In lieu of a mile-by-mile analysis, I'll describe the rough breakdown that took shape mentally over the course of 26.2. My state of mind at the start was heavily influenced by the almost perfect conditions: temperatures in the mid-40s, overcast, and a slight tailwind. I had two pace bands on: a 3:20 and a 3:10 finish. I knew I had an opportunity for a good run, and the decision was made: hop in with the 3:10 pace group and see what happens. Mentally that pace seemed just right and it aligned with my expectations of myself. If it felt too fast by the 10k mark I would slow a bit.
I started a few meters from the starting mat. This contrasted with this race in 2003 when I began way back and it took me several minutes to cross the starting mat after the gunshot. It was a matter of seconds this time.
By 10 or 15 minutes into the run, my fears of slogging through with the discomfort of shin splints had gone out the window. I guess the taper was just enough rest to calm them down. In this same stretch, and up to about mile 3, I reconsidered my strategy for the day and wondered if I should fall back to the 3:20 pace group. I didn't get any warmup in before the run besideds stretching and I suppose it took me a few miles to get in the groove. Up until that point I wondered if I was working just a bit too hard to maintain the pace for 3+ hours.
But at just after the 3-mile mark I was markedly cruising. The group I was running with was almost spot on to the second in terms of pacing for a 3:10 finish. Let's just relax, I thought, and see what happens.
During mile 6 or 7 I remember a rush of energy that also coincided with the passing of the first real crowd. I welled up a bit with the recognition of the meaning of the race for me, but this was the most sentimental I got for the rest of the run.
Somewhere before mile 8 a freight train passed along the tracks running parallel to the course. The symbolism was perfect as it coincided with how I felt: solid, momentous, incapable of being slowed. I let it fuel my run, drawing upon the analogies of steadiness, rhythm. Passed the 8-mile mark in 57:52, again just a hair ahead of the 3:10 pacing.
The halfway point came quickly (13-mile mark was 1:34:20) and we were still right on pace. I wondered what would happen between miles 13 and 20, as I expected this would be a tough stretch mentally. I just continued on, feeling pretty confident. Mile 15 passed in 7:12, for a total time of 1:48:32 up to that point. Still on pace.
Over the next few miles I adopted a mile-by-mile tactic, and this was a mental relief more than anything. Just a few more minutes until the next split, I told myself. I was beginning to feel some physical fatigue, especially in my glutes (strangely). Up until mile 17 my nutrition and hydration had been right on (100 calories every 6 miles or so, plus water and/or powerade at every station), but I missed the free gel at this mile and it threw me off a bit. This was the first time in the race I really sensed a falter. 9 more miles. 9 more miles? Damn, this was beginning to feel daunting. Just hang on, I told myself.
I focused on hanging with the group up to mile 20, and my legs were still turning over smoothly. I was growing tired, however. My quads were getting sore now. The earlier thoughts of unleashing a hard 10k effort at 20 miles seemed pretty ridiculous by this point.
In retrospect I guess it was a bit of a survival tactic to replenish any glycogen I could muster, and around 21 or 22 I grabbed a banana from someone and tried to shove it down. Not a good idea and I now realize that I don't prefer anything more substantial than a gel. The chewing took too much concentration and interfered with my breathing a bit.
The leader of the pace group had begun interjecting motivational cues, and now he asked us to give a little to the small hills we were cresting. We had accumulated up to a minute on 3:10, and I suspect it was for this reason.
My overall time at mile 23 was 2:46:34, still under 7:15 average and still hanging on to the group. If the marathon was 23 miles, I would have had the perfect day.
Just before the 24-mile mark we ascended Lemon Drop Hill, which is maybe a 1/4-mile slight incline before dropping back down to Canal Park in downtown Duluth. In what felt like a matter of seconds I saw the group pull away. First a few feet, then 20, then 100. I couldn't hang on anymore, and I remember wondering whether the pace group was speeding up. They were, but only relatively of course. This coincided with me shoving some jelly beans into my mouth and almost choking on one. Feeling pretty desperate, and losing momentum now. I started calculating how much I could slow down and still finish in 3:10:xx. I had about a minute in the bank, but that didn't give me the wiggle room I felt like I needed.
The rest of the race doesn't merit publishing. I slipped off the cliff. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn't pull it back together. I stooped to walking a few times, contemplating how I would make it the final 2 miles. The 3:10 goal quickly became 3:15, then 3:20. My tough resolve was reduced to a flimsy surrender.
This was the first time I've ever experienced such utterly helpless exhaustion. It was hard to walk, let alone run. In the last mile or so the I rallied enough to bring home a jogging finish for my family, who was spectating in the finish area. 3:16:21, chip time. Thanks guys. Ouch.
The minutes following the race were a long, cold blur. In the changing tent I started cramping as I tried to put on a new pair of socks. Every movement seemed to set off a spasm somewhere else in my body. My stomach was upset. I was shivering. I found my family and they convinced me to go to Grandma's (the namesake restaurant right at the finish) to await my dad's finish. It was attractive only for the warmth, as the thought of a beer and a burger made me a little nauseous. I ate a few breadsticks and a bowl of soup, but nothing seemed to agree with my stomach.
After warming up inside the restaurant we made our way back to the finishing mat in time to watch my dad jet through the gate. He went out at a conservative pace, had a huge negative split and enough energy to really pick it up at the end. Finally we made it back to the car and soon enough I was falling asleep in a hot epsom bath at my grandfather's place.
***
So I made a valiant effort, and for that I am proud. The fact that it didn't work out in the end doesn't dampen the overall accomplishment in my mind. I sensed the ideal conditions, took a risk, and gave it all I had. The fact that this was my only chance to get a BQ before the new standards apply also played into the decision. I'll just have to work a little harder now and aim for a 3:05 sometime next year.
It feels great to be done, and I'm looking forward to recovering and moving on to the next thing. Not sure what this is yet. Some shorter fall races and a few cycling events?
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