We had driven to Savannah the day before race day after a leisurely morning and breakfast out in Peachtree City. The day started off jovial with great anticipation and excitement. Somewhere along the lines of getting lost in the woods and one too many dirty convenient stores for a potty stop in the middle of Georgia, the excitement began to dissipate. We were tired, cranky, and starving, but determined to reach our destination with the pressure of doggy drop-off before the kennel closed, and getting to the race expo before 7 pm Friday night.
I wasn't really worried until I talked to my friends (who had already reached Savannah, been to the expo to pick up race bibs and timing chips, and were happily drinking beers at a local pub by the time we rolled into town) and was told just how hectic the venue was. The concern mounted once we realized just how ill-equipped the city was to handle an extra 20,000+ people, particularly during evening rush hour. It was gridlock traffic and wall-to-wall people everywhere.
The race expo was on the Island, which means there was only one main artery to get there- a four lane bridge (two lanes of traffic each way) that spanned for about 3 miles. After sitting in relentless traffic for 20 minutes and literally not moving through the intersection, Mad Scientist unloaded the bike and told me to charge it. I was honestly a little frightened to navigate the nightmare before me, uncertain of where I was going, with only my dying iphone for a map. I reluctantly took off my Uggs and pulled on my cleats, clad in tight jeans and a only thin top. The wind blew through me as I climbed out of the car. I grabbed a sweatshirt and hit the road. Mad Scientist took the cranky kids to try to find the hotel and some long overdue food; they really were troopers. The thing about the man I am married to....when he gets hungry, he is a forced to be reckoned with and it is not pretty. I was happier to take my chances with a bridge into the sky loaded with agitated drivers over hanging with hubs with low blood sugar. Yikes.
Freezing, starving, thirsty, tired, and without real direction, I followed the masses along the sidewalk as long as I could until it dumped me onto the street. No more than 30 seconds in the road, a woman sitting shotgun in a car opened her door into me and dumped me on the street. At least I wasn't asleep anymore. I was more determined than ever to get my race packet and felt pretty bitchin to be on a bike when all the signs read "no pedestrians, no bikes" on the way over to the island.
I caught up to a nice looking man dressed in business attire. His khakis and pink collared shirt tucked under his vest told me he was business casual for a Friday, but the $400 loafers on his feet told me nothing about this man was casual. He was handsome. His wispy blond fell in front of his piercing blue eyes, and his perfect teeth were dazzling when he smiled with that Southern charm. I was smitten. This guy would know the ropes, I was certain.
"Hey, are we allowed to be on this bridge on foot?" I asked him, trying to sound nonchalant. I'm sure the fear in my face betrayed me, or maybe just my wild hair from the wind, because he looked at me like I was as insane as he felt in that moment.
"Well, sweetie," he said in his polite Southern drawl, "I run this bridge every weekend, so I don't see why not."
That's the thing about most of the Southerners I have met....true Southerners, always have a pet name for complete strangers immediately, and they want to accommodate even strangers no matter how ludicrous or desperate the situation.
Having made a friend, I immediately felt better. That good feeling, however, left me just as quickly when we saw people walking back toward us and discovered there was a police officer at the top of the bridge, turning pedestrians away. My business casual buddy had a few not-so-polite words for the cop before we, too, turned around, defeated.
"What are we going to do?" I whined, hopeless about the pending doom. My mind was seriously foggy from lack of any kind of food or beverage and I was crashing.
"I don't know what to tell you, sweetie. Maybe we can hitch a ride....although that might be easier for me without a bike." He motioned to my wheels. He then lifted one of his heels out of his Italian loafers to reveal an angry bleeding blister than was so irritated, it was now soaking the bottom of his pants. I could see his other pant leg was stained with blood, too.
"Look what I get to run with tomorrow," he said.
I cringed and looked away. "Eck. I am so sorry....I wish I had a Bandaid to offer you."
We exchanged a few more niceties and parted ways. My mind was racing with impossible thoughts of how I was going to get to that convention center to get my race number. I knew I couldn't go back to the hotel without it and the clock was ticking. Not only did the expo close at 7:00, but we were supposed to meet up for our ghost tour that evening by 6:40. It wasn't looking promising.
Coasting down the bridge against traffic, I was pissed....genuinely mad. Nothing about the day had been easy or fun and now it was looking like I wasn't even going to run an official race without the proper paperwork. What was the point?
I have been told that my greatest asset and worst fault is that I am a "doer". I can't not do what I need to get done. I am going to conquer whatever ails me if it kills me before I quit. I hate being told no and I hate defeat. I am okay losing in competition, but if it is a personal goal or race within me, I just can't let it go until I know I have done everything I can to make it the best. Nope. Going back to the hotel without what I came for was absolutely not an option.
I started surveying the cars headed at me, crawling to the top of the bridge, still locked bumper to bumper. Every car was loaded to the brim with runners who wanted the same thing I did. They were all headed to the convention center to get their goods and enjoy the race festivities and vendors. Almost as much fun as running a race is perusing the pre-race expo with all of the super chic gear and latest geeky gadgets guaranteed to make anyone race cuter and run faster. I was so disappointed to not be there already. 5:30 by my watch now.
I rolled down the bridge even slower. I actually unclipped one of my feet and clicked along, happy to hear the rhythmic, even sound of something in my head besides angry horns honking and people screaming at each other in frustration. I started clicking harder, almost smashing my foot into the concrete, hoping it would jog something in my brain, some kind of solution for the issue at hand. I saw some women walking up toward me. Clearly they were runners, all wearing their racing shoes and happily making post race plans.
"Um, they're not going to let you over the bridge." I told them as I rolled by. "I just tried that song and dance and it was shut down at the top."
They responded politely, but kept walking, I guess thinking they were as smart as I did about fifteen minutes earlier. Just before I reached the base of the bridge, I spotted her--my angel in a shuttle. Her door read "Private" but I wasn't deterred. I rolled up alongside the door and knocked on it. Startled, she opened the double glass doors.
"Hey, do you think I might hitch a ride over the bridge with you? I just need to get to the other side and then I'll leave you..."
She looked at me pensively as if to turn me away, but honestly, I think she felt sorry for me in my pathetic, desperate state. My face was totally flushed from the whipping wind, I am sure my lips were blue by that time from the same frigid air, and I'm thinking my eyes were pleading for her help.
"Oh, alright. I have to get to the Hilton to pick up some guests for a party downtown, but the hotel is right next to the convention center."
I didn't wait for her to change her mind. I raced up the stairs, bike over my shoulder, and grabbed the first seat in the empty shuttle. "What's your name?" I asked the driver. Her hair was cropped boy short and she spiked it with gel. She made a haphazard effort to hide her tattooed arms, but it was obvious she had sleeves on both. She had several piercings in both ears, but didn't sport any earrings, maybe as dictated by her job. Her face was cute and her eyes were warm. She might have been the Hillside Strangler, but I was elated to see her as long as she offered me shelter from that wicked wind off the water and my ticket to race legitimacy.
"Bean," she answered my question. "Are you here for the marathon?"
We exchanged a few pleasantries before I saw my business casual buddy coming down the bridge toward us.
"Bean, would you mind terribly if we stopped for this gentleman? He was so hospitable and kind to me, is it okay we if give him a lift, too?"
She opened her doors again, on in stepped loafer man, happy to see us, professing his eternal love. He got off the call he was on and profusely thanked Bean, our new best friend.
Not long after that, we came up on the runners who had ignored my warning of cop-kill-joy.
"Bean? May we let these people on the shuttle, too, please? They need to get where we are going and it's a no-go at the top."
Once again, Bean stopped in the crawling traffic to let more runner bums on the bus. That ride was the longest shuttle run for the shortest distance I have ever experienced. At the top, my vested friend had a few blessings for the cop who had turned us away earlier. It took us 30 minutes to travel less than 3 miles to the other side, but a joyous ride it was. One of the women we picked up was from Florida, her orange Gator sweatshirt a giveaway from the start, the other three ladies were from Georgia. The faster they spoke, the less I understood (loafer guy later told me it's because they were from some hick area in the state). Turns out the blond Southern gent was from Savannah, but had a residence in Atlanta, as well. He told me his name was Brandon.
We got to the base of the bridge, tipped Bean, and exited before waiting in the final mess of traffic to the convention center. We knew we would be faster on foot by that point. Brandon unloaded my bike, as any true Southern gentleman would, and I walked it next to him. He told me all about the barges in the port and explained why the river smells like it does. We talked about everything and nothing, but walked that final mile as perfect strangers in perfect harmony, wanting the same thing.
Near the door, we parted ways again when he met up with two other guys and I excused myself for the final mad dash. It was after 6:00 now and the hall was packed with runners from all over. I met two other women and we chatted it up up the stairs into the building. They were half marathon virgins and I couldn't help but squeeze their hands and jump up and down to share their enthusiasm. A security guard stopped me at the door and told me the bike couldn't roll in. That is where I had a breakdown.
"Okay, what happened to Southern hospitality?" I asked him. "Listen, you don't want to know what kind of day I've had. I just want my race bib and timing chip. I won't even stay in the expo. Please just let me pass through and I will be in and out of here so fast, you won't even know I was here. Please. You're killing me right now...."
He turned his head, as if to say, "I never saw you". I put my hand on his shoulder as I pushed through the crowd. I tried to take the path of least resistance, but it was impossible with the herd of fit, beautiful bodies all around me. Toned, lovely legs all around me, working their way to the fitness convention, falling in a line to get their goods.
I zipped in and out of people, made it inside past another security guard who told me the same thing, but the same tactic worked with him, too....why must we guilt people to get them to allow us to do something seemingly so harmless and innocent??? With coveted race number and chip in hand, I bolted out of the building the fastest route I could find, ducking through some curtains and out another set of doors. 6:20. I followed a crowd to the water where it looked like they were waiting for a water taxi. Yes, there was that pesky issue of how i was going to get back to the hotel now....Mad Scientist kept texting me to ask me that same annoying question. I told him I would figure it out.
I grabbed a geeky triathlete looking guy and asked him about the ferry. He complimented me on my bike that is not really mine and told me that one of the ferries was broken down, so the only remaining one was taking an extra amount of time to get passengers across the river. It was going to be at least an hour or more. I looked at my watch again. 6:25. I was never going to make the 6:40 ghost tour and I could feel my heart racing and my stomach sinking. Defeated again. I thanked tri guy for his time and picked up the bike and ran up the steep set of stairs that led back out toward the front. I was exhausted, but determined to make it happen.
I hailed a cab at the top, but she already had people in the back and was going the opposite direction of where I was headed. It was settled. I had to ride back over the bridge. It was getting dark and the traffic was relentless. I rode down the long stretch into the distance of what appeared to be the right way. The bridge seemed so very far away. I stopped a guy parking his car on the side of the road and asked him if I was headed in the right direction. He confirmed it, and told me I might not make it over with the cops out. I told him he didn't want to hear how I already knew all of that and then some. I pedaled on.
There was cop in an intersection directing traffic, so I casually rode by him as if I were headed right, away from downtown Savannah and the pending bridge. After turning, I realized there was yet another police officer at the base of the bridge. Lord. How was I going to make this happen? I pedaled by him and pretended to be on the phone. With his back to me, I lifted the bike over the concrete center divider of the highway and hightailed it up the bridge. He started yelling at me, but I ignored him. Terrified, I pedaled as fast as my tired legs would take me in tight jeans. What started as such a cute outfit that morning was really becoming my nemesis. Now my race bag plagued me, too, bumping all over while slug over my shoulder.
My heart was beating out of my chest and my quads burned with fury, but I ignored those, too. Breathless, I reached the top of the bridge and for a single moment thought about how fortunate I am to be alive. When was I ever going to be on this bridge again on a bike? The view was spectacular. O had to take one moment to drink it in. The sky was red velvet. The boats floating into the harbor moaned sorrowfully. The wind cut through me like a blade. Then I was scared. The traffic on this side was speeding at full force, and the wind was fierce. I was afraid and it fueled me. I raced down the other side as fast as I could, clipped in and at full speed, as aero as I could be in my compromised state without a helmet, even.
Cars whipping by me, the base of the bridge on this side was like a freeway offramp with a blind turn to exit. I was convinced I was going to die. Daunted, I pedaled faster, trying to time my exit with the break in cars. It was hairy. A car actually clipped my elbow around the blind bend, which rattled me and rocked my line a little, but I pedaled faster. My legs were numb. I had a headache from the day's events. I was questioning my sanity to ensure all of this for the sake of a marathon. Was I selfish? What if something dreadful happened to me and my kids were left mommyless, all because of a long run? Stupidity.
Off the offramp, through a few intersections, down MLK Blvd and onto Bay. I knew I was almost there. Loafer guy, I mean Brandon, told me how to get to the hotel while on the shuttle. I called Mad Scientist to tell him where I was. All of my happiness and feeling of being victorious left me when he told me he was on the other side of the bridge, looking for me. Ugh. WHY did he drag the kids through that mess when I told him I would work out a way back? More stress.....I knew he would be annoyed....
I pedaled to the hotel, completely depleted. I could barely spell the last name at the front desk when asking for the room key. 6:40. Maybe we could still make the tour. I hauled the bike up a flight of stairs to the room. Plans to shower, change, and curl my hair were completely out of the question. Mad Scientist rolled in with two tired, grubby grommets. They were eating pizza on the fly. Out the door we went on foot (because I hadn't worked out enough before my race) to catch the trolley for the ghost tour downtown. The cobblestones hurt my feet, but maybe I was just in need of an attitude adjustment. I had my number. I was elated.
The tour was great, but all I really wanted was a shower, a meal, and a bed. Mad Scientist had run all over to get waters for everyone, and that was much appreciated. I think I chugged a gallon immediately. I was happy to be sitting inside a moving vehicle again, instead of fending any off my shoulder.
Post tour, we walked to Panera and ate. They were actually out of bread....I guess the runners over ran them and not a bagel was to be found. For someone who never eats bread, I so desperately wanted carbs and was disappointed. It still was the best soup I had ever eaten and I ate as if it were my last meal. We dragged our sorry selves back to the hotel and I stood in the shower for a lifetime while Mad Scientist ran all over town trying to find my pre-race meal and Gatorades. It was a great act of courage on his part to take on the masses in town that night. Mayhem.
I didn't sleep at all. I woke every ten minutes, looking at the clock, certain I was going to oversleep. The street hummed with busy cars all night and the sounds of the city. Someone's car was towed around 3:00 am and buses rumbled by. I finally got up just before 6:00 am and stood in the shower again, now really contemplating my sanity for enjoying this kind of chaos. Finally, fueled, hydrated, and dressed, I was out the door. Our hotel was only a quarter mile to the start, a huge bonus for everything it lacked in quality.
The bustle of people running by warming up energized my sleepy head. I marveled at the lovely oak canopy above me, considering how very old they must be and all the life they have witnessed in that town. To think of the stories they might tell if they had words was simply an amazing thought to me. It was dark under their old outstretched arms, but somehow felt warmer, somewhat shielded from the wind. I stumbled into my designated corral, looking for my comrades. They were nowhere to be found, so I did what any reasonable person might do--I struck up conversation with the random stranger standing next to me. It was his virgin voyage for the marathon, so again, I found myself doing the little happy dance and sang him words of encouragement. He seemed grateful for the vote of confidence.
I recognized a couple standing behind me, and then it occurred to me the man was wearing the Atlanta Marathon technical tee. We chatted about the race we had shared days earlier as if this was commonplace, like we had planned to meet up for coffee on this very morning. All was well in the world of marathoning. It was a good ten degrees warmer than it had been at Atlanta, too, so while 45 degrees is not warm by any stretch of the imagination, it was balmy comparatively. I really had to pee and debated leaving the corral for a quick bathroom break, but decided it was too close to curtain call.
The race director made the executive decision to roll the start in waves, and we were on our way. Rhianna's "Please Don't Stop the Music" was pounding all around us as we pounded down the streets of Savannah. It was dark and dreamlike. I saw Kimmie, Chris, and Lisa within the first half mile. They were running together and they were moving with the 3:30 group. I knew I would not be hanging with those girls today. My legs just said no, and I was okay with that. I fell behind a woman who was wearing her running group's shirt. The back read, "Heat, hills, humidity: welcome to Atlanta." That sounds about right, though the weekend before, the hills made up for the lack of heat and humidity.
Miles 3 to 7 were an absolute blur. I have no recollection of how I even got to mile seven, except for the fact that I was on the shoulder of the 3:40 pace guy. Andre was from Hollywood, Florida, and he was a super sweet, smiley guy. Late forties, he told me he had never run faster than a 3:40 marathon. This was not a good sign. Most pacers run a pace they can very comfortably hold, in case they have a bad day out there (common practice for a marathon). There were about twenty of us skittering around Andre, adjusting our footing, trying to find road space. One woman in particular was driving me insane because she kept stepping directly in front of me. If I moved over, she seemed to be there. After the fourth or fifth time she nearly tripped me, I said, "Okay, you are going to have to signal before you turn..." She got the point and moved to Andre's opposite side.
It's an odd hobby we share. Running. Why? Pointless, right? Paying hundreds of dollars in all of these races to run. Dodging spit in the road, smelling the awful city smells in the slum we were running through, I questioned the state of my head again. Why was I here?
By the time we got to mile 11, there were only about eight of us still trotting alongside our fearless pace leader. I enjoyed running next to this one guy because he just looked pro. I had earbuds in and didn't feel like being chatty, but I assumed it was his first marathon; he seemed nervous and he asked Andre every mile if we were on pace. Mile after mile, we had extra time in the bank, but slowly, that cushion became smaller. Pro guy had on arm warmers and compression socks. I loved him immediately. His face was darling and his dark hair framed it. His cheekbones were pronounced, and his dark eyes were anything but dark. When he spoke, his southern accent drew you in. I didn't let on that I was listening (focused and involved in my music), but I could hear him chatting with Andre. He might be telling you off, but you would think it sounded lovely because he was so dashing and lovely was his voice. He was tall and built like a runner. His gait was seamless. We marched on.
Mile 17 and Andre was fading. Cute Pro Runner guy started to panic.
Desperate, he started polling his fellow 3:40 peeps. "What are you hoping to run today?" he asked when he got to me.
"Honestly, my legs are a little spent, so I am just trying to survive out here. You look great. You are running really well. You need to get in your head and run your own race. You totally got this," I told him.
He was like a little boy, face full of fear, looking for reinforcement. He wasn't having it.
"Listen to me," I said again, "you trained for this and your body is primed and ready to go. Andre is falling off pace. You need to run what you know you are capable of running. You don't need a pacer. Get in your head and go."
He smiled his lovely smile at me and trotted off ahead. I left Andre, too, not feeling much better than he looked. Mile 18, I took a Cliff Block, knowing I was rolling the dice by taking it too early. 8 long miles might take their toll on my belly. Why do we do this again?
The next two miles genuinely sucked. I really just wanted to die. I still had to pee and had sharp side stitches. At mile 22, I decided I couldn't feel any worse if I actually stopped to pee, so I did the unthinkable and went into the porta potty. Those really just are disgusting and punishment for some kind of bad behavior I have had recently, I am sure. I came out, still holding my breath, and actually felt better, if not for the empty bladder, at least for the mental break of stopping.
Survival is the best I can describe miles 22-24, and then mile 25 I found my legs. I actually felt good again, not like I could run forever good, but well enough to get the job done and actually pick up my sorry pace that had declined from mile 20 on. I saw Chris on the road in front of me and put my hand out to her as if to tell her to join me. She sprinted ahead of me, but then quickly let me go. I kept passing people that final mile, which made me feel kind of badly, but really I just wanted to be done. That was a long mile, and once I found the final shoot, I was so happy....until I realized there was another turn and another .2 to go. I saw Lisa now. Again, I put my hand out, and ran past her. She didn't look well, but I knew she was almost done. I crossed the line in 3:44 and change, a minute slower than the previous week. This tells me that either that is just what I am going to run a marathon in now, or that possibly Savannah was an easier course and I could have had a better race there had I not raced the hills days before?
I never found Pro Guy again at the end, a disappointment because I would have loved to ask him what he ran. I know he killed it. Kimmie had come in 3 minutes previously to Chris, Lisa, and me, so the four of us huddled for a quick photo op. Mad Scientist and grommets were waiting for me at the finish with Gatorade and smiles. I felt like I had to vomit and my body temperature was dropping quickly. We left the girls, and walked the two miles back to the hotel and I sat on the floor of the shower for a long time, thinking about the day. I did it. I ran two marathons inside of a week and it felt great. The time didn't matter because the time out there was amazing. Each race was so different from the other....there is no way to compare them, other than the distance. I would do it again in a heartbeat, and any excuse to get back to Savannah. I heart that place.
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