First of all, I would like to apologize to anyone who's been suffering through my blogs of late. I've been feeling a little blah lately, and I feel like it's come through in my posts. I've been boring myself to death writing them, so I imagine that they can't be much fun to read either. I make no promises about this post either. But a race has been done, and a race report must be written.Today, in the last push before a rest week (and the beginning of my "taper" for Boston), I was signed up for the Eastern States 20 Miler, which starts in Maine, goes along the New Hampshire coast (the state with the shortest coastline, in case you were wondering), and finishes up in Massachusetts... just barely. I had been really excited for this one when I signed up because I'm a sucker for things like running through 3 states in one day. It also promised to be a lot of fun because fellow munchkin, Mindy would be there, along with GRANDPA! But after a bad night's sleep I woke up feeling blah: Bored, Lazy, Apathetic, and Half-hearted, BLAH.
This would be my second week in a row training over 20 hours, which is why I was probably
fried. My plan was to recover on Friday, but Friday night I lifted weights. Really, I should know better. I'd spoken to Angry earlier in the day and asked him for something that would work my legs but wouldn't make me sore. He suggested something that seemed like it would make me fall over (one-legged squats), and then something that seemed like it would make me fall over from a great hight (one-legged squats standing on a bench), so I decided just to do my fallback deadlifts and one-legged leg presses. You know, the same ones that had me feeling wrecked for a week after the last time I did them. Then, on Saturday I rode for a combined 3 1/2 hours. I was in a bit of a "go hard or go home" mood, and rode a little harder than was probably prudent for someone who had a 20 miler the next day. But I ate food that was good for me afterwards, so I figured everything was going to be okay. Right?Well, after a lousy night's sleep I woke up and, as I believe I've mentioned, I felt blah. I made myself the SAME breakfast I make every day. It was below freezing just like it always is, so I picked out one of the same three outfits I wear to every race. All my long-sleeved shirts were in the wash, so I figured okay with a short-sleeve shirt under my compression top. Then I drove up to the SAME Hampton Beach I'd run at before, parked in the SAME parking lot, and caught a yellow bus to the start, just like all the other yellow school buses I've ridden at other races. The race organizers had sent us threatening emails about showing up at the start early, so at 8:45 I was already sitting in a high school gym just like all the other high school gyms, talking to the same people (Thom, 'arry, etc.) and waiting for the 11:00 start. And you know who never showed up? Grandpa. Now I really didn't have a reason to push. Team Hoyt was there (Mindy was standing in line behind Dick to pick up her t-shirt). I couldn't have cared less. I was acutely aware that this was going to be a very long and painful day if I didn't snap out of it and get at least a little bit excited.
Plus my butt hurt. Stupid Angry and his stupid deadlifts. I was very sore and stiff up where the hamstring tucks under the butt. I could stretch all I wanted (and I did, quite a bit), but my butt just wouldn't loosen up. Great, just fucking excellent.
Finally, Mindy and Maine Runner turned up and I got to wait some more, but at least the company was good. On the walk to the starting line, the subject of me running Boston as a bandit came up. I don't remember how the topic came up, or what lead into it, but Mindy said something like, "Don't get me started on bandits." She was clearly holding her tongue so as not to offend me. I respect Mindy's opinions, especially since she is of the opinion that I am "a trooper"
and "the badassest of them all". I wanted to know her opinion on bandits, already knowing what it would be. "Not directed at you, I just don't like bandits," she said. "I think that you should only run Boston if you've qualified. That's the way it was set up to be, and I don't like that just anyone should run it," she practically spat. (I hope Mindy won't mind me trying inaccurately to re-create what she said. I hope I'm true to her opinions, if not her original words.)"Well, what about Team in Training people and people like that who do it for charity?" I asked.
"I don't think they should do it either. I think it should just be for people who qualify." If you can't guess already, Mindy has qualified in the past. Unlike me, Mindy is a superstar.
"Well, it's my hometown race, and I don't think it's fair that I can't run it. I've thought about signing up for the Providence marathon the following weekend, but it just wouldn't be the same. And anyway, I can't be paying for a marathon, I just bought a bike." (I'll tell you about that soon) "What if I were to run it in a t-shirt that says Mindy thinks I'm a loser?" I suggested.
"I don't think you're a loser," she said.
"How about Mindy thinks I have questionable morals?" offered Maine Runner.
"Well, what about people who can't qualify, like me?" I asked. "Do you think they should never get the opportunity to run it?"
"You can qualify," she said flatly. Then, for reasons having nothing to do with the content of our conversation, it ended there as I made my way to the back of the pack while Mindy and Maine Runner lined up with the real runners more towards the front. Mindy meant no malice by these comments, and I certainly was not offended. Now I definitely had something to think about for the next 20 miles.
The race started with minimal hooplah, and I found myself running with Thom on my left and Mindy on my right for about half a mile. I introduced them quickly, before letting everyone go on ahead and falling back to listen to my own thoughts for the next 19.5 miles. One mile in we ran over a drawbridge that had that wire grating through which you could see the water below. The metal pieces were far apart, which made for some awkward running, and also gave a relatively unobstructed view of the water below. Deep inside, the part of me that is afraid of heights and open water had a private heart attack. On the other side, Santa Claus (who apparently was a sub-six-minute mile runner in his day) was calling out splits. Ten thirty-eight, ten thirty-nine... that couldn't possibly be right. I wasn't running THAT slow.
After that I found a rhythm, and as the terrain or scenery didn't change much, I was able to think. Mindy thinks I have questionable morals. Of course I knew that she was totally right. While I'm not opposed to lottery slots at Kona, the thought of taking one myself appalls me. I would even think twice about taking a roll-down slot. And while I'm sure the qualifying policy at Kona sucks for a Hawaiian stuck out there in the middle of the Pacific, miles from the nearest Ironman, I think it would be lame for Joe Kona to just turn up for the race. I guess it's the same with real marathoners and Boston.
The problem is, I don't take marathons seriously. I can't. Once I figured out that I could do the distance, it just didn't seem big enough to make a big deal of anymore. And I simply am not a strong enough runner to race a whole, entire marathon. That's my biggest long-term goal of this year, to get stronger so that I can race a whole marathon. But I can't take myself seriously yet. At the times that I come in at, it would just be silly. Hell, even if I ran my personal best ever 15k pace for a whole, entire marathon, I would still be 25 minutes off from qualifying. I have to take it as a joke, because if I didn't, I'd just throw in the towel and never run again. I've even thought of running the whole thing in a zorro mask because, in my head, that's what bandits wear. "You have to laugh at yourself, because you'd cry your eyes out if you didn't."
And yeah, I COULD run Providence the following weekend, but how is that different from the shorter races I've been doing all winter? I've run 3 second-rate marathons in my life already. What excites me about Boston is the crowds and the hubbub. I've never run a BIG marathon before. Before I've always burnt out half way through my training and couldn't care less when the stupid marathon rolls around. I know I'm on par for a PR, since this is the only time I've ever seen a full training season through, but what's the point if it's not special? I want the crowds and the prestige, dammit! Yeah, I'm doing a shitty thing, and I do have questionable morals, but I'm going to run Boston anyway. For me. No one has to know my time. No one has to cheer for me. No one has to recognize me as a Boston finisher. But I'm running it anyway.
By the time I hit mile 13, I'd sorted most of this thought process out, and felt like a real dipshit. My body still felt good, which was a damn good thing, because I was so over this race now that I'd come to the conclusion that I was essentially training to cheat. How fitting that the guys behind me on the bus this morning had been talking about Rosie Ruiz. It was like I was Rosie Ruiz sitting there studying T (subway) maps. Meanwhile, we were well into New Hampshire and the temperature had raised considerably. From mile 1 I knew I was irrevocably overdressed, and every time I reached down to massage a kink out of my butt, I drew my hand back in disgust. My entire back end was drenched in sweat. I'd already drank twice the water I usually do for a half marathon and was getting those nasty Gatorade burps that burn your throat.
Astoundingly, though, I felt good. In addition to buckets of Accelerade, and then Gatorade, I was eating every 2 miles, trying to mix up Shot Blocks, and a new experiment I was trying: dried papaya chunks. In a later post I'll go into why I'm trying to find a more natural alternative to blocks, but my main fear was that using dried fruit would make me have to poop. And the nutrition plan worked until about mile 17. Around mile 15 I started to have to pee, but since I've never once stopped to pee in a race, now seemed like a lousy time to start. I gladly laid a bit off the Gatorade and sailed past the last porta-potty. Based on how I felt, I thought I might even be able to push the last 3 miles if all went well. These papaya chunks were working like magic. Then, at mile 17, I passed up my last chance for Gatorade. I still had some nasty fruit punch in my bottle, and god knows I was in no hurry to touch that. And then, after about half a mile, it happened: the papayas started to work their other magic. And perhaps it is not completely unrelated that around then is when fatigue set in, nearly all at once, and my glutes started seizing up.I dealt with the thunk, thunk feeling in my intestines as I bounced through mile 18, but right around the 19-mile mark I had to walk a bit in order to get my large intestine under control. I'm sure the clamping shut wasn't helping my butt cramps either. I'm sure I could have pushed through it. I certainly hadn't lost any control, as it were... but my head just wasn't in the game. All I could think about was how nice it would feel to STOP running, and get a huge bottle of plain old water.
I pulled into the finish in 3:13:27, managing to get a little kick out of my legs for the last few hundred yards. All I wanted was some fresh water. I walked up to the coolers at the end of the
chute. "Vitamin water? Vitamin water?" the girls were asking, holding out fistfulls of technicolor bottles."Don't you have any regular water?" I asked, I begged, I pleaded.
"No, just vitamin water," the girl said, handing me a bottle that might have been blackberry. I gagged on the first sip.
After I stopped running, I stopped having to go number two, but I still had to pee a little bit. I went over to the porta-potties, left my bottle outside, and wasted my time in the little blue cubicle for about a minute (I guess I didn't have to pee after all... not anymore anyway). I guess I was more dehydrated than I thought.
When I came out, there... on the ground... right next to my running bottle, was a full bottle crystal clear of Smart Water. I looked both ways. No one was standing near it. I looked at the other porta-pottie, it was unoccupied. I picked up the bottle as nonchalantly as I could and inspected it, its seals were still intact. So I walked away with it and downed half of it before I'd picked up my backpack. It still tasted nastier than regular water, but at least it didn't have any syrupy flavors. It was wonderful.I decided to get off the bus at my car (in New Hampshire), rather than go all the way back to Maine for food. On the way home I stopped for gas, and bought myself some Triscuits for the ride home. "Where was the race?" the gas station attendant asked me as I walked in the door. I told him. "I've done a couple of those running races. There's a 10-miler they do around here every year, and I've done it 3 times. Each time I trained less and less, and each time I went faster and faster. I kept saying, if I just quit training altogether, I could win the darned thing. Thing is, the finish was just a couple doors down from my house, so I would go balls out right at the end, and then go to my house and collapse where no one could see me."
"Wow, that's great!" I said (not about the collapsing part). And it was great. Here was this guy who worked at a gas station, was not a runner, and still dragged his ass out every year and ran 10 whole miles on a whim. How many people can say that? There are runners who don't run 10-mile races. It's quite commendable. But still, you can't help but feel condescending, just a little bit, in your head. I mean, that guy's not a REAL runner. It wasn't until I got back in the car that I realized: that guy was me. At a marathon, I'm the gas station attendant. I'm the one who showed up, only doing half the work, and I go home happy with whatever I get and don't even think about training again until it's time to come out and run again next year.
So the real question is, does the feckless, half-assed bandit get to buy a t-shirt at the expo?
