Click here to read all of the posts in the “Where have I been?” series (if you haven’t you should probably start from the beginning, before you read on)
Part II
California International Marathon: 0.0 miles to 26.2 miles
Folsom, CA to Sacramento, CA
Author’s note: I apologize for this being so late -I actually wrote this on the plane last month but lost that file and it took a while to get over my depression at having lost my writing and trying again. In retrospect, I think I actually like take 2 more. Better late than never, right?
I wake up at 3am.
No, it’s 6am. I’ve done a good job of staying on Eastern Time. Given that it’s December and already pitch dark by 5pm, it wasn’t too hard to convince myself it was actually late when I went to bed at 6pm – or 9pm? – local time last night. Small victories.
I’m not super hungry, but manage to gnaw down half of a plain bagel with a cup of black coffee, just for the sake of routine at this point. Before I know it, it’s 4:45am and it’s time to leave.
The bus is due to leave on its 26 mile journey to the starting line around 5am and my VIP pass gets me to the front of the crowd that’s already formed – chilled joggers wrapped in sweat-suits and trash-bags. I know the bus-ride will feel long, so I just put on my audiobook and look at old pictures – of my cat and my family and good times – and try not to think about how far we’re driving.
Around 5:40am, we pass by Folsom prison. I’m listening to “Orange is the New Black” and it seems remarkably appropriate.
I leave the bus and walk the hundred meters or so down to a small condominium complex which is acting as the elite warm-up area. We have our own (heated) tent and I lie on the ground and shake my legs back and forth and listen to Piper Kerman talk about prison until exactly 6:25am when I use the bathroom one last time, sip some coffee (but quickly realize I’m already far too amped already and don’t need any more caffeine), and trade the bright lights of the tent for the empty black pre-dawn skies.
I jog about one kilometer away from the start line – the first kilometer that I’ll run after the gun goes off in another 31 minutes. I can see other shuffling bodies but it’s too dark to make eye contact. I keep to myself.
I return to our condominium complex parking lot where fifty extremely veiny pairs of legs are being stretched and pulled and poked by their owners. I follow suit, forcing my legs to hop and skip and jump, just as I have a million times before.
At 6:50am, I take off my sweats as the van, which will carry all of our things 26.2 miles down the road for us – to meet us – is about to leave. For a second, I completely lose sight of any purpose to this. There’s plenty of room for me on top of that pile of sweat pants and track jackets! How about a ride?
The air is cool, around 45F, and suddenly my tiny, thin uniform seems wholly inappropriate. I keep a pair of light gloves on, but bouncing up and down is the least I can do to keep from shivering. I’m 113 pounds; I’ve burned off all my insulation over the past six months.
Everything is routine. I continue skipping, stretching, and jogging without actively thinking – it’s just another run.
Until, at 6:57am, I make my way to the starting line, where I find the 2h18 pacers and the cohort of other hopeful – desperately hopeful – young men. We bounce and shiver and huddle together like emperor penguins until the last notes of the Star Spangled Banner are bouncing off the fog enshrouded trees and we’re ready to go.
I miss starting my watch as the gun sounds. Oops.
I’m running pretty much even with the front of the race for the first 400 meters or so on the wide, downhill start. As things start to bunch up, I tuck in behind Brendan – one of our pacers – right into the middle of our pack.
The entire first mile is very fast – a nice gradual down-hill. I see the first mile marker and my watch says 4’44. I freak out for a second before remembering that I hadn’t hit my watch at the start.
“What was that first mile?” I shout into the swarm of skinny bodies around me.
“5’10.”
This is great.
I’m so relaxed. I could be sitting on the couch with Richard Parker watching a movie and eating pizza I’m so relaxed. I tuck into the flock and just try to turn off my brain.
The first six miles (10km) of the race course are a straight shot out one long road. After the quick first mile, the course is actually quite rolling over this section. Always going up, going down – never flat.
I try to think of these first six miles as a warm-up. I’m not even running yet. I’m just tucked in and floating along with the pack. This is nothing.
We pass 5km in about 16’10 and from there, we’re consistently right around 5’15/mile. The pacers are doing a great job, but I’m already feeling antsy. The pace feels slow – too slow. And I know it’s supposed to feel slow, easy, at this point, and so I tell myself to just enjoy it. Relax and enjoy it. Wait.
I miss my first bottle at the 3.3M mark, but I stay calm. Someone in the group offers me a sip of Gatorade – a nice gesture. And I have a powergel tucked into my shorts, so I’m all set.
Around the 4-mile mark, I feel a knot in my right abdomen. A side stitch. This is way too early to be having issues. It can’t be. I panic for a few minutes but it dissipates quickly and leaves me feeling confident once again.
At the 30-minute mark, I take my first powergel shortly before passing 10km in 32’2x and I’m feeling great. By 7-miles, I’m feeling amazing – like I’m jogging – and we’re still on pace. I’m almost feeling uncomfortably bunched up. For a few minutes, I duck out to the side of the group to let my stride open up and avoid clipping the heels of the guy in front of me.
Before the race, I had heard that the section between 5 and 10 miles was the toughest of the course, with the most significant hills. I’m already thinking about when – if at all – I want to leave the safety of the herd and I start thinking about that 10 mile mark. There’s already a BIG gap formed between the front of the race (the 2h15 pace group) and us. It’s more than a little intimidating.
But – for better or for worse – I still feel good. So, as we come to that 10-mile marker in about 52’20, I move to the front on a short downhill and accelerate a bit, just to see how it would feel and to see if anyone would go with me. No one does. I give one quick glance into my periphery (not looking back) and decide that this is going to be a real move and I’m off.
A bit too rambunctious at first. I’m running downhill but a quick glance at my watch tells me that I’m running under 3’00/km (4’50/M) pace for the first few minutes of my break-away. Even with a climb at the end of that first solo kilometer, it ends up as 3’05.
I let the adrenaline of the risk die down and I can feel myself really begin to calm and relax again. But I’m still running 3’08-3’11/km. And despite how good I feel, I worry that this is just too fast, particularly over what has turned out to be continuously rolling terrain.
I get another shot of adrenaline when I begin to see Fernando Cabada’s jersey up ahead. He’s leading the 2h15 pace group and his neon-checkered back is easy to spot. A few times, it even feels within striking range. Anything feels possible.
As we approach the halfway point, I figure I’m going to be around 68-low/mid, since we’d been on 68-high pace at 10-miles. I’m a bit alarmed, then, to see 67’5x as I pass under the giant balloon archway that marks 13.1 miles run – the clock overhead mercilessly ticking and ticking. I just exhale and hope that I haven’t blown my whole race – my whole six months of preparation – with a stupid, over-eager move. The last 5km had been 15’40-something.
I actively back off. I know that I have plenty of time banked away; I’m well under the pace that I need. In fact, a bit of math tells me that even if I ran 70 minutes for the second half (which I had done in Indiana in a training effort 5 weeks earlier), I’d still be under that fickle 2h18 barrier. This brings me great confidence and, again, I relax.
I take the next mile or two to really try to recover. I’m not fighting the terrain; I’m not paying attention to the pack in front of me. I’m just isolated. And I’ve been totally isolated since I left the herd back at 10 miles. I still haven’t caught anyone; it’s been 5 miles of no-man’s-land. But, now, I can see a few guys are starting to come back to me. And I know there will be more to come.
The course is still quite rolling, but I’ve been expecting that. And I know that it’ll last until the 30-32km mark (around 20 miles). I’m still feeling so confident, so relaxed, that I’m actually beginning to think about running a negative split, about running the A-Standard (2h15). I know the last 10km is super fast and if I have anything left, I should be able to really crush it.
But, around 30km, I’m starting to feel the effects of that overly aggressive middle 10km (31’50 from 15-25km). I can see that I’m still on 2h16 pace, but my legs and overall coordination start to just feel a bit off. It takes a couple of miles to really let myself regroup.
In particular, right around the 20-mile water-bottle station, I feel particularly “off.” I’m not really sure how to describe this feeling. Just inefficient, weak. I don’t feel like the smooth, confident machine that I had been just a few miles earlier. I start to see it slipping away from me, sand between my fingers. My time, my performance. My confidence is waning.
So, I take my third powergel. I’d planned to take it at 1h50, but I need something – even a placebo – to wake me up out of this mid-race funk. And so, right after 20 miles (passed in 1’44’0x), I choke down the gel and tell myself it’s going to help.
And, it does. Or, at least, I think it does. I start to feel better and – what’s more important – I’m not slowing down.
I’ve been catching a few people here and there for the last couple miles, but there just aren’t that many, so it’s hard to get a gage on where I am. Mostly, I’m relying on my watch and splits to make sure I’m not falling off the pace. I keep reminding myself how generous the course is in the last 10km, so I try to just use that. The knowledge that there aren’t any more hills is comforting. Small victories.
I’m constantly doing math in my head – which is becoming more and more difficult as the miles pile up and the sugar in my brain is sent as a last resort to my legs. I’m trying to figure out if I’m safe if I maintain 5’15-5’20/mile (the pace that I find myself stuck in) until the end – if I’m going to make it. And each mile, I’m under a bit more. A bit more safety net. A bit more room for error. A bit more confidence.
Still, I know that people can lose a couple minutes in the last mile. I’m not counting my chickens yet.
Around the 22-mile mark, the course crosses over the river with a tiny uphill over a bridge. After this point, the course is familiar – Mariana and I having run that portion the morning before. And I know that there’s nothing scary in these last 4 miles. Just pancake flat and a straight shot to the finish.
As I come down off the bridge and into Sacramento, I’m passed for the first time in the race. The culprit is a NYAC runner (I would later find out it’s Brendan Martin) who had been in the 2h18 group with me back at the start. He’s really cruising and I use him to accelerate for a kilometer or so. My body won’t let me stay with him too long, but that push probably gives me another 5 or 10 seconds of cushion that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. And it gives me someone to chase.
Now, there are others up ahead, too. The course is so straight that I can see a string of runners in front of me for maybe a half mile. I work my way up, passing a few quite quickly, but mostly just focusing on Brendan and not letting him get too far ahead.
The city is arranged as a grid here and these last few miles are run from about 60th st to 8th st. I try not to look at the street signs, but it’s almost impossible not to – not to count down, not to focus on how long the 40s feel. I force myself into tunnel-vision and focus only on the few meters of road directly in front of me.
After passing the 24-mile mark, I’m still trying to do math. I struggle, but I can see that if I don’t totally implode, I can run under 2h18. I’m hurting. Really badly. But – somehow – I’m getting faster. The flat roads and the motivation of having a few guys to chase – something is carrying me through these last few miles.
At the 25-mile mark (around 2’10’30), I can see that I’m not slowing down, and I’m not going to slow down, and (almost sure now) I’m going to make it. It’s just a matter of making sure I don’t trip or pass out. Otherwise, it’s just how close am I going to be.
I think I actually catch one or two guys in the last mile – a few poor souls are falling off hard – but I don’t feel like I’m moving that fast. I’m counting down the minutes. And then seconds.
The last, long – impossibly long – straightaway nearly breaks my spirit. I can see a giant flashing arrow from much too far away, the arrow that marks the left turn onto 8th St. before the finish on Capitol Mall. I question whether I’ve miscalculated – there’s no way I can get to the finish in time. That arrow is so far away!
But the turn comes, and I see the 26-mile mark (around 2’15’50) and I know I’m going to make it.
There’s less than I expected after the giant arrow. And before I know it, I’m turning down Capitol Mall and the clock – that giant, blinking, indifferent bastard – is right there.
“2:16,” it says.
I hadn’t even thought about it, but I now realize I have a chance to sneak under 2h17 and I fling myself toward the finish.
And I make it: 2’16’59.
With that out of the way, it’s the (now, familiar) post-marathon routine of lying down on the ground, some small muscle in my leg invariable seizing up (right hip-flexor this time), and being escorted out of the way and to the medical tent by what have tended to be extremely kind people. I’m actually in excruciating pain this time and can’t walk because of my hip-flexor, so I’m glad to have someone to lean on.
But, I’m done and it’s over and I did it – I DID IT! – so the pain in my body is the least of my concerns.
Somehow, I make my way over to my folks and Mariana – who had driven all over the course and had still made it to the finish. It’s an emotional reunion.
And that’s it. I make it out of medical after being offered some chicken soup (“no thanks, but the pretzels are perfect”) and into the post-race VIP area where the CIM folks have an awesome breakfast spread set up. I’m able to get my wet clothes off and into dry warm-ups quickly, so I don’t have too many of the horrible post-marathon jitters I’m accustomed to, but it takes a while before I’m ready to tackle the buffet.
This was the best race of my life. It’s been my goal to qualify for the US Olympic Marathon Trials literally since I found out that the Trials were a thing – coincidentally (or not), right when I started running around the time of the 2007 Olympic Trials Marathon. At that point, I was a 17 year old high school senior with a brand new 18’30 5k PR.
In retrospect, it seems impossible. 18 minute high school runners do not become 2h16 marathoners. Heck even 15 minute college runners don’t become 2h16 marathoners. That’s what they say, at least.
It’s taken seven years. Seven years of work – consistent work. Chipping away at what was originally a giant boulder in my way until finally breaking through to a tiny patch of light on the other side.
But I’m not done. My goal has always been to find my own limits. And even after this race, I can still confidently say: “I CAN run faster.” So, I’m going to keep doing what I’ve been doing – keep chipping away at what’s in front of me and keep opening up that gap in the boulder. The only thing that’s changed is that I can now say for sure that I’ll be in Los Angeles on February 13, 2016 at the starting line of the US Olympic Marathon trials.
For now, though, I am done. I’m done with this season, this race, this cycle. But don’t worry – I’ll be back soon.
Full Kilometer Splits (taken from GPS watch)
1 (3’13.3)
2 (3’13.8) 6’27.1
3 (3’12.9) 9’40.0
4 (3’13.4) 12’53.4
5 (3’12.1) 16’05.5 (16’05.5)
6 (3’15.9) 19’21.4
7 (3’15.6) 22’37.0
8 (3’16.0) 25’53.0
9 (3’13.4) 29’06.4
10 (3’12.9) 32’19.3 (16’13.8)
11 (3’18.4) 35’37.7
12 (3’14.8) 38’52.5
13 (3’14.7) 42’07.2
14 (3’14.8) 45’22.0
15 (3’12.6) 48’34.6 (16’15.3)
16 (3’11.4) 51’46.0
17 (3’05.2) 54’51.2
18 (3’08.5) 57’59.7
19 (3’13.8) 1’01’13.5
20 (3’08.8) 1’04’22.3 (15’47.7)
21 (3’11.6) 1’07’33.9 (HM: 1’07’58)
22 (3’07.8) 1’10’41.7
23 (3’13.2) 1’13’54.9
24 (3’17.8) 1’17’12.7
25 (3’12.1) 1’20’24.8 (16’02.5)
26 (3’14.3) 1’23’39.1
27 (3’13.5) 1’26’52.6
28 (3’17.9) 1’30’10.5
29 (3’16.7) 1’33’27.2
30 (3’17.3) 1’36’44.5 (16’19.7)
31 (3’16.7) 1’40’01.2
32 (3’19.1) 1’43’20.3 (20M: 1’44’04)
33 (3’20.4) 1’46’40.7
34 (3’19.3) 1’50’00
35 (3’21.0) 1’53’21 (16’36.5)
36 (3’15.0) 1’56’36
37 (3’18.1) 1’59’54.1
38 (3’15.8) 2’03’09.9
39 (3’13.3) 2’06’23.2
40 (3’19.9) 2’09’43.1 (16’22.1)
41 (3’17.4) 2’13’00.5
42 (3’15.9) 2’16’16.4
42.25 (0’42.7) 2’16’59.1 (Second HM: 1’09’01)
Amazing race! I can only imagine the feeling of crossing that line!!!
Thanks, James! It was quite a feeling and I still don’t think I’ve fully been able to capture it in words.
All I know is it’s a good feeling – keep chasing it!