“F#@%!" I utter. Not
loudly, yet at a volume loud enough to be audible to the runner passing on my
left. It’s very evident I’m hurting. I’ve
just reached mile 10 of the Vermont City Marathon, a section of the course
which begins with a modest descent before leveling off. Certainly not
challenging terrain, and not far enough into the race to induce “hitting
the wall”. Yet, here I am, feeling as though I am about to do just that.
All week long the pollen count has been incredibly high. As a
result I’ve been battling intense allergy symptoms which have provoked my
asthma. My breathing has been inefficient and slightly labored, even with the
help of medications. Yet through it all I remained optimistic that it would
clear up by race day.
Race morning found me with slight nausea, but my breathing
much more unrestricted. I’ve had many a
race in my career in which I haven’t felt the best in the pre-race hours, yet I
performed surprisingly strong and felt almost invincible once the race got
underway. I was hoping today would be one of those days.
While not feeling strong, I certainly had been feeling
decent from the time the starter’s horn bellowed at 8:03 am. I had been running at a consistent pace and was
on pace to complete a very respectable marathon, finishing somewhere in the
vicinity of 3 hours 15 minutes. That was, until I hit mile 10. As a result of
inefficient breathing my body was using glycogen (it’s most efficient fuel
source) at an elevated rate. Once the glycogen goes away, so does any semblance
of speed. So now, at mile 10, the needle
on my internal fuel gauge is flirting with “E”.
I reach for a GU energy gel from my Fuel Belt. I have each
individual GU packet stored in the belt with the top half of the packet facing
down. This allows for fast and easy access, enabling me to remove the GU packet
as if I’m removing a gun from a holster. Also, the packets tend to stay in place more securely this way. I blindly
reach down and grab the first packet I feel. As I pull it up into view I see it’s
the flavor “chocolate outrage”. I am aware that I may just be delaying my
inevitable termination from the race. Yet I can’t help but hope that this “chocolate
outrage” will provide me with the “rage” of energy I need.
Upon consumption I have a slight spike in my energy, yet it
is certainly no rage and it is very short-lived. An epic battle of “tug-of- war”
now begins in my mind. The sensible side of my brain gives a tremendous pull, proclaiming: You should drop out! You
have nothing to gain by staying in the race! If you do you will end up walking, being on the course for hours longer
than anticipated and it will take at least twice as long to recover once the
run is over!
The stubborn side of my mind then tugs back mightily,
proclaiming that I should: Suck it up! Dropping out is a sign of weakness! You should stay in the race and finish, even
if it is a slower time than you’ve ever done! At
least you’ll have completed the mission! All the while there is a lingering
optimism in the back of my mind that I will still get my second wind, a resurgence
of energy that carries me through the remaining miles.
I’ve never been one to drop out. If I start, I intend to
finish. The mere thought of a “DNF” (Did Not Finish) is difficult to comprehend. I am also slightly concerned with how my
decision will be perceived. I normally am not tremendously concerned with what others
think about my actions. However, as a trainer and a coach I want to set a good
example. Will dropping out send a bad message? Will taking 5 ½ - 6 hours (or more) make me
look unskilled? Which of my current choices is the lesser of
two evils? These thoughts may be unfounded, but for an
athlete who, for the first time in years is suddenly forced to come to terms
with the fact that he is human, are completely natural.
I tell myself I will postpone the decision by giving myself
until Oakledge Park, the halfway point. If I am going to get a second wind it
should happen by then. At each aid station I consume both water and Gatorade,
hopeful that they will join forces to give me the resurgence I so desperately
seek.
With each foot strike the tug-of-war continues in my mind,
with no clear winner in sight. My pace slows significantly with each mile, down
to as low as 9:30 when I finally hit Oakledge Park in a time of 1 hour 45
minutes. Doubling this time would
certainly make for a very respectable marathon. However, that would require
averaging 8 minute miles from this point forward. I face the reality that this will not happen.
It was all I could do to hit the last mile in 9:30 and I feel my energy waning.
I still, however, cannot bring myself to actually drop out. If I do drop out
here I will still have to walk back to the start. So, I might as well continue
to run. The battle wages on!
I continue to shuffle along at whatever pace I can muster. There
are no significant terrain changes but my pace continues to slow, with it now down to 10:00 per mile. I'm also feeling out of sorts and not exactly steady on my feet. I make the decision that I will pull out of
the race as I hit the bottom of Battery Street. This will allow me to have
minimal walking distance to get to the baggage check area where my warm up gear
is stored.
However, as I turn the corner from Maple Street onto Battery
I am quickly seduced by the rhythmic beat of the Taiko drums and the
intoxicating cheers of energetic spectators. The drums are being played at the
base of Battery Street and the spectators are lined up along the hill. Both
combine to provide a powerful driving force that propels runners up the hill. I
can’t deny myself this experience, nor can I resist!
I continue to run(my pace still somewhat resembles a
run so let’s go with that) with my eyes focused no more than 15 feet in front
of me to avoid being done in by the daunting hill. As I ascend the hill I hear cheers of; “Go
Moe!” To avoid burning excess energy I avoid turning to look at the crowd but I
wonder how so many people know who I am. Then I remember that along with my
number my first name is written on my bib. I love how spectators will cheer for you even if they don’t know you. It’s
one of the many things that make marathons so rewarding.
My legs start to burn with the fires of accumulating lactic
acid. I tell myself to just keep moving,
make it to the top and worry about the rest from there. The beauty of this stretch
of the course is that the drum beat and spectator’s cheers provide so much
energy they can make even the slowest runner feel fleet of foot. As a result, I
summit the hill much quicker than I anticipated.
As I round the corner to turn into the Battery Park, the
tug-of-war is over. My body has made the decision for me. With all of my glycogen
depleted, running is no longer an option. I slow to a walk and exit the course,
officially proclaiming my sensible brain as the winner.
I stand in Battery Park to reflect for a few minutes. I’m at
peace at the moment but fear that as the fatigue wears off I will become upset
that this happened. In my 31 year career as a runner I have NEVER DNF’ed.
As I slowly make my way to the baggage area, then to the
finish line to transition into the role of spectator, I pause to think further. There really is nothing I could have
done differently. What made me have a bad race is a poorly timed peak to allergy
season with a pollen count that is higher than it’s been in years. Even Superman has Krytponite to deal with. I
was just exposed to my Kryptonite, which happened to be in microscopic granular
form. The good news is that I didn’t drop out because of an injury. I live to
run another day!
