California International Marathon 2006

I "got up before dawn, went out to the race track". I had fifteen minutes before the 24th Cal International Marathon would be in "lift off" status, just having stepped off the bus and adjusting to frigid conditions that I had yet to grow accustomed to, even after doing this race for the 4th time. My teeth were literally chattering and I was lamenting the fact that I was deploying my usual strategy (or lack thereof) of not making use of the "sweats check". This is a typical amenity available at most marathons which allows you to throw your belongings, which are usually a sweat shirt and sweat pants, into a large plastic bag that they'll bring to the finish for you. But there I stood, in just my shorts and long sleeve running shirt, freezing my you know what off.

The night before I had set a new record for getting through a marathon registration, parking my car near the Sacramento Convention Center with only a quarter and fifteen minutes to spare. When I returned to the meter, with bib, chip and goodie bag in hand, there was still one minute left. I was hoping this P.R. for registering would be a sign of good things to come.

I had checked into the Travel Lodge, which was only a short walk to the shuttle bus, the morning of the race. There were no carpenter ants in the dresser and no flies in the screen. There were no cryptic messages at all to write about, which again, I was hoping would be a good sign of things to come.

Back to the cold morning of the race, with very little time to spare, I tried to warm up by heading to the food mart that we had used last year, but unfortunately they were limiting entrance to the heated oasis. "Sorry, we're limiting the number of people in the store at one time", an employee of the mart told me as I tried opening the door. I looked at the two people who I then realized had been waiting ahead of me. "Don't ask why.", one of them said, with an annoyed look on their face. I looked at my watch, which read that I just had ten minutes before race time, and decided that it wasn't worth the wait. I was probably better off continuing to move through the frosty air.

I stepped onto the road which lead to the starting line, just noticing a large divider that I could have easily tripped on. The incident sparked the memory of last year's marathon, where I witnessed a runner not noticing this same divider and going down hard on his shoulder. He was down for several moments and even when he was up, was still unresponsive to his friends. I still wonder how the rest of his day went.

As I walked towards the starting line I could see a link pink glow, a hint of a sunrise in the direction that we runners would be rambling in. Casting my gaze into no man's land, I wondered what layed ahead for me that day. I was taking a crack at Boston again, for the second time in as many months, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to pass the test. A few of my running buddies had given me some encouragement in the days before. They believed in me. I just wasn't sure if I agreed with them.

Regardless, I scanned the small running crowd near the start for my pace group. I could see a "3:00" sign and a "3:30" and then a "3:40", but "3:10", the time that was etched in my head as the one I needed, had yet to show itself. My watch told me that there were only 7 minutes left. Where was my pace group?

Suddenly, like a cluster of poppies (california poppies) exposed to sunlight, more signs sprang up from the crowd. "3:20", "3:35", "3:15" and oh yes, there it is, my "3:10" magnet. It would be the second time in my running career that I would try to keep pace with this sign. The first was a couple months ago in Portland, which ended at mile 19, where my ham strings stiffened with cramps and I started dry heaving (not a pretty sight). I wasn't sure what would be the result of hanging with this breed of runner again, but I was ready to give it a shot.

Soon enough, I heard the P.A. guy announce that the wheel chair division would be starting in a minute. Soon after we were all counting down from 10 to see them off. And soon after that, we were doing our own count down. It was time to run another marathon.

After the count down hit zero, I slowed myself down as much as I could, waiting until the last possible second before I crossed the starting mat, which would register the racing chip I had strung through my shoes. I wanted to have some buffer between what I saw on the official clock and what my actual time was. In the beginning of a race, 15 seconds is nothing to make up. At the end, it's a god send to strip that extra time off of what the clock says. 3:11:14 could be translated to 3:10:59 with one swipe of my shoe.

Despite the buffer I built up, my pace group was still within sight and with a few hard strides, I was right up with them. The pace felt good, with no need to catch my breath to catch them and my legs feeling nice and loose (and warm, finally). Then again, it was only the start. I quietly wondered how I would feel as the mileage broke into the 20's.

The darkness was broken by the dawning light and the still crisp air felt pleasant against my steaming self. As we came closer to the double digit miles, I still felt comfortable, but the pace was very fast. I needed a 7:17 pace to qualify for Boston, while my group was moving at closer to 7:07. I hung with the pacer, but was curious at that point as to what his strategy would be. He offered words of encouragement and advice to us, which was helpful. He said, "Let's slow down here, 3:10 group" a few times, but slowing down never happened. My watch still told me we were hauling from mile to mile.

We crossed the half marathon mark at a time of 1:33:59, which is identical to my split in Portland. To that point the pace groups (Portland and Can International 3:10) were employing the same strategy, one which I questioned. My best marathons were ones where I ran a slower first half than the second and I found myself second guessing my decision to stick with the Portalnd pace group. Would I be making the same mistake in this race? More time and running would tell.

Between mile 14 and 15, I decided to finally engage with the pacer. Maybe a little conversation would slow him up a little. I brought up the subject of Western States Endurance Run, a 100-mile race that he had done two years ago and one that I had paced on this year. He said that this race should be a "piece of cake" compared to that. Sure, if I actually ran the whole Western States course...pacing was actually the "piece of cake". At mile 16, he asked me how my legs felt, commenting that I didn't seem to breathing too hard. I told him the truth, that they were tight, which he had no response to. He was probably thinking, "Oh boy...this guy's dead". Eventually I weaved myself away from him, not wanting to talk anymore. I had to save my energy for running.

"Stay with me until mile 20", became the pacer's mantra, "stay with me until the bridge". I could start to feel some fluttering in my calf muscles, which is a sign that cramps may be on their way. "Stay with the group until 20" became my mantra. I wanted to push myself to at least reach that point, which would be an improvement from Portland. I felt I could do it, but wasn't sure about the cost.

As we came closer to 20, the pacer said again, "Stay with me until 20", then added, "then we're going to push. That's when the race begins." Huh? To that point, we were still under 7:10 minute miles. Why in the hell would we push harder after that point? Did he mean that it would feel like we were pushing harder, but we would be going the same pace? I didn't get it and I was getting a little frustrated.

The mile 22 marker was the beginning of the swan song for my story of staying with the 3:10 pace group. My legs were getting very heavy and tight and I could feel some light cramping. I fought to keep them near me, but knew that I couldn't stay. "I can't do this pace", I said to myself, getting more frustrated. The group was out of sight by mile 23, which is where I started some damage control as I could feel some spirit draining away and fatigue climbing in to take its place. A psychologic battle was beginning.

I immediately flashed back to the Portland Marathon, where I had lost the pace group at mile 19 and started dry heaving and cramping pretty noticeabley and was able to recover by walking for 10-20 seconds. While I wasn't feeling nearly as bad, I had given up on the idea of qualifying and was contemplating a plan for keeping myself going. I wondered if I needed to walk a bit and where a good point would be.

Several different goals came to mind for me to shoot for. I thought about going for a P.R. for Cal International, which would mean getting under 3:18. Then I thought that breaking 3:15 would be a lot better. I didn't want to fail at reaching two goals in the same race, but needed to find something that I could still push for and be happy with.

I started trying to pump myself up by making note of the fact that I had stayed with the pace group longer than I had ever had and could build on that for the next marathon. Next marathons starting popping into my head, if you can believe it. I was thinking about getting back on the horse again, even as I was still riding.

Disappointment kept lingering. I thought of the people who had encouraged me and thought this would be the day for me. I felt as though I was letting them down. What would I say to them? What would be my excuse?

But there was this little voice that each of us has a personal copy of that was speaking to me any time my mind became quiet. "You can do it", it said, "You can qualify". I didn't want to listen. At the same time, as I was contemplating when would be a good spot to walk, my legs just kept driving as if to say, "We're going to Boston with or without you pal". Especially with the gentle down hill grade that had made an appropo appearance in the final miles, I didn't have the heart to tell them to stop.

"Only 8 blocks to go!", a woman shouted as I sauntered past her. Is that it? I always hate it when people give the wrong distance to the finish, especially when they're short. Note to anyone that's reading this and will spectate or volunteer at a race: Be very accurate when telling runners how far they need to go, if you're going to tell them. Believe me, most runners can tell a big difference between a mile and 1.1 miles.

But I trusted her, and began the count down, saying the numbers out loud so that I could remind myself that it was almost over. In between corners I repeated a mantra that I've used in a lot of races with urban finishes: "street light to street light", "street light to street light". When you're running along a long stretch with no turns, it helps to pick out markers to shoot for. The street lights are what I usually go for.

I was down to "one" on my count down and could see the final turn coming up, accompanied by a beautiful "Mile 26" marker that every marathoner loves to see, almost as much as the finish line. As I crossed the marker and made a turn to the left, I pressed on my watch to get a 26th mile split and then took a glance. It read "8:08" on the split, which I was sorry to see. However, I also caught a look at the cumulative time, something I hadn't looked at the whole race. "3:08:58", it read. Oh my God...I'm going to Boston!

"Full speed ahead" was the command I gave to my aching legs which had found new life. I saw the finish line clock approaching in the distance and saw that it still had a 3:09 sitting in it. It wasn't until I was within a handful of steps that it turned to 3:10, which reaffirmed that I was going to do it. I felt as if I was "floating from branch to branch, lighter than the air." My day had finally come.

I quickly went back to my watch after I had stepped onto the red mat which would collect my chip time. "3:09:58", my watch said. It was nice to be able to peel 15 seconds off of the offical clock that I had just crossed under. Regardless, I had met my goal and pushed two clenched fists into the air as if I had won. I did. I was going to the super bowl!

As I walked back to my hotel room, with water bottles in hand and silver space blanket draped around me like a cape, I felt a zen-like calm inside, which was probably an indication of the weight that was off my shoulders. I have to admit that what I also felt, was surprisingly, a little tinge of sadness. The journey to 3:10 was over. I'd no longer be striving towards that goal in the same way and I can appreciate the fact that the juice was in the getting there, not in the arrival.

Still, victory was sweet and I'm thankful for everyone that encouraged me and belived that I could do it. That's what I think drove me most as I was pushing through those last miles. I received many congratulations from my running friends and some surpise decorations from my running partner Chris, his wife and my friend Antje. I caught them in the act as I came back home. :-)

The end.

p.s. Here are my splits...probably the most interesting thing about this blog:

1. 7:03
2. 7:16
3. 6:39
4. 7:12
5. 7:09
6. 7:18
7. 7:16
8. 7:16
9. 7:08
10. 7:01
11. 7:17
12. 7:19
13. 7:18
13.1 1:33:58 (first half split)
14. 7:11
15. 7:20
16. 6:54
17. 7:22
18. 7:10
19. 7:08
20. 7:07
21. 7:11
22. 7:25
23. 7:20
24. 7:34
25: 7:46
26: 8:09
26.2 1 minute