.
The third time was over a span of four miles later in the race, centering around mile 21. I was chasing down a group of people who had slowed their pace. One of them was a kid who I later found out was eleven. I passed him running up one of the last climbs. A few minutes later, he ran up to me, and asked for the time. “Almost two buddy.” Then he ran past me. And stopped. I passed him, and he started running again. After he was about 100 yards ahead of me, he’d stop again. We repeated this dance several times before I started keeping count, then a half a dozen more.
Full disclosure: this little shit ended up beating me. That wasn’t the irritating part; a lot of people beat me that day. But who lets an eleven-year old kid run a marathon? Seriously. Eleven-year olds shouldn’t be left to brush their teeth without supervision. This kid would suddenly pull up to a stop, and nearly trip up someone behind him. I watched one guy nearly steamroll him, and then stop to give the kid a firm talk about race etiquette. After I walked the water stop at around mile 24, I didn’t see him anymore. When my wife watched him cross the line about a minute ahead of me, she was equally shocked. Is there anyway an endurance event is not physically damaging to a kid? Are these parents criminally negligent? If someone knows better, please let me know.
Oh yeah, I was going to push him down the next time or two he stopped. It seemed reasonable at the time.
Bracketed between these two morons, I made my most important vow. And it would be the only pledge of violence I followed through on.
Last year I trained for and ran the half marathon, my first real distance event. In my recap I talked about the lack of epicness that the ordeal entailed. After the fact, I felt somehow cheated. My friend Mark had kept a blog about his training sessions and race day experience, and it remains a piece of riveting journalistic excellence. Don’t expect that from me, not here.
My decision to train was based on several factors. The first is that I like to eat - I mean, really like to eat. I exercise so I can continue to eat what I want, when I want, and until I am sick if I so choose.
For most who know me, you know I am semi-employed, with little to no work in the winter months. I work for a two-man arborist business, and when my boss takes off for three months to go surfing, there is little left for me in terms of employment. Add in the fact that Nantucket is a small and isolated island, and you have the ingredients for an existential crisis. Distance training requires mental discipline, and running in brutal winter conditions needs preparation. Knowing that I had miles to turn probably kept me from turning into a lazy, unemployed and worthless alcoholic.
The last piece was motivation. The unknown has a certain calling to me. I already knew I could train and run a half marathon easily. And though my attitudes are currently shifting on the subject, improving on times was never an important goal. So I signed on for the marathon for the same reason I drove across a sandbar at low tide: to see if I can make it.
Hal Higdon seemed like a delightful old man, so I chose his Intermediate training schedule. I felt comfortable with that level, having completed a half marathon, Iron teams, and some other shorter races the previous year. It peaked at two 20-mile long runs, and tapered three weeks before race day. I was initially a little uncomfortable with only going 20 miles for my long run, but decided that I could push it to twenty-two if I wanted.
The only problem is that September was beginning, and I hadn’t run since early July.
There are several excellent athletes on island, the kind who run full Iron Man triathlons and are competitive in endurance races. I see them in the spring, when we overlap at the pool, then we disappear from eachother’s lives. My wife’s coworker is one of them, and she once told me that my training regimen is backwards, or at least opposite everyone else. This is true. I train hard in the winter and early spring, as I mentioned, since there is nothing else to do. Summer is for work, surfing, and bluefish; drinking beer and clamming, smoking cigars and sitting on the beach. Last year, after Iron Teams, I did nothing until the Nantucket triathlon a month later, and wheezed my way to a subpar 5k. Now I was two months removed from even that piece of isolated activity.
Higdon’s schedule was 18 weeks, which gave me just five weeks to rebuild my mileage base. So the first day I panted my way to 1.75 miles, running a box from my house out Crooked lane to Madaket, and back on Wannacomet. Six miles was that week’s total. The first three-miler nearly killed me.
I had started running only two years before I moved to the island. I was lifting a lot of weights at the time. My employer, the venerable U.S. government, had decided to subsidize $75 a month towards employee gym memberships, as well as provide thirty minutes of paid exercise time three times a week. Combined with a spouse student discount, I was working out at the university gym for $10 a month. With the salary figured in (yes, I was technically getting paid to work out), I actually made an hourly rate of $12.63 while pumping iron.
Even then, I would slowly jog a mile or less, just to warm up. Then I started running outside on nicer days. Then I took the dog with me, so I wouldn’t have to exercise twice to tire her out (an energetic husky mix, she has since become my running partner). Sierra loved the runs, and I slowly increased my mileage. My back pain, a presence for the last two years, started to ease. Running it seemed, loosened and stretched the muscles that no other therapy had been able to reach. Eventually I was regularly running 3-4 miles two or even three times a week.
Getting back on track was harder, because I knew what I was capable of. I kept pushing myself all the way through mileage buildup. The training was unremarkable until Thanksgiving. We spent the holiday with Jen’s aunt and uncle in the Catskills, and the Saturday following the feast I drove to the Ashokan reservoir for a 12-miler. I ended up running 13, looping the only road I knew twice. Both times I ran into a deep ravine, and had to climb back up to the spillway. Having completed that run I finally felt like I had my legs back, and the marathon seemed less abstract, and like a real possibility.
Spending the winter running on Nantucket is an ordeal. There are two obstacles to training here. The weather sucks. My gym membership lapsed, so I did not have the luxury of running inside during inclement weather. I became a devoted follower of forecasts, and planned my runs between gaps in the radar or before and after wind events. Nor’easters were of the utmost importance to track; one storm event could derail runs for an entire weekend. I even became a devoted student of the tides: if I kept on top of the charts I could run along the hard packed sand on Nantucket Sound.
This winter, I am told, was colder than most. Snow stuck around for almost 2 weeks over one stretch. Gales blew. I started one Sunday run in snow, which turned into horizontal rain. By the end, the sun popped out and the temperature was 45 degrees. I ran a tedious 8 miles down and back the Polpis bike path, over snow and ice without falling. I ran into headwinds so strong, the air would make a low whistle if I opened my mouth, like blowing into a soda bottle.
If the weather weren’t enough of an obstacle, it is compounded by the island’s limited size and eclectic geomorphology. One of the reasons I became a student of the tides was to utilize the beaches. There is only one major east-west route across the island: several long and narrow ponds bisect the island running north to south. Very early on, I grew tired of the limited road options. The situation only worsened as my mileage increased.
So I ran beaches. I ran Dionis to Eel Point, and south to the Head of the Plains. I ran along the bottom of Clark’s cove and Hummock Pond. I ran every way I could to avoid running the same path past the windmill and high school. I poured over walkjogrun.com for hours, days in advance mapping my routes. I was always precise about the mileage, and clicked away until I was within a quarter mile of my goal. It was not only the joys of discovering new routes, and running a new piece of undiscovered island, but a process to look forward to. Jen would sometime wonder how I seemed to know weird back streets and trails. The Google Earth platform, as useful as it was, often confuses streets for driveways, trails, or nothing at all. This made runs reconnaissance missions as well.
I exhausted the Middle Moors, alternating staring at Hoick’s Hollow or the old aboveground tennis courts. I started crisscrossing the scrub plains between Eel Point and Madaket roads. I ran from Smith’s point to Wauwinet. I ran the Polpis Milestone loop. I topped altar rock dozens of times, circled the cranberry bogs, and ran narrow trails in an orange cap during gun season. I spooked deer, horses, ducks, lovers, and teens up to no good.
Eventually I took to naming my routes. ‘The Retarded Angel 17’ extensively crisscrossed the island’s west end. I ran it the day before leaving for Christmas vacation, and on the map it looked like an asymmetrical praying angel. ‘There’s Beer at the End’ started in Squam, and ended at the Brewery after fifteen miles. During the last stretch, running along a road cratered with deep puddles, I shocked myself on Bartlett’s electric fence.
Injuries, I think, are part of every endurance runner’s training. I suppose that most are nagging and manageable, as mine seemed to be. I was stupid, and switched from my Saucony’s to New Balance halfway through. For whatever reason, they didn’t feel right. I felt like the sole was slapping hard on the ground. They were stiffer, but this had been recommended to me. I went looking for big guy’s shoe, something that would last longer than my roadsters. In the end, after only nine miles my foot gave out in view of Sankaty. Things were touch and go for a week as I kept my ankle iced, and rush ordered a new pair of the same model Saucony’s. Somehow, the tendon (or ligament) connecting at the top of my foot/bottom of my shin had become inflamed and painful. It was weird.
The major problem came in the latter stages of my second 20-miler. I had to move it up, as a wicked low pressure system was heading our way for the weekend. This storm was the first of two that paralyzed DC. So I moved my run up to Friday – a cold and windy day. My plan was to run the Polpis/Milestone loop, and then a loop through the Moors. By mile 16 my hip flexor had tightened in the cold, and had affected my stride. My knee started to hurt. At mile 18 I started to grunt in pain with every stride, and walked the rest of the way home.
I knew what the problem was. I had impact-related patellar tendonitis years ago. Now it was back. I took a week off. We were going to NYC for vacation anyway. The walking however, made it worse. Fortunately, I was beginning a three-week taper, and only missed a ten miler that weekend. Returning home, I kept on a strict diet of ice and Ibuprofen. The next run I did was a five miler, and I had to stop at 4 because of the pain. I bought a brace, and it helped. After my final Sunday run (an 8-miler), I found that the pain became manageable after five or so miles.
Tim Lepore is my doctor, and I went to see him the Tuesday before the race. His office is filled with arrowheads, stuffed armadillos, Winchester rifle posters, and pictures of him competing in 100-mile endurance races. He was definitely the man I wanted to see.
“I need to know if I’m tearing my knee to shit.” That was my first question for him. I really wanted to compete in the race, but not at the expensive of major damage. After that, I was really interested in managing my pain. Tim examined my knee, feeling around the kneecap, and asking a few other questions.
“I’m not sure if I’m the one you want for advice” he stated. Dr. Lepore, it had been rumored, ran from Hyannis to Provincetown on a stress fracture that he stoicly self-medicated along the way. He is one tough SOB. But I wanted his advice, and he was fair in dispensing it. We talked about where the pain was, how I had trained, and my past history. He told me all about races I should do. Once, his nurse had to restrain him from running home to get me a topical pain reliever from his personal stash.
At the end of the visit, Tim had given me race plan, some quality anti-inflammatory drugs, and motivation. I later returned and picked up a vial of his secret sauce, some kind of topical super awesome icy hot that smelled like garlic. His imparting words were to take it easy until mile twenty, then I could be the wolf, picking off the three-legged deer. He sent me out with strict orders to call him on Monday, and tell him about the race.
Between the meds, the advice, and his personal support, I was back on track to race. I also would have been scared to tell him I didn’t finish. I wanted to be the wolf, not the gimpy deer.
I had entered the Clydesdale class, for men 211 to 225 pounds. Race day morning, I weighed in at a naked 213, before breakfast. There is some kind of formula of calculating energy usage by an athlete during competition. The relationship is quadratic, so it leads to the fact that I consume about four times as much energy to move the same distance as a hundred and fifty pound runner. I am not complaining about being tall and well built. Most times, the advantages are superior. Except in running. I burn through shoes faster, and need to drink more. My knees experience much more striking force on the pavement. One of the reasons I chose Hyannis was to be able to measure my success against people my own size.
Race day was cloudy and cold, with a light breeze. Both sun and snow threatened that day. I opted for a bit of a lighter setup, a thin long sleeved shirt under my regular running jersey, rather than a thicker layer over top. The trip to Hyannis entails getting up early, driving to the airport, flying the commuter plane over, and renting a car. Repeatedly, I had to tamp down my excitement until I was in the starting gate, and was excited to start running. I knew I would be out there a long time, my guess was 4:45, so I was happy to be underway. I ran an eleven minute first mile, repeatedly reigning myself in and waiting for opening to appear, not blowing by slow runners at the start. The second mile passed after another ten minutes, followed by a water stop. I would need to hit all of them – I had calculated my ideal fluid intake at something basically unachievable. By mile five I had settled into a regular ten minute mile, which felt dependable and the right expenditure of effort.
The Hyannis course is a 13.1 mile loop that the marathoners run twice. At the marker for mile number 12, everyone started to pick up the pace. Of the 4500 participants, the marathon had been capped at 500. Only 1 out of every 9 runners were wearing the blue bib, and I reigned in my competitive energy to let the others pass. At thirteen miles, the halves turned right to the finish. I tapped the mile marker, and whispered, “I’m going to knock you the fuck out.”
My race was two races. The first, other than the crazy yelling lady, was without incident. I hit 13.1 miles in about 2:11, exactly the pace I had planned on. My Ipod playlist had been carefully chosen, and I had been in the zone for long stretches at a time, coming to and realizing three miles had passed, and checking my splits.
I thought I was prepared for the letdown after finishing the first loop. My veiled threat was my own motivational ploy. I wasn’t going to strike the 13-mile placard: it was symbolic. I was going to take out that second loop, and I was in for the fight, and I was going to win.
But I had underestimated the emotional letdown. Since mile 12, the crowds had grown, the pace had quickened, and energy was everywhere. I could here music and cheering from the finish gate. Then I passed it, and it all went away. Two hours earlier, the starting chute had been packed with people fenced to the sides. Now, traffic came in one direction. I had to dodge half marathoners who had finished up and were spilling off the sidewalk and getting in my way. On Main street, I was forced to the side and spent a quarter mile in fear of a driver opening a parked car door. Then the enormity of another loop seemed apparent.
Finally, I reached the turn for Sea street, and the sight of a dozen runners stretching out ahead of me. I went through my checklist. My legs felt a little tired, but my stride was smooth. I knew I had plenty of reserve. I meditated on my body. A brief back cramp had come and gone, as had a side stitch. I had no pain in my knee or hip. There was a slight ache from my right instep, and I resolved to ignore it.
Still though, miles 13 to 15 were the toughest, mentally. I had been running for two and a half hours straight by the time I reached the mile marker 15 water station. I stopped and walked through it, as had been my plan. I took three cups of Gatorade, dropping the empties in the three successive garbage cans on the right. After the third cup, I kicked back into a jog and began ascending the slight hill from the Hyline dock to the JFK memorial. I felt great. Runners ahead of me started to flag, I stayed at my 10 minute mile pace, grooving up until mile 18. This was the prettiest stretch of course, and finishing looked like a real possibility.
My goals for the event were tiered. The primary one was to finish the race. Then to finish in under five hours. Then under 4:45, the time I had guessed on my registration form. Those were the goals I had control over. I also wanted to place in my division, but knew enough not try to control anyone else’s race.
I had kept an eye out for mile marker 17. I passed it before a climb, knowing that I had less than ten miles to go. Singe digits. I played the concept over and over again in my mind. At the mile 18 water stop, I pulled off onto a lawn, and stretched my hamstrings. They had started to ache a little, but would not complain again.
I hit mile 20, and could tell my pace was slowing. I was not going to be the wolf. However, I knew I wasn’t the deer either. Nothing hurt terribly, my feet and legs felt, I thought, like I should expect them to feel after running twenty miles. They were tired though, and a little stiff, and that had begun to shorten my stride, and reduce my speed.
Miles 21 to 23 were tough. They ran along a busy street and then through a residential district that was kind of boring. It was the last part of a loop before being led back into the homestretch. Since mile 20, a realization had dawned on me gradually. I knew I was going to finish. Discovering this had been a process, not a revelation, and I would obsess about it for the rest of the race.
During these later miles, my music list failed to distract me from my running, and I turned it down. It was getting cold, windy, with a few specks of drizzle. At times I started feeling chilled. I had stopped passing, or getting passed by everyone (except for that little shit kid). The only song that worked was “So Lonely” by the Police. I put it on the list as a joke. Now it seemed remarkably appropriate. There were few runners, spaced out in a long line. The crowds were gone, and even the volunteers at the water tables and intersections were looking bored with the pace of the later finishers.
I played a lot of mental games. Every 5 minutes I would check my splits, and work out in my head what I thought I was running, and what my finishing time would be. I walked a two hundred yard section as my instep started hurting, and stretched my foot out on a fire hydrant. When I recalculated my splits at mile 23, I realized that I could safely walk the rest of the way in and get under the five-hour gun.
Considering Tim’s wolf-deer motivation, I tired to push my pace for the final 5k. My legs still felt remarkably strong, but stiff. I could not stride out as far as I wanted to, and when I pushed it, my knees hurt. I tried running faster with the same choppy stride to make up the difference, but after 23 miles, the increased aerobic effort was too much. Even after another brief stretch at the final water stop, I still couldn’t do it. I would not be the wolf.
Around 25.5-ish miles, I pulled off to the right. I had plenty of time. I was going to beat my estimate of 4:45. My foot hurt, and I didn’t want to reach the finish line looking like I was in distress. I knew where I was, and walked forward, rotating my torso, adjusted my hat, wiped my face, and shook out my leg. I straightened my shorts and tightened my ipod band. When I saw the sign reading “Hidden drive”, I jumped into a trot. The pain disappeared and my stride lengthened. At the bottom of a hill, the road turned slightly into a quarter mile straightaway before the finish turnoff. Up ahead, I saw the 26 mile marker, and remembered the promise I had made, and kept. I knocked you the fuck out.
I had caught up to a guy in a red jacket who had passed me while I was walking. His kids jumped out into the course, and hand in hand, they ran together for the finish line. I slowed, letting him get ahead. For starters, I wasn’t going to chase down some guy in the last 100 yards of a marathon. Second, I had also spent a good five miles considering my finish line pose, and wanted a clear picture.
My official time was 4:41:46. In all my flexing, I forgot to stop my watch right away. I turned about a 2:11 on the front stretch, and a 2:30 on the back end. I’m not disappointed at all, and am more surprised that between walking through water stops, two stretch breaks, and two walk intervals, I only lost twenty minutes. In hindsight, taking those breaks is likely the reason I was able to go relatively fast for the second loop.
In fact, I won third place in the fat guy category. True, there were only 7 guys who ran the race at that weight, but it is hardly my fault. I got to go around town afterward and eat dinner with two medals around my neck.
As I write this, it is the morning after, and I am very hungry. I burned up around 4500 calories, and have been cold from lack of any energy stores in the tank. I feel like I have run a marathon. My knee hurts, as I haven’t iced it, and my feet hurt if I walk without slippers. Otherwise my legs are just sore. The worst injury though, is some chafing. While my scrotum remained undamaged, it managed to rub both my thighs raw. Go figure, I must have nuts of steel.
What’s next? Probably a week off, and then I’ll start looking into training for the Nantucket Iron Teams Relay. My knee could be a minor problem, but between some strengthening and stretching exercises, rest and reduced mileage, and cross training, I am sure of a recovery. Another marathon? I won’t rule it out, but I am not rushing to find one to enter either. Besides, summer is coming, and summer is for beer and bluefish.
