I trained through Boston winters, my tedium tolerance is off the charts, so I agreed to join Captain America on his track marathon, even though it was about 12k more than my daily dose, and on a weekend besides.
Captain America threatened all kinds of additional challenges: wearing a weighted vest, wearing a mask that would cut his oxygen so it would be like he was running at altitude, doing 13 burpees every mile... But by the night before our run, he was texting me every hour to say that he feared he would break at mile 10. My plan was just to run until A) I hit 30k if he quit, or B) I had run 26.2 miles.
Based on a recent 10k race-pace effort, I estimated that I probably shouldn't run faster than 8:40 if I planned to finish upright. Who was I kidding? I had never finished a marathon at under 9:00 pace! What made me think today would be any different.
But when I started running, it was tough to keep myself from dipping into the 7's. I never run on flat, even road anymore, so I have no idea what my cruising pace should be, but this seemed too fast. Whenever I caught myself speeding, I would slow down, but when I was at mile 18 and still drifting down toward 8, I figured I could let myself go.
The last mile the cumulative fatigue and dehydration started to make life tough, but who cares? I used to start feeling like this at mile 18 and then it only got worse. Today I crossed that 26.2 line in 3:41 - 1 min off my qualifying time when I used to chase such things, and 6 min off my current qualifying time. All without racing, pacers, or fresh legs. As soon as I stopped running, unbidden my ipod played The Dropkick Murphies' "Shipping up to Boston." I almost lost my shit. I now knew I could finally qualify. Time to cough up some race entry fees.
No comments:
Post a Comment