Looky:
-----FLASHBACK----
It's about 7:30 a.m. and Trish and I leave our disgusting apartment in Stevens Square (where a guy got shot in the street in front our building a few days earlier) and jog a mile or so toward the fabulous (heh) Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome. We hang out in a church gymnasium with all the masters marathoners, all way to uppity for their race. Getting pushy about waiting in line for the crapper, obsessing about each others shoes, other stuff. It's nice to know that runners don't outgrow their insecurity and weirdness.
I limber up a bit and jog over to the start area when they command us to do so.
---quick switch to past tense---
The gun popped and we took off. Of course the Africans took to the front and ran slow. Of course the Americans sat behind them and looked nervous. After a couple of miles, and when we started to realize we running damn slow, the whole group picked things up and we moved toward a better pace with cultural unity. I was shuffling along in the pack, trying to figure out how to run "my own" race in this situation. We swung down by the lakes and were treated to a tuba serenade by renaissance man Alan Page. Things seemed ok. The crowds were big and loud. The sun was at a nice autumn morning angle and the wind was always kind of at our sides and never in our faces. By 8 miles the leaders separated a little and I kept at the pace I was going, between 5:15 and 5:20, even after the slow early miles, it seemed safer to not get to interested in what the lead pack was doing to each other. I stayed about a block back through about 12. At the half, I realized we were slowing a bit again, and I made a little move to get to a more reasonable pace. By the time we were at the river, I was feeling ready to roll, but was making sure to wait until 20, because the hills were looming. I looked over the river as we neared Lake Street and saw the climb up to Summit Ave. Two steep hills leading to four more miles of hills before finishing.
Things were good.
I hit 20 miles and threw down.
This had been my plan all along. Hit 20 in 1:44 and then F*CK SH*T UP. I was really motoring up the two biggest hills on the course. I was catching Kenyans. I was distancing myself from those behind me. Friends were all over the place cheering for me. I was busting the brakes off this.
At 23 I started to realize that I had been running for quite a while. I stumbled a little on a crack in the road and suddenly my legs felt heavy and stiff. By 24 my hamstrings and calves were really tight. A few minutes later I was shuffling, screaming at myself in my head "NO!" It had happened. I was rigging up and it was about to get really rough.
by 25, I could see the Capital and knew I'd at least get there. I was stumbling and quickly losing control of my motor functions, my arms flopping wildly and my stride - heel striking even worse than usual. I had worked my way up into 10th place, but was passed by Chris Erichsen (monster) in the last half mile. I was able to chuckle as he flew by, knowing that I had no chance to try to follow. I nearly rolled down the last hill and flapped my way into the finish line in 2:19:30, immediately to be thrown in a wheelchair and asked a lot of repetitive questions about how I felt. I kept replying that I "felt like I just ran a marathon...really hard"
And now it's five days later. I feel fine, I've run each day since Wednesday. I will always wonder what the hell happened exactly, but really, the marathon is what happened. She is a cruel skank.
See you out there -
