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May 30, 2006

Mad City Marathon: More Than Just a Race

First of all, a big thanks to everyone who commented on the short version of Madison. I was pretty bummed out over the race - I knew that I was trained and ready to have a spectacular day out there, and things just didn't work out that way. In a perfect world, I would be superwoman, impervious to a little heat. However, in reality? Not so much. In fact, in reality I don't handle heat well at all. The kind of weather we had on Sunday is the kind of weather that usually inspires me to stay inside, in the dark, with the air conditioning turned on while I drink vat after vat of ice cold water. Preferably while sitting in a vat of ice cold water. Just being outside in the sun and heat is enough to wear me out and make me cranky.

Yet, there I was Sunday morning, running a freaking marathon. Clearly, I have lost my mind. Clearly, I am what my grandmother would call "touched in the head."

At any rate, be it insanity or stubbornness or just good old fashioned stupidity, there I was on Sunday morning, lined up at the start with hundreds of other like-minded maniacs. I had one last decision to make when I got to the start: did I want to push it and try to hang with the 4:30 pace group? Or did I want to take it easy and have fun with the 5:00 group? I'd met the 5:00 pace leader at the expo on Saturday, and she definitely seemed like someone who would be fun to hang out with for a morning. As soon as I stepped out of the hotel, the decision was made for me. I hit the wall of humidity and knew that it just wasn't a day to push it.

The race started off OK. The pace felt nice and easy, although I was absolutely dripping by the end of the first mile. We stopped at every aid station, and I was taking 2 cups of liquid from most of them. I was having a good time, though. We had a good group, and were all joking and talking, making the miles just fly by. Around mile 10, though, I noticed that I wasn't dripping anymore, but I didn't think much of it. I didn't feel overheated, so I just kept chugging right along.

By mile 11, I was starting to get chills and feel goosebumpy. Our pace leader had told us to let her know if we were feeling funky, and I was debating if this qualified as "funky." When the chills hadn't gone away by mile 12, and had in fact gotten worse, I let her know. "You're dehydrated," she told me. She asked around the group if anyone had water and Sammy, one of the other runners, let me have some of his Gatorade. It was, to be honest, the nastiest tasting Gatorade I have ever had in my life, but I sucked a bunch of it down. Around mile 12.5, the leader checked in with me again. I wasn't feeling any better, so she told me to take a gel. I did, and immediately regretted it. The sweetness of the gel totally did my stomach in, and I was officially Feeling Like Crap. I was starting to feel like I needed a break, but I knew that if I slowed down and broke away from the pace group, I'd never catch up to them.

At mile 13, I admitted defeat and started walking. I was nauseous. I wasn't sweating anymore. I had goosebumps and despite the fact that it was close to 90 degrees out, I was chilly. I was in bad shape. To confirm that, the volunteer at the mile 13 aid station took one look at me and said, "Take two," handing me two full cups of water. I drank them both down, and decided that I'd had enough. As I've mentioned before, I don't handle heat well, and I've also learned that when I get dehydrated, it takes me a long, long time to bounce back. I've spent entire afternoons with dehydration headaches after hot morning runs, because no matter how much liquid I drink, I can only soak up so much at a time. I knew that there was no way for me to have any kind of decent race after this. It just wasn't going to happen. I cried a little, frustrated at how things had worked out, and made the decision to stop at the next medical tent and tell them I was dehydrated and done.

Little did I know, though, that the next medical tent wasn't right around the corner as I'd expected, but 4 miles away. I kept on walking. I kept on taking my gels every hour like I'd planned. And at every aid station I passed, I stopped and took three cups: one full of Gatorade, one of water, and one of ice. I drank the Gatorade, washed it down with water, and then drank the ice as it melted. When I finally did reach the medical tent at mile 17, I felt better. My feet and hips were sore from all the walking, but I wasn't chilly, nauseous or goosebumpy anymore. While I certainly didn't want to walk the next 9 miles, I didn't feel bad enough to pack it in, either. I figured I'd keep going. See how things went. If I got really dehydrated again, I'd stop at mile 20.

Yet, when mile 20 rolled around? I felt OK. I was actually sweating again, which thrilled me to pieces. There was a medical tent there, but instead of asking for a rescue, I asked for sunblock and vaseline. Although I was still mostly walking, I'd started to jog here and there. It was at that point that I decided I was going to finish the race. I only had 10K left. I could do it. I was going to do it. The only question left in my mind was how much I was going to walk, and how much I was going to run. Would I run it in from mile 21? Or maybe mile 22? I certainly had the energy, it was just a matter at that point of getting my head back in the game and avoiding serious dehydration. I wasn't going to pick it up again only to crash at mile 25.

However, when I got to mile 21, I discovered that despite my newfound commitment to finishing the thing, the universe had other plans. There was a medic waiting at the mile marker with a couple of guys, and he told me that the medical director was starting to shut down the course. I could wait there for a ride, or I could keep going to the next aid station, less than a mile up the course. I opted to keep going - I felt fine, and figured if I got to the aid station I could at least have some water and Gatorade while I waited for my ride.

To be honest, I wasn't too disappointed. I probably wasn't going to PR, and this took that pressure off. Plus, it was nice to be out of the sun. However, when the van dropped us off around the corner from the finish line, my heart sunk. "There's your finish line," they said, clearly expecting us to run through it.

I almost couldn't do it. I took the chip off my shoe and ran through the chute. All my friends were waiting, and they went crazy when I passed by. The clock read 5:15, which would have been a huge PR for me. They were thrilled that I'd manage to not only finish but PR under those horrendous conditions, and I just wanted to cry. I dropped my chip in one of the buckets, grabbed a bottle of water, and turned down the medal from the volunteer.

Then I met up with my friends. They asked where my medal was, and I burst into tears. I told them I hadn't really finished. They'd shut the course down, and I'd gotten a ride from mile 21.5. I hadn't really made it. There was a moment of silence as their hearts all broke with mine, and then someone said, "You need to get a medal. You were out there for 5 hours. You earned it. Go back and get one."

I was, at that point, too emotionally exhausted to argue. One of my friends said, "Let's go. We're getting your medal," and I followed her back over to the finish area. She walked right up to the volunteer and said, "You missed someone." The volunteer apologized and handed me my finisher medal.

I spent Sunday evening and most of yesterday pretty conflicted about it. I kept telling myself that it was OK. I'd done what I could, and I'd made a damn good showing on a ridiculously bad day. I'd run a good, solid 2:30 half-marathon. The training wasn't a waste, because I'd built up a ton of strength and speed and I was going to have an awesome summer racing season. I kept telling myself to focus on the bright side, because that's just what I do. It's OK. No, really, it is.

Then, last night, I decided that it wasn't OK. I worked my ass off, dammit. Despite whatever doubts I might have had before the race, I was ready for that thing. I was robbed! Robbed!

Then I got a number of supportive messages from the friends I'd spent the weekend with. Messages that reminded me how far I've come over the past year. Messages that reminded me that while we may have all gone to Madison to run a marathon, that wasn't why we all went to Madison.

We all went up there to run a marathon together. This weekend wasn't about a single race, it was about spending a couple of days with a great group of people that I feel lucky to be able to call my friends. When I look back on Memorial Day 2006 years from now, the first thing I think of won't be the race I ran on Sunday morning. It'll be the fun I had with my friends all weekend long. It'll be the giant group of 15 people waiting for me at the finish, holding their collective breath and hoping I'd be OK, worrying about whether or not I'd put on enough sunscreen that morning.

Today, I'm glad they made me go back and get that medal. From now on, when ever I look at that medal, I'll remember the amazing group of friends I've made in pursuit of this crazy hobby. The group of friends that has, over the past year, watched me go from this girl who got the crazy idea to run a marathon to someone who ran as much of that race as she could before they made her stop, and been with me every step of the way.

The Mad City Marathon itself pretty much sucked, but the marathon weekend? Is something I wouldn't trade for the world.

Posted by Dawn at May 30, 2006 12:46 PM

Comments

Posted by: ShoreTurtle at May 30, 2006 01:41 PM

Posted by: Jay T at May 30, 2006 02:22 PM

Posted by: Heath at May 31, 2006 09:52 AM

Posted by: Julie at May 31, 2006 03:00 PM

Posted by: marathonmike at June 1, 2006 10:42 AM

Posted by: Dawn (aka Pink Lady) at June 9, 2006 11:45 PM