Finishing a marathon feels pretty damn good. Kicking a little ass along the way makes it feel even better…and it helps you to forget exactly how many people beat you in the great race and just how much pain you are in.
Sweet, cocky, victory is what I felt as I was able to pull out a finish line sprint and pass by my last two targets.
On Sunday I ran my fourth marathon. I hadn’t been planning on running this particular marathon; I was training for the California International Marathon, which falls about 7 weeks later than the Nike Women’s Marathon (this weekend’s event). I ran it last year and signed up for it this year only to learn that my sad little name did not make it through the lottery. This only served to exacerbate my negative feelings towards Team In Training.
Upon hearing of my rejection, more than one person suggested that I join the dark side, “You know, if you join Team in Training you can still get in.” I never pledged a sorority; I avoid being in a room with more than 3 or 4 other women and I do not tear up at Extreme Home Makeover. As I assume these are three requirements for TIT, er, TNT, I chose instead to maintain my dignity and if so inspired, bandit the race. Through a bittersweet chain of events, I was able to get my hands on a real, official bib and decided that despite my lack of planning, I had trained enough and would do the full marathon with my friend, Chelsea.
Miles 1-25 were made of the usual pain, pacing, gu-ing, Gatorade stops and mental mind games. Chelsea and I have done a number of LONG runs, a marathon, and a few halves together and so we have already shared nearly all of our most humiliating, juicy and entertaining stories. Thus, on Sunday we were left filling about 6 miles with the alphabet game: “Okay now name songs starting with letters A-Z,” I commanded on round five. This game lasted until delusion hit and M became just as difficult a letter as X and Z had been from the beginning.
Chelsea is one of those people that gets the race day engines burning and in the last few miles, will blow by you in an effortless burst of speed which I have come to know, respect, and dread. So when I pulled ahead of her somewhere around mile 20, I was determined to hang on to the lead by the skin of my teeth if necessary.
I spent the next five miles cursing who knows what in my head, smiling at the thought of Vanessa taking pictures along the way of her half-marathon, and wishing for my Ipod. While Chelsea’s incoherent rendition of an Angels and Airwaves song back at the start of Lake Merced was amusing, I was in need of some real drive. My sixty-year old music teacher-carpool buddy politely describes the band as “Very forceful, forward moving.” From him I know this is no compliment, but this was exactly what I was in need of.
By mile 25, I had just passed a notorious marathon sight: the lying spectator. Usually these saboteurs are shouting about how “that was the last hill” and “it’s all down hill from here.” Never believe these people. They have no idea what’s going on and are making this stuff up on the spot. “Just two more stop lights and you’re done!” my lying spectator shouted. That was shortly before the twenty-fifth mile. Half a mile later, a second man tried to encourage struggling runners, “Just two more stoplights!” Never too tired to argue, I responded, “The last guy said that two stoplights ago.”
I slowed to walk for a minute, thinking I should preserve enough energy to cross the finish moving at a respectable clip without collapsing, vomiting or bursting into tears. As I walked, I thought about how convincing the U2 cover-band at mile 24 had been. “That guy really looked like Bono,” I thought. As I was pondering why Bono would ever do a gig at a sell-out event like the Nike Women’s Marathon (and I do mean sell-out, not sold-out), my thoughts were interrupted by a crotchety middle-aged woman walking a few feet away.
“Is this your first marathon?” she asked as if it were an accusation. “No. Why, does it look like it?” I replied, irritated. I’m generally a very social race day runner. I will talk for miles with strangers around me partially out of selfishness—it helps the miles pass. No matter how haggard someone looks, “Is this your first marathon?” is not the question. Even if the person next to you is running in Keds, has bleeding nipples and has a pedometer hanging around his neck, the acceptable question is, “So which other marathons have you done?” No need to let someone know they are looking as bad as they feel by implying that they are a first timer.
This woman rubbed me the wrong way and so I broke from my normal routine and tried to let the small talk die. She persisted. “I absolutely HATE this marathon! I’ve done 43 marathons and this is THE WORST!” After a quick once over, I decided that she must not share my hatred for Team in Training and female empowerment bonding events and so I took the bait. I couldn’t guess what she found to be so horrible about this event. “This is a great marathon. It’s gorgeous. What don’t you like?”
“Oh no! It’s absolutely terrible! This is the hilliest course I’ve ever run!” she spoke with the air of one who would like to be considered a seasoned veteran. Now I know she said 43 marathons, but I have three responses that I would have enjoyed sharing with this woman:
1) If I did 43 marathons I would certainly hope that I would look more like I had RUN 43 marathons and not just hit up the food tables at the end of 43 marathons.
2) Where the hell did you do 43 marathons without hills? I had no idea Bakersfield and Stockton sponsored so many events. This is San Francisco lady! If you are from out-of-state and didn’t learn geography in fourth grade, have you not seen one movie depicting this city and its obvious HIlLS? The views of the Golden Gate, Alcatraz, the Pacific Freakin Ocean more than make up for some hills. I live in the great land of Sacramento, which is not known for wonderful hill training workouts, but I do know how to up the incline on the treadmill. So maybe by your 44nd or 45th marathon you can find an overpass or get a gym membership so you too can train properly for a marathon that is held on a fault line.
3) It is mile 25.5 of 26.2. I do not need to hear negative talk from strangers. I have been cursing in my head and trying to ignore my wooden knees and the seizing pain in my hips that occurs every time I turn my head to the right or left. Even when running with good friends, running partners know when to keep their mouth shut if words of optimism and encouragement are not spilling out.
I let this woman pass me by with her rain cloud hovering overhead and gathered my last reserves of energy. Finally I could see the white tents marking the finish line. I assessed the situation in front of me. Immediately ahead was a Team in Training drone who I had been running near for almost an hour. Like all TNT money-makers, this woman had her name puff-painted on the front of her gaudy purple shirt. The Team in Training worker bees stationed along the course every 10 feet had been cheering her name for the past four miles. Now, just short of mile 26, a Team in Training coach (think Richard Simmons without the fro but plus 10 pounds of purple whoo-ha) jumped into the race and grabbed the TNT woman’s hand and began running with her towards the finish. He pumped her arm vigorously in the air while with his other hand he made wide, sweeping motions pointing to the woman he was clutching. It was very much, “Oh roaring crowds, don’t look at me. This is the woman that deserves the cheers. Look at her! Isn’t she just wonderful? And she probably has 5 kids at home to boot.” Perhaps if he wanted the attention directed at her, he might step off the course and let her complete her 26.2 miles without slowing her down.
This sideshow was immediately in front of me and to pass I would either have to squeeze by in a narrow breath of space between the TNT coach and the spectators or run all they way around them to pass on the ¼ of the road which the duo was not consuming with wild arm gestures. For those of you who have run a marathon, you will understand that taking the steps to run around someone is not a viable option. There was no way I would ever let this display of Team in Training beat me. I tapped into my reserves of aggression and turned on a short sprint down the side to cut the two off.
Now all that stood between me and the bagels was about 200 yards and two women, one of which bore a strong resemblance to the Grinch Who Stole Mile 25. I don’t know if this was the same woman, but at this point it was no matter. It was all the drive I needed. As they happily strutted towards the finish, I found it in me to put on a bit more of a sprint and passed them by seconds before I heard the wonderful beep of the chip passing the last timing mat. They may not have known or cared that we were racing, but I beat them, and that was enough for me.
Disclaimer: I know Team in Training has raise about a bazillion dollars for cancer research and has surely motivated thousands of people to get up off the couch and train for something difficult and impressive. That is all excellent. I’m a jerk for hating them, but you try doing this event and not walking away with at least a little residual irritation. I know I may sound a bit harsh, but it’s my own little short story and honesty is sometimes more entertaining.
