Moving in the right direction

On Sunday, December 4th, I ran the Cal Internation Marathon, making it my 3rd time for the race itself and my 16th overall. I wish I could say that it was my sweet 16th, but that would have meant running a sub 3:11 or at the very least getting a P.R. But I won't go down that path. My time was a few minutes faster than the one I posted in New York (3:35 vs 3:38), so I feel that I am moving in the right direction.

Enough about time though, let me talk about the race itself. We (my running buddy Chris and I) awoke bright and early, ("bright and early" seemingly always linked to races) gathered our running stuff and jumped on the shuttle which we could practically see from our motel room window. I had slept pretty well that night, feeling fresh enough to try another marathon. The air was you-can-see-your-breath cold and I was thankful that I decided to use the sweats bag for once, which allowed me to bring some additional layers to the start.

The bus was filled with bundled up runners, some looking blankly ahead while others were chatting away. I sat next to someone who fell into the former category, while the two women behind us fell into the latter. I overheard them talking about the pace they were going to run and even talked about future races. "After all of this training, it would be a shame not to use it." one of them said. Good point.

We rolled into the starting area in Folsom, where it was still dark outside. One of the coordinators had entered the bus and told us that we were welcome to stay on to keep warm, which is not quite what I wanted to hear. Still I ventured outside of the bus, not wanting to just sit and stiffen up, though I could argue that the cold can have a similar effect on leg muscles.

A large group of runners had found a temporary home inside a nearby gas station where they could both stay warm and stand and stretch before the race. We followed suit. Before entering the gas station we witnessed a runner tripping on a concrete divider that stood a little higher than a curb and was about as wide as one. He went down like a ton of bricks and was down for several seconds. He wasn't responding to questions of "Are you ok?", but finally did get up with some friends overlooking him. He was holding his shoulder and grimacing in pain. What a way to begin a race.

As we lined up at the start I moved my way towards the pace groups, seeing the "3:10" sign first, one which I would have loved to have hung with, but knew my legs would have something to say about that. I ended up looking back and forth between the "3:20" and "3:30" signs, wishing "3:25" were there to split the difference. For once before a race I decided to use logic. I had crashed badly in New York trying to run a 3:20 pace. Adding the Quad Dipsea race the week before, I was foolish if I thought that I could run that pace. I had to settle for 3:30, which would end up being a challenge for me to stick with anyway.

At about a minute after 7 AM, we were off. Several "pings" were sounding as runner's chips crossed the red mats which captured their true start times. My right achilles tendon feeling tight was the first that that I noticed as I transferred into "marathon mode" a time when you just need to zone out and start piling on the miles. Perhaps the tightness was a lingering effect of the Quad Dipsea, which I had run the weekend before. It would eventually go away, but still caused some concern.

It's a treat to run at sunrise, when the air is frosty and your body is starting to generate some heat from your pumping legs and palpatating heart. I always love the start of a race, when the adrenaline is still thick and body still fresh. You can feel the energy of the stampeding herd which is probably enjoying those same feelings.

After trailing a bouncing 3:30 sign for a few miles, I got a little ambitious and decided to run 10-15 seconds ahead of it, to see how that felt. The mile markers came by me at times of 7:50ish, which was about what I wanted to hit. The course was flanked by the fading fall colors as we passed through folsom and fair oaks. Having run this course twice at racing speed, I decided to look around a bit and enjoy what I was running through. It wasn't as if I was on a stroll through the park, I was still pushing as best as my legs would take on a marathon, but the pace didn't feel so break neck.

As I twisted through town on Fair Oaks avenue, I noticed the little town dentist off to the right of the course. There was a time that I was dating a fellow runner that lived just down the road from that dentistry and even worked there when she wasn't taking the prereq's for dental school. Two years ago she had met me just outside of her apartment and paced me for a mile as I was trying to take a crack at Boston. My ego swelled when she said that she could no longer keep up with me after a mile's worth of running. I felt like superman and it kept me going.

I returned to the present, marching forward through miles 11 and 12, trying to find a port-a-potty to stop at. Surprisingly, every one I passed was occupied until I hit mile 12 and was able to stop for a break after I saw a guy leap out of one. When I re-entered the race, the 3:30 group was a few seconds ahead of me and I decided to hang out with them for a while as we passed the half way point at around 1:44:50.

I thought I could feed off of the energy of the group, somehow using their motivation to fuel my own. It seemed that there was a lot of spirit among them as they chatted with the lead pacer as he trotted on with the sign. I found after about a mile or two that I preferred my own space though and dropped off a few seconds behind, still keeping the pace sign in view.

My my mind was wondering all over the place, which is typically a sign of a tough day. I feel that my best races are ones I do with a focused mind, thinking of mile splits and eating and a sense of how I'm feeling. Everything else is zoned out. For the Cal International there were points in the race where I almost forgot that I was racing, then I'd come back to earth and realize that I had a bunch of miles to run. Doh!

As I ran into the 20's, my focus returned while my legs tired and slowed down. My mantra for many of the remaining miles was "Break 9, Break 9", which meant trying to get under 9 minute miles in my splits. In New York, miles 24 and 25 had me coming in at 10 minute miles, which feels like a snail's pace when I'm fresh, but grueling when my body has been trashed. My goal before entering this marathon was to not end that way, to be able to keep some decent pace at the end. I was able to do that for the most part, hitting 8:40's on miles 22 and 23, then 8:50's on miles 24 and 25. Then I finished very strong.

As I rounded the final turn on mile 26, which I had done in a little under 8, which I was happy with, this older dude clipped me on my right elbow, cutting in front of me from behind. For a few seconds I was really irritated, but then got my revenge by turning on the jets. I was planning on coming in nice and easy, but this guy lit a fire under me and I can't describe how satisfying it felt to blow by him. It was almost as if I was taking all of the little annoyances I felt during the race out on that final stretch. I was almost tempted to turn around and yell out, "Ha!!!" But now in my 30's, I'm a little more mature than that. :-)

After getting my medal draped around my neck, which always feels like I'm being decorated after coming back from some war, and the chip on my shoe clipped off, I took a b-line to the food, then to the sweat bags to pick up my stuff. All I could think about was a hot shower back at the hotel. Unfortuantely, after I grabbed my stuff, I started moving in the wrong direction, noticing the letters on the street signs were going up when I needed down. Thank goodness I noticed right away.

After getting my bearings, I decided to cut through Capital park, a grassy stretch of memorials, gardens and benches, (which I was tempted to sit down on, but knew I'd have a hell of a time getting back up). What caught my eye was a pretty rose garden. In front of each rose bush was a posting of a poem by an elementary school student, describing their thoughts on the subject of "peace". I don't remember what they said, but I was impressed with what these youngsters had written. I think one said, "If everyone loved other countries as much as their own, the world would be at peace" As I walked through, I wondered what Bush would think if he read these (that is if he can actually read). Would he be touched at all by what these kids had said? Is he affected at all by our country's opposition of the war? I just wonder what goes on in his head at night. What about Schwarznagger? Has he had a chance to read these poems? If not, what a shame.

I found some peace walking through this garden. It was a nice way to detach from the marathon and wind down especially since there was hardly anybody walking around there. I like to break away from the crowd and detox.

Walking back to my hotel, passing several people along the way that seemed to have no association with the marathon, I felt as if I was coming back from a halloween party and still had my costume on, all decked out in running gear, a silver cape and a medal. I felt like some super hero who had crash-landed and was headed back to the bat cave in broad daylight.

I hit the shower hard in my hotel room, standing there for several minutes, hoping that Chris would not return soon and find himself waiting there for my deliberate self. As I stepped out of the bathroom, I noticed the room was still empty, waiting for his return. I was hoping he was not lying down in some first aid tent receiving an IV or something along those lines.

I stepped out of the room and leaned out onto the railing that overlooked the street and there he was, moving slowly, but moving back towards the hotel. When he saw me and drew nearer, he flashed two hands at me, showing all 10 fingers. 3:10!!! He had met his goal of hitting that Boston-qualifying time. What a thrill. Mission accomplished.

On the way home we spotted a sign for an IHOP, which seems like an almost perfect post-marathon place. Pancakes were going to hit the spot, big time. We whipped through our meals faster than he was running that day. Chris's plates looked as though they had been run through the dish washer practically without a spot of food on them.

And that was my Cal International Marathon 2005. It was not exactly the speed that I would normally hope for, but I'm moving in the right direction.