Q's First Marathon Report - Grand Rapids 2008 (Read 960 times)

The Training An impossibility. That’s all a marathon ever meant to me. It’s something I could not do. If you asked me two years ago about my chances, my reply would have been along the lines of, “yep, I’ll run one right after I get back from my lunar mission. Gotta go walk on the moon first.” I was thirty-something. I weighed over 300 pounds. I smoked a pack (or more) a day for years. The only “competitive” thing I did was to play beer league softball occasionally, and even then I’d be worn out from the rigorous effort it took. I’ll save the story of my awakening from this life of slothfulness for another time, but suffice it to say that I found my mojo. My running groove. The dealio that makes effort come easy, and rest come restlessly. RUNNAHS BABEE. That’s it. That’s me. I ran my first competitive race since high school in May of 2007, and the hook was in deep. I want to be faster. I want to go farther. Farther turned into a half marathon in October of the same year. It brought me to my physical limit. I recall distinctly as we of the half marathon ilk broke off from the full (approximately the 12 mile mark) that I would NEVER be able to run a marathon. Might as well walk on the moon first. But I kept running. Through a Michigan winter. Running some more. Through spring and summer. Through personnel difficulties, job problems, loved ones lost, illness. Running. Feeling my way, blindly through miles and miles of pounding away, searching for answers to questions I didn’t even know to ask. But through all the miles something strange happened. I started to learn. I started to learn things like what a truly easy pace should feel like, and how it can be different on different days. I learned what running on tired legs can do to your mental mettle during a long run. I taught myself to hurt when it was time to hurt, then turn the screws a little more. I haven’t learned everything; hell, I’ve barely scratched the surface. The miles though, they kept piling up. And as the mileage gradually worked its way to ever higher heights, I realized something. Maybe, just maybe, I could toe the line in a marathon. Race Day – The Early Miles (1-10) Fast forward to October 19, 2008. 7:55am. I won’t bore you (any further) with the details, other than to say all went well, no issues. The goal was to finish, and a sub-4 hour race would be icing on the cake. My plan was to stick with the 9 m/m pace group until I crossed the finish line or I blew up, whichever came first. It was as aggressive as I thought I could realistically be and still feel confident I could finish. Foolish, perhaps, but a plan nonetheless. I lined up with one of my training partners and good friend, Josh, for the start. A former colleague and her daughter (Carole and Emily, respectively) were also running with the pace group. So this run wouldn’t be a lonely one. I was happy about that, as I feared the late miles. Those uncharted waters past 21, where I’d yet to venture at any point in my life. They scared me deeply. The gun went off and so did we. The pace, easy. Legs, lungs, and mind excited and prepared. The group is slightly ahead of pace, but not terribly so. Only mile four felt fast (and was around 8:30 m/m). The course is very flat and the conditions are cut from a travel magazine for a picture perfect Michigan fall day. Josh and I talk easily and are just carrying on like we’ve done so many times in the previous year. Weaving through the scenic course I see my wife and Zoom-Zoom (and Dane, cool kid!) a couple of times. It picks me up to hear the bells and see the signs. Moreover, my wife is genuinely happy. I can see that she understands now how much it means to me to be out here, doing something I know I can’t do. I feel glorious. Still feeling strong around mile ten, I look up and notice Josh is not beside me. I glance over my shoulder and see him behind a few seconds. He gives me the “I’m good, keep going” so I soldier on. One mile and one water stop later, I don’t see him any longer. I will learn later that something went awry with his knee, and this day would not be kind to my friend, though he did finish. This moment forces me to check on how I feel, and all systems are still firing away. Forward, then. The Middle Miles (11-18) I remain on pace and feeling great through about 15 miles, at which point I realize the pace is not coming easily any longer. I’m not struggling to hold it, but there is some effort now. I try to focus on other things as the hurt starts to set in by talking to Carole and Emily as often as possible. I’m also looking for a boost in the arm from my personal cheering crew at mile 18, and then again at 20. There is a little out and back here, which allows for this. I figured it would be the last chance to see them before the finish. I didn’t see them at 18, and though the crowd support here is awesome, my heart sinks a bit. Reality is starting to settle in. This hurts. I am hurting now. Not terrible, but no longer having tons of fun either. Eight more miles, they suddenly don’t seem so possible. Reality (19-22) The turnaround at nineteen comes and goes. Carole asks me how things are going. I think I respond, but am not sure. She and Emily look strong and fluid. It still looks easy to them. I am holding pace, but I am not strong and fluid. I fear I won’t make it. There they are!!!! I see them out of the corner of my eye while attempting to get down some GU and water. Cheers and bells. Life in the legs. Thank you. You don’t know how much it helped. I hold the pace, barely, through 22 miles. Knowing I won’t see them, or anyone else (Emily and Carole suddenly started walking) weighs heavily. Lonely Miles (23-24) I am alone. Not just from a “folks I know” category, but there are very few people on the course at this point running and/or spectating. Many are struggling, most are walking. Slowing now, losing the pace group, I trudge forward. I turn a corner, see the world’s smallest hill, and begin to contemplating walking. It may as well be a mountain, so inconceivable climbing it seems. Just then I hear them again. On my left, close. Cheering. Bells. My name. The invisible hand of support lifts me over that hill and into the teeth of a fairly strong wind. I shiver. How slowly am I running that I’m actually getting cold, I wonder. Looking down, the laughable progression of my feet relays to my brain that whatever the pace, it is slow. Just past the 24 mile mark I hit my limit. Alone, sorrowful, dejected. I stop. My race is over. Finish Strong (25-26.2) Something in my brain snaps. I get angry. Furious. I did not come this goddamn far to quit now. I yell, loudly, to get MOVING. The mantra starts in my head. Relentless. Forward. Motion. Again and again, I repeat it until I am at least walking at a decent clip. And wouldn’t you know it, Carole and Emily come running past! Carole, jovially lets me know that they’ve made a deal and no one will be walking for the remainder of the race. The two start in on each other, like only a mother and daughter can. It gives me the motivation I need to see this thing through. I start running. I can’t stay with them, they again look strong. But the finish line is near. People are everywhere. Cheering. Noise. God, don’t let me quit now. Not in front of all these people. I see Janine, Josh’s wife, and I smile. I’m worried for my friend. On the last out and back I passed him and he did not look well. I want to tell her Josh is coming, but the words won’t form, my mouth doesn’t work. I see the finish line. Just then, my dad comes onto the street and sticks his hand out. I don’t remember if I grabbed it or not, but I see and hear, my parents and my personal cheering section. I see my kids. That’s all I need. I finish strong. I walked on the Moon Crossing the line I make a grievous error. I bend over and clutch my knees. I can’t pick myself up, I start to get woozy. Two volunteers help me to the med tent where I spend the next ten minutes or so just getting my wits about me. Much to my surprise, I also see Carole in there. She had a busted up lip and I assume she slipped at the finish. It turns out she did it back around mile 10, and ran the rest of the way in bleeding from the mouth. Tough as nails, that one. Everyone says that running a marathon changes you, and that this amazing transformation happens when you cross the finish line the first time. This didn’t happen to me though. Mine came after I walked out of the medical tent and a 10-year old boy hung the finishers medal around my neck and said simply, “Great job on running a marathon.” It hit me like a ton of bricks. I cried. Uncontrollably, I cried. Just for a few seconds, then I gather myself and move through the chute. I see my dad, and my wife, and I cry again. Whatever happens to me from this day forward, things will be a bit different. I just did something that two years ago I know I could not do. The thought was inconceivable. Many people have and will start and finish marathons, I know. But I KNEW that I would never be one of them. But I did. And so it goes. I must have walked on the moon.

Dude. Bravo. Very nice report and congrats on the accomplishment. Holy cow we have good writers here.

Awesome report! WOW. 300 pounds to this This is amazing Q! You should be the model in a motivational poster!

Damn fine report and damn fine race. WTG Q!

Awesome. I have chills. Just awesome.

So inspiring.

Nice job Q. That was an awesome read. Where's the tissue box?

PowerofQ - you rock man! Thank you for sharing your incredibly inspirational story.