I haven't run a marathon in so very long, and now I remember why. It hurts. It really just hurts, and there is no polite way around that simple fact. Atlanta is a beautiful, albeit insanely hilly course, and I loved every minute of it...even the suffering (and suffer I did from mile 19 home).
My best girl, Jen, flew all the way out from San Diego for the event, and it was nothing short of heaven to think of running on her shoulder again. She quickly told me, however, her plans to run around a 4:20 marathon since she hasn't attempted one in over a year. We huddled together in the starting corral for warmth and then agreed to part ways, particularly because she told me she was going to stop for a port-a-potty right off the bat. Empty bladder and feeling good, I decided I was too impatient to wait for that kind of action.
The morning began with a temperature of 34 degrees. I could hardly bring myself to peel out of my outer layer of sweats and strip down to skimpy running skins. I rationalized that my arm warmers and compression socks would help keep me warm. I debated the beanie, too, but in the end threw it over the gates to Marc just before the gun went off.
The thing that struck me most about the course is just how very relentless the hills were. Mile one, and we were immediately charging down a long, steep incline under the freeway (here I think it's actually called an "interstate") overpass. I decided to try to fold in with the 3:40 pace group and see how long I might hold on. Jumping back into the marathon to wet my feet with racing again, I thought anything under four hours would make me happy.
I managed to roll up and down the mountains with those guys (interestingly, it was all men in the group) for about the first four miles. I looked at the first few mile markers and found they were running ahead of pace. When we ran through an aid station around mile five, it occurred to me that I no longer had them on my hip, so I figured they must have stopped or seriously slowed to adjust for the extra time they already had in the bank. I felt good, so I pressed on, duped by another guy with a 3:40 sign on his back. Initially thinking he was one of the leaders of that sector, I ran on his arm for a while before coming to realize he just wore the sign so his comrades would know and recognize him. Apparently he felt good, too, because he just kept plugging forward. Off we went.
I was cold....not just cold....like cold to the bone where I could not shake the cold. My face my cold. My legs were cold. My shoulders were cold. My gloves actually had frost on them from dribbling water from aid stations, only to have it freeze....it was that cold. The early miles took us all around downtown and midtown, so the large buildings kept us in long, dark shadows (I never even saw the sun until mile 11). It was a cold, dark start. One would think I wouldn't complain, since all I do is bellyache about the heat in Florida, but there was no denying the bitter cold and frosty wind whipping through said buildings. I kept hoping I would thaw out, but that just never happened.
Hill after hill after hill, up and up and up, and then down, down, down....it was insane. It became apparent to me that I really was not trained for such a mountainous course. My quads were starting to argue with me. Around mile 8, they ran us through the Atlanta Zoo; it was a beautiful park with bike trails traversing the (wait for it) hills. When we rolled down toward mile 9, I almost lost all composure and started to tear up. I was overcome with emotion. The liquid ambers were ablaze and their gold and crimson leaves were something out of a storybook. It was unreal the way they were shedding their leaves as we passed by, we the unassuming runners. I felt very small under something so magnificent and not worthy of their beauty. It became so obvious how much I have to be grateful for and how very blessed I am to be alive and running. I mean, how many people can really run for 26.2 miles without pain (without pain is a relative term here, of course)? Who am I to witness this creation? I desperately wanted a camera and think I will go back to try to capture some of the beauty.
Out of the Gothic gates from the park, over an old, eerie bridge, onto the upper portion of the park. There was a Halloween dog parade going by on the other side, and when I say parade, I am talking about literally hundreds of dogs passing opposite us in costume. I went from being tearful to hysterical with laughter. Maybe I was already delirious? There was an interesting character running on my arm at that point who I repeatedly ignored because he seemed a little, um, unstable in some of his commentary. I simply pretended I couldn't hear him with earbuds in my ears.
The neighborhoods we weaved up and down through were spectacular. There are no words for the eclectic architecture and ancient character of the houses. The fact that they were decorated for Halloween made them even more creepy looking. Amazing. It felt surreal. Mile 13 marked the half way point and for the first time (really) I looked at my watch and realized I was running ahead of where I really should have been....1:45, so 3:30 pace, which I knew I would never maintain. The question was just how ugly would the blowup be? I was going to find out in about, oh, about an hour, or so....
The most amazing thing to me about the marathon is the people it not only attracts but those it brings together. Around mile ten, after running through a beautiful neighborhood with enormous Colonial and Victorian houses, we came into what was very clearly a ghetto hood. On any given day, I assure you a little white girl had no business running through those streets, yet here we all were- all ethnicities, colors, creeds, religions, both genders (and some in between)- running in perfect harmony. I passed a group of Hispanic teens waving a huge Mexican flag, waving everyone through. The course lead us through a pedestrian walkway/tunnel that was completely painted with graffiti. I was so happy to be out of the wind and considered walking just to thaw out for a while, but decided that might be counterproductive. Again, my mind went to thoughts of, "What am I doing in this environment?" but today, in that moment, it was seemingly as natural as if I were to be walking on the beach.
More hills. And then there were some hills. And then we ran up and down some more hills. I was starting to hurt. I knew my pace was starting to slow, but I really didn't even care. The miles clicked away....until about mile 16 and the gross reality was 10 whole miles left. My legs were not happy and they were letting me know it. There was a really annoying dude who had cat-and-moused with me for miles. I kept trying to either drop him or let him roll ahead because his idea of personal space was clearly different than my own. I thought I had left him at the porta potties a mile back, but there he was again, right on my arm. I decided more drastic measures would have to be taken to drop the leach, so I decreased my pace, and it felt good....maybe a little too good? I was going with that pace.
By mile 19, I definitely was feeling my humanity and hating the climbs. Mile 20 is really what separates the mortals from the immortals, and today it was very apparent that I was going to fall into the mortal category. I just couldn't even stomach the idea of six whole more miles. Against my better judgement, I took a few blocks for some quick glycogen, praying it wouldn't shred my stomach. One went down okay, so I took a second. The next two miles were me plodding along, telling myself that "slow and steady wins the race", knowing full well I wasn't trying to win anything....I simply wanted to survive now feeling that death was imminent. I told myself if I could still smile at the volunteers, I was at least not totally coming apart, so I made a point to do so. It made me feel better to thank them for their time in the bitter cold. The 3:40 pace group caught--and passed-- me, so I knew the 3:45 guys would be on my heels.
Mile 22 and Marc joined me. This is where I really wanted to come undone, but decided I couldn't stomach his Pollyanna cheering or sarcastic chastising if I slowed my pace even more. I plodded forward. "F@#$ this" was all I said to him, despite knowing that kind of language is highly offensive to a man who never curses- ever. He said something encouraging, but I really didn't want to hear it. He got the message that I wasn't in a chatty mood when I began to ignore his comments and inquiries. I couldn't help it. I really wanted to continue running solo, but there is no nice way of saying that to someone who wants to support you. It wasn't until he started loudly cheering and rallying spectators on the sidelines to cheer for me that I managed to get out one word, "Stop". I asked him to leave me in my misery, but instead, he ran a few paces ahead, taking pictures and running circles around people. One of the volunteers at a water station said, "Wow, you look so fresh!" to him. His response was, "Yeah, as if I just started..."
The Blocks did give me new legs, and even though my stomach wanted to reject them, I managed to choke down two more. It's always the same miserable dichotomy: my stomach hates the nutrition when I run, but my muscles are desperate for something to keep going. My legs were depleted and frozen; they really didn't want to continue. Mile 23 brought some comic relief with chalked words on the course. One of them read: "Run, you bitches", which for some reason, I found hilarious in my delusional state. The next one said, "Take a bus. That's how we do it in the UK". The following words of wisdom were, "You are running more today than I run all week". I needed something to occupy my mind to diffuse the pain so I chewed on those words for a while.
Luckily, miles 24-26 were pretty uneventful. Marc said I managed to pick up the pace and pick off a ton of people as I worked my way up and down to the finish. I really cannot recall what the roads held- I just wanted to be done so I could get more clothes on....desperate for warmth. I finished in 3:43, which I can totally live with. I would be lying if I said I wouldn't have liked to maintain the 3:30ish pace I had been running through the half way point, but the reality is, I am not trained for that kind of course. It is literally impossible to hope for something one has not trained properly for (hills). I worked my way through the mayhem at the finish and found Marc on the other side, waiting with extra clothes. I peeled out of my tank and pulled on a long sleeve shirt, two sweatshirts, a beanie, and pulled a pair of sweatpants over my shorts. I still couldn't feel my body. Marc said my lips were blue.
So, now I have Savannah to look forward to this coming Saturday. It will be good to get out there and run again, though post race today, I couldn't hardly sit down on the curb while we waited for Jen to finish (in her predicted 4:25 time). My legs are spent. I guess that is exactly how I like it. I feel alive.
