1) A startled cardinal alighting indignantly the street, flicking his tail in reproach as I walk down the driveway to start
2) A leopard slug creeping inevitably across the sidewalk, plenty large enough to be spotted and dodged, leaving a trail that will shine later in the sun
3) The red foxy-fox rustled out of the marsh, the tip of its luxurious tail a white spark as it hurries away, wary of my approach; it pauses to look back at me before disappearing in a heartbeat
4) A band of pink circling just above the horizon line, separating two shades of blue sky on these clear, cool-ish, and dry mornings
5) Distraught mallards frantically flapping into the water, every time I loop past them; their harried quacking and honking follows my back
6) This spring's goslings are now indistinguishable from the rest of the gaggle making a mess of the path, faithfully ignoring me unlike the volatile crew which colonized Paper Mill Park
7) Deer picking daintily in the grassy spaces below the rim of the lake, unaware (uncaring?) that they are actually in the middle of a residential plain
8) A woman doing intervals, igniting a competitive flare and necessitating a reminder to my legs that they are not out there to run fast today
9) Darkness under the trees on the connector trail, requiring a delicate touch so as not to wind up meeting the roots with my face, which I wipe repeatedly as I pass through web after invisible web
10) A rumble, then a roar, as the early freight train trundles through the heart of Newark below, its blaring siren an alarm clock for anyone living along its route
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Planning ahead for 2016
Because I'm playing optimistic about my recovery and what running I'm going to get to do this year, I've been looking at races to put on the calendar for the fall. I'm not going to do a full marathon (I am holding firm on that decision), but I see no reason not to run a half or two, or a ten-miler or two, or a 15K, or a 10K, or some 5Ks thrown in there too.
5Ks are a dime a dozen around here so I don't think I will plan this far in advance for any particular one, and see about adding those on the fly during the rest of the year.
10Ks are hard to come by on the local race calendar. I spotted one, in Wilmington on October 15 (Run for the Buds). There is one in Iowa City on October 16 (Run for the Schools). I have no idea what my vacation/travels to Iowa will be like later this year, but either way, it looks like I could plan on a 10K that weekend, whether in Delaware or in Iowa. If it works out and I am in Iowa City that weekend, I'd have to decide whether I want to do the 10K or the half. I might lean toward the 10K to see if I run a PR on the course where I set my PR in 2004; but I might like to improve on my Run for the Schools half-marathon time, too (1:40 on a very, very hot day in October 2007). It's much more likely I will not be in Iowa that weekend, though, so the Run for the Buds looks promising for a fall 10K.
10-milers abound this fall around here. The Bottle and Cork 10-miler in Dewey Beach, DE on September 10 could start off my fall distance racing season. The Cow Run in Salem, NJ is run through the rural NJ countryside on October 2; also on that date, there is the Caffe Gelato 10-miler in Newark, DE. The latter is not fully a road race, but rather tracks through part of White Clay Creek State Park (so, trail-ish). That's only a few miles down the way for me, but maybe I won't feel like running a race that might be necessarily a little slower than it could be due to the race surface. But maybe I won't feel like driving to rural NJ instead. Either way, there is a 10-miler to be run that weekend, if I want to fit one in a week ahead of another race I've got in my sights, a 15K in Delaware.
In 2012 I ran the Delaware Distance Classic 15K (when it was still in Wilmington) and I liked it, but ever since, it has fallen on a weekend not convenient to my fall marathons so I have not run the last three iterations. It has moved to Delaware City, but that's not very far away at all and while I have question marks next to all the "maybes" above, this one on October 9 is one I'm going to plan on running for sure.
There are a number of half-marathons in the vicinity this fall, including the Rock n Roll in Philly in September and the half associated with the Philadelphia Marathon in November, but I don't think I want to submit to 1) the largeness of the fields, particularly with the RnR race -- it's just too stupidly big at this point, and 2) having to decide pretty much now for sure that I'm going to register for them in order to not get shut out. Given my uncertainty about what is looking like an injury, I'm in no position to say that I am going to be FOR SURE running these half-marathons so I'm not going to pony up the $100 or whatever it will cost (ok, I just looked, the Philly half in November is $120, and "prices after June 30 are subject to increase." Cripes. That makes the RnR race sound cheap at $99 (right now).) Delaware has a handful on tap starting in October: a half associated with the Monster Mash marathon in Dover on 10/22, one along the C&D Canal near Delaware City on November 5th, and a half associated with the Rehoboth Beach Seashore marathon on December 3rd. I have put all three of these on my race card, the first and third with question marks; I don't know if I want to go all the way to Dover ("all the way", haha!) to run a half-marathon a week after I plan to have raced a 15K, and I don't know how I will feel about racing in potentially icky December weather in a seaside town. I have decided on planning to aim for the C&D Canal race. It's as flat as a course can get, and judging by last year's results, if I have even just a decent day, I should do some placing (last year's first woman ran 1:31, but second place was 1:42). Of course, speedier ladies could discover it this year, too, and make it more competitive, which would be a positive. November 5th is plenty long enough after the 15K and it can serve as my last race before turning 40.
My location is convenient not just to southeastern Pennsylvania and all of Delaware, but northeastern Maryland as well, so I will look at race calendars for MD and give anything promising a think, too. I like to travel to new places to race, but I think I might stick around a bit closer to home this fall and save my pennies for Boston weekend in 2017.
This all assumes I will recover in reasonable time from these lingering issues and can get back up to decent mileage and efforts, of course. But, as I said, I'm playing optimistic right now, if not so optimistic as to get out the credit card and put some of these decisions in stone!
5Ks are a dime a dozen around here so I don't think I will plan this far in advance for any particular one, and see about adding those on the fly during the rest of the year.
10Ks are hard to come by on the local race calendar. I spotted one, in Wilmington on October 15 (Run for the Buds). There is one in Iowa City on October 16 (Run for the Schools). I have no idea what my vacation/travels to Iowa will be like later this year, but either way, it looks like I could plan on a 10K that weekend, whether in Delaware or in Iowa. If it works out and I am in Iowa City that weekend, I'd have to decide whether I want to do the 10K or the half. I might lean toward the 10K to see if I run a PR on the course where I set my PR in 2004; but I might like to improve on my Run for the Schools half-marathon time, too (1:40 on a very, very hot day in October 2007). It's much more likely I will not be in Iowa that weekend, though, so the Run for the Buds looks promising for a fall 10K.
10-milers abound this fall around here. The Bottle and Cork 10-miler in Dewey Beach, DE on September 10 could start off my fall distance racing season. The Cow Run in Salem, NJ is run through the rural NJ countryside on October 2; also on that date, there is the Caffe Gelato 10-miler in Newark, DE. The latter is not fully a road race, but rather tracks through part of White Clay Creek State Park (so, trail-ish). That's only a few miles down the way for me, but maybe I won't feel like running a race that might be necessarily a little slower than it could be due to the race surface. But maybe I won't feel like driving to rural NJ instead. Either way, there is a 10-miler to be run that weekend, if I want to fit one in a week ahead of another race I've got in my sights, a 15K in Delaware.
In 2012 I ran the Delaware Distance Classic 15K (when it was still in Wilmington) and I liked it, but ever since, it has fallen on a weekend not convenient to my fall marathons so I have not run the last three iterations. It has moved to Delaware City, but that's not very far away at all and while I have question marks next to all the "maybes" above, this one on October 9 is one I'm going to plan on running for sure.
There are a number of half-marathons in the vicinity this fall, including the Rock n Roll in Philly in September and the half associated with the Philadelphia Marathon in November, but I don't think I want to submit to 1) the largeness of the fields, particularly with the RnR race -- it's just too stupidly big at this point, and 2) having to decide pretty much now for sure that I'm going to register for them in order to not get shut out. Given my uncertainty about what is looking like an injury, I'm in no position to say that I am going to be FOR SURE running these half-marathons so I'm not going to pony up the $100 or whatever it will cost (ok, I just looked, the Philly half in November is $120, and "prices after June 30 are subject to increase." Cripes. That makes the RnR race sound cheap at $99 (right now).) Delaware has a handful on tap starting in October: a half associated with the Monster Mash marathon in Dover on 10/22, one along the C&D Canal near Delaware City on November 5th, and a half associated with the Rehoboth Beach Seashore marathon on December 3rd. I have put all three of these on my race card, the first and third with question marks; I don't know if I want to go all the way to Dover ("all the way", haha!) to run a half-marathon a week after I plan to have raced a 15K, and I don't know how I will feel about racing in potentially icky December weather in a seaside town. I have decided on planning to aim for the C&D Canal race. It's as flat as a course can get, and judging by last year's results, if I have even just a decent day, I should do some placing (last year's first woman ran 1:31, but second place was 1:42). Of course, speedier ladies could discover it this year, too, and make it more competitive, which would be a positive. November 5th is plenty long enough after the 15K and it can serve as my last race before turning 40.
My location is convenient not just to southeastern Pennsylvania and all of Delaware, but northeastern Maryland as well, so I will look at race calendars for MD and give anything promising a think, too. I like to travel to new places to race, but I think I might stick around a bit closer to home this fall and save my pennies for Boston weekend in 2017.
This all assumes I will recover in reasonable time from these lingering issues and can get back up to decent mileage and efforts, of course. But, as I said, I'm playing optimistic right now, if not so optimistic as to get out the credit card and put some of these decisions in stone!
Back at it
I spent three weeks not running after being broiled in Vermont. I usually take at least a week, usually two, but I had some nagging aches and sorenesses that I thought I'd give an extra week to recover -- most concerning was the lower abdomen muscle situation that never really kept me from doing what I had to do (except once), but also that hamstring/leg cramp that happened during the race on top of the usual marathon-induced aches and weakness. I'm usually chomping at the bit to get back on the road after the first week, but this time, I rather relished the first two of the rest weeks, sleeping in to 6 a.m. and changing right into comfy clothes upon arriving home after work, taking time to enjoy my other hobbies. I had to be more disciplined during the third week, telling myself it was better to give it all just one more week at least. I traveled to Iowa during the third week and it felt peculiar not to fill up half the suitcase with running clothes, and to not spend an hour each day traversing the east side, but I obeyed my rest plan.
I did go biking three times during those three weeks -- twice road biking (~20 miles each time) and once mountain biking, which was a lot of fun as I had not been on my Rumor since early last fall. (I hadn't been road biking since early last fall, either, but while I enjoy that pursuit, it's not "fun" in the way mountain biking is.) The first road bike outing was a week after VCM, and at the end, my legs felt very like noodles. I had thought I might like to mountain bike the next day, but my legs were not having it. The next weekend, I hit the trails on the 29er and my legs were less noodly, which was encouraging. Road biking the next day, my legs were more or less fine. I didn't feel any of the aches and soreness that I'd ended the spring's running with.
I thought about taking one more week off running, but from an emotional standpoint, I was ready to run again, and my aches and soreness hadn't bugged me while living my life, so I was willing to test that out too. I set my alarm for 5 a.m. Monday, but my internal clock was on Central Daylight Time, so when 5 a.m. came, it felt way too much like 4 a.m., and I bailed. Instead, I ran after work, which wasn't optimal because it was in the upper 80s, but I wasn't going to be running hard and I thought I'd enjoy a trail run for the first time in a month so I'd be out of the sun. I got home, laced up my Peregrine 5, and headed out.
Almost immediately, the lower abdomen/groin discomfort flared up. Not so as I couldn't run through it, but it was discouraging. Three weeks of rest did nothing to calm that down, it would seem. I ran about an hour, feeling it in the background the whole way. I thought that because I'd run with it for quite some time at the end of the training schedule this spring, how much more could it hurt it to run tonight? My right leg was OK, but not great or normal; I could feel that hamstring still.
I didn't run on Tuesday, because my legs were sore -- quads in particular, calves a little tired-feeling. I guess three weeks is plenty of time for your muscles to forget everything they'd only recently gone through. And not just muscles; I ran quite slow on the trails, but my heart rate was higher for the same pace than it ever was this spring. I thought I might be able to attribute it to the heat, but I ran this morning (70F and humid, not too bad, and so lovely around the reservoir) at a pace that would certainly be considered "easy" but 40-60 seconds slower than the corresponding heart rate would have allowed me to run only a month ago.
The lower abdomen/groin thing felt about the same as my quads did, which is to say not too bad, better than on Monday. The hamstring was OK this morning too, less noticeable. I will run again tomorrow and see how it goes. I feel I am trying to be overly optimistic about the lower abdomen, but that's only because I don't want to sink immediately to doom and gloom conclusions (though that is what I really fear, deep down). I have an appointment with a doctor on July 13 to discuss this discomfort. I made this appointment a couple weeks go. It was the soonest I could get in. Ridiculous.
I did go biking three times during those three weeks -- twice road biking (~20 miles each time) and once mountain biking, which was a lot of fun as I had not been on my Rumor since early last fall. (I hadn't been road biking since early last fall, either, but while I enjoy that pursuit, it's not "fun" in the way mountain biking is.) The first road bike outing was a week after VCM, and at the end, my legs felt very like noodles. I had thought I might like to mountain bike the next day, but my legs were not having it. The next weekend, I hit the trails on the 29er and my legs were less noodly, which was encouraging. Road biking the next day, my legs were more or less fine. I didn't feel any of the aches and soreness that I'd ended the spring's running with.
I thought about taking one more week off running, but from an emotional standpoint, I was ready to run again, and my aches and soreness hadn't bugged me while living my life, so I was willing to test that out too. I set my alarm for 5 a.m. Monday, but my internal clock was on Central Daylight Time, so when 5 a.m. came, it felt way too much like 4 a.m., and I bailed. Instead, I ran after work, which wasn't optimal because it was in the upper 80s, but I wasn't going to be running hard and I thought I'd enjoy a trail run for the first time in a month so I'd be out of the sun. I got home, laced up my Peregrine 5, and headed out.
Almost immediately, the lower abdomen/groin discomfort flared up. Not so as I couldn't run through it, but it was discouraging. Three weeks of rest did nothing to calm that down, it would seem. I ran about an hour, feeling it in the background the whole way. I thought that because I'd run with it for quite some time at the end of the training schedule this spring, how much more could it hurt it to run tonight? My right leg was OK, but not great or normal; I could feel that hamstring still.
I didn't run on Tuesday, because my legs were sore -- quads in particular, calves a little tired-feeling. I guess three weeks is plenty of time for your muscles to forget everything they'd only recently gone through. And not just muscles; I ran quite slow on the trails, but my heart rate was higher for the same pace than it ever was this spring. I thought I might be able to attribute it to the heat, but I ran this morning (70F and humid, not too bad, and so lovely around the reservoir) at a pace that would certainly be considered "easy" but 40-60 seconds slower than the corresponding heart rate would have allowed me to run only a month ago.
The lower abdomen/groin thing felt about the same as my quads did, which is to say not too bad, better than on Monday. The hamstring was OK this morning too, less noticeable. I will run again tomorrow and see how it goes. I feel I am trying to be overly optimistic about the lower abdomen, but that's only because I don't want to sink immediately to doom and gloom conclusions (though that is what I really fear, deep down). I have an appointment with a doctor on July 13 to discuss this discomfort. I made this appointment a couple weeks go. It was the soonest I could get in. Ridiculous.
Saturday, June 11, 2016
Something something about the heat being on -- Vermont City Marathon, 2016
Knowing that the weather was going to be hot, no two ways about it, there was always the option of choosing not to run, and given my experience at Boston in 2012, that would probably be the most sensible option, but I had already paid: for the race, for the hotel, for the trip, never mind the price in miles over the last five months. Even if I would have to run slower than I’d hoped, the work I’d done in training, along with smarter execution, should allow me to finish reasonably (and certainly much, much better than the infernal 2012 Boston). This summer weather disappointed me even before the race began, but I couldn’t just pull the plug. I was going to do this race. Saturday night, I laid out my uniform: pale green singlet instead of the bright hot reddish-pink one (so as to not draw as little attention from the sun as possible), the dark blue Nike Epic Lux shorts that have three pockets (to carry my gels). Usually the nerves get started while I do this, but this time I felt only misgivings. I really should not run, I thought. I’m not going to run well and I will probably only end up doing damage.
But we came all this way, and I still hoped I might be able to leverage some intelligence into a half-decent time, if nowhere near the PR I’d hoped to take a shot at. And I could still hope it might be cloudy, right? 80s and overcast is not as bad as 80s and sunny. I tried to drink water every time I thought about it all day Saturday, all evening, and whenever I woke in the night, so that I could start from a full tank, hydration-wise. It made for an interrupted overnight, but I’d rather wake up several times to pee being well-hydrated than sleep soundly and wake up in the hole on that front. I never sleep soundly on race eve anyway, so might as well be getting something out of it.
Morning came muggy and sunny. No wishes had been granted. The sun would be out for the worst of it all.
I ate my oatmeal, wondering if it might be better next time to practice eating a cold breakfast instead of a hot one, just in case race day comes up steaming. I showered, I dressed, I looked out the window at runners leaving for Battery Park well before 7 a.m. Why would you do that? Why make yourself stand out in the heat any longer than absolutely necessary? It was in the 70s already at 7 a.m.! We did not leave the hotel until around 7:30, which was the latest possible. We had two blocks to walk to Battery Street, then up that bear of a hill about four blocks to the park at the top, where the start waited. In 2014, I wore a light jacket when B and I walked over, from a closer hotel, and while I didn’t wear it for long, at least it had been cool enough to have on for those first few minutes outside. This year, I was sorry to have even put on the singlet, and thought briefly about abandoning it and pinning my bib to the front of my sports bra. I decided it would be better to have my torso’s skin covered if it was going to be super sunny, so I left the shirt on. After a little tarrying and photography in the crowded Battery Park (half a thought to use a portapotty though I did not at all feel it was necessary, just wanting to out of habit, the lines deterring me from even that), I said good-bye to B and his parents with plans on seeing them by the hotel, which was between miles 9 and 10, if not before.
I walked up the street in front of the starting line toward the preferred corral, thanks to my 2014 Caesar Rodney time, and slipped in between a few rows of scantily clad men (and a few women) to position myself for the start. I thought about this year’s Caesar Rodney, how cold and horrid it had been, but that little trick of psychology didn’t help. The sun was on us, and already-hot bodies were all around me. Another woman slipped in to stand next to me; I could see from her bib that her name was also Courtney. She turned to me and wished me good-luck; I said the same, and told her that is my name too (though my bib indicated me as CRUSHER). I don’t know why people always enjoy finding others who share a name, but it added a little pleasantness to a moment I was otherwise only feeling sorry for myself. This was going to be awful. It was at least 75 when they finally started the race a little after 8:00 a.m., and not a dry 75 – at least Boston 2012 had not been humid. We were not going to get even that small fortune this day.
For the first four miles, I could not control my legs. I tried, honestly. I know how stupid that sounds; obviously I am in control of my body, so how could I not just slow them down if I wanted to? I tried. I looked at my watch and knew I was going too fast when it read anything less than 7:45 (even 7:45 would probably have been too fast); I would hit the brakes and back off, but then I’d look down and see I was cruising at 7:30 or even 7:2X again.
1 7:38.6
2 7:24.5
3 7:43.4
4 7:34.9
You’re going too fast, you idiot! Get a grip! But this portion had some downhill, and I was streaming along with a large host of others with cheering fans lining the way, so I got carried away in spite of my repeated attempts to rein my legs in. I repeatedly failed. My legs were just going to run whatever the hell they wanted to run, I guess.
Between miles 4 and 8, the route heads out on a divided highway (VT127, past the Ethan Allen homestead) that is shut down on race day. There is essentially no cover on this stretch – though I do recall toward its farther reach that it dipped close enough to trees along the side to afford some shade, however brief and relatively ineffectual. I finally got a grip on pace during this out and back, partly due to willpower but mainly due to physiological responses. There had been a water stop between miles 2 and 3, but not another until a little past mile 4 – by the time I came upon that one, it felt too late. I had been praying to see it come into view well before it finally did; I was thirsty. Not desperately so, but too thirsty for comfort. There was another one about a mile on down, and I was thirsty again when I hit that one. These conditions were ugly.
Where I had been running foolishly well under 8:00/mile for the first four, I finally got down to 8:00 and change during this out-and-back. I took a gel around the water stop between 6-7; ugh. The sticky Gu was unpleasant. Coming back into town from the highway, the course ran up a short but difficult hill; as the route leveled out again thereafter, I considered my condition. I did not feel terrible, but I certainly felt a long way from where you’d hope to feel as you complete the first third of the distance. As we headed back through downtown, I told myself it was only going to get exponentially worse – I knew it would, I had experience with that – and advised myself that it would be OK to drop out and spare myself a terrible time and the accompanying misery. No one would judge me negatively for doing something that, honestly, was eminently sensible. But quitting really is a last resort, and I did not feel that I gotten to last resort territory yet.
I suggested to myself that I would reassess closer to the hotel in a mile or two; if I were going to drop out, it would be easier to do it where I could easily find B and his parents, and quickly escape into a cool hotel room. And by the time we raced through downtown again, and turned the corner to head down Main Street toward Pine (the intersection at which the hotel lies), I felt somewhat improved, and so passed by my personal supporters with a wave and as much of a smile as I could put on my face.
Mile 10 came and went (7:42, thanks to some downhill). I had been running for just shy of 80 minutes, which was not all that shabby; but I could not feel very good about it, because I could feel the weather taking its toll one sweat bead at a time, and the stretch between 10 and 11 was a lot in the sun again. Finally we curved through a residential neighborhood with some tree cover, and it was here that the 3:30 pace group caught up to me. They did not overtake me with gusto, instead easing up and only getting ahead inch by inch, in part because I could not prevent myself from reacting to the spurt of adrenaline that said “Crusher, you do not want to finish over 3:30, maybe you can stay with these guys.” But around mile 12, they had crept farther and farther away, and I finally had to admit that while I could probably let my legs go and stay with them a while longer, it would only be a matter of time before they dropped me again and dropped me hard, leaving me to pay an even steeper price in the end for having tried. It was exceedingly disappointing to accept this and to let that bobbing 3:30 sign go.
I took another gel around the half, where the race course nears the lake. There was a bit of a breeze in this area, which only took the slightest edge off the sweltering heat. I thought to myself that I had less than two hours of running left to do, which wasn’t that bad, was it? Or would it be most rational of me to drop out, cede the fight in submission to the heat, and retreat? Again, I decided I would make that call when I came across B and his parents again; I expected to see them somewhere along Battery, either on the approach to the long hill or somewhere on it, so not too far into the future. The gel helped, and when I passed them at the bottom of the hill, I was feeling decent enough to forge onward.
The hill was tough. It was always going to be tough – it was in 2014 when it wasn’t quite as hot, it would have been even had it been cooler, simply because of its steepness and its length and its location in the race. I was doing OK though pace-wise – still in the 8:00s, that hill’s mile coming through at 8:37. I would get another decent two miles in (if we’re only considering pace, and not the fact that I did not feel decent) before the wheels started wobbling. After the hill on Battery, the course runs along what is probably a very busy road on normal days, with little cover again. It is long and straight, with undulations; you can see the string of runners along the curb for what seems like miles and miles ahead of you. I knew the course turned off this road into a side neighborhood at some point, but it started to feel like I was never going to get there. Somehow, this road kept lengthening itself between me and that turnoff. I grabbed ice for the first time along this road; I rubbed it all over my shoulders, my face, my neck, my head, and put the last small piece in my mouth. That was quite nice.
Before I begin to detail the excruciating crumble that I began to undergo starting between miles 18 and 19, I want to write a little bit about the spectators and fans. Except for that out-and-back along the highway, spectator support is nearly constant, and very regular on the course. Downtown it’s solid, of course, but in the neighborhoods, most houses had people out watching and cheering. (One lady made a dash across the runner-strewn road, precariously carrying a large and extremely fragrant pie. Many neighbors seemed to make race-spectating a party situation.) This year, many of those spectators had their own water stops, or offered ice, fruit, and other items to soothe the hot runners passing by. The race had official sprinklers and misters out after mile 10, but too many spectators to count had their own sprinklers and hoses out, as well. I ducked under countless sprays, which would give a brief but welcome blast of coolness; I’d wipe the droplets on my arms to spread them out for a quick shot of cooling evaporation before it just turned to warm sweatiness again. Fortunately my shoes never got over-wet, but my sunglasses did get spotty, which was moderately annoying to look through mile after mile. (I made the mistake, after one particularly sprinkly sprinkler, of trying to wipe them on the edge of my singlet. That only succeeded in smearing the lenses, and I spent the last 7 or so miles seeing through half a haze. At least, I think I can blame the haze on the sunglasses and not my deteriorating state.) I did not take but maybe one spectator’s water cups, as in the last half of the race, official aid stations were numerous enough, but I did scoop ice on several occasions and once, a moment of utter bliss: a man handed me a sponge that had been soaking in ice water, and I squashed it hard on the top of my head. I had expected coolness, of course; but I was not prepared for the bracing shock of that ice water streaming over the top of my head, down my face and neck, across my shoulders. It was momentary ecstasy. I wish I could go back and thank that man personally. It was only seconds before the sweaty heat overcame the ice water again, but my spirits were lifted for a little while thereafter.
And aside from the sustenance, the crowd were vocally supportive all along the course. I approve of the trend of putting names on bibs as well as numbers; having CRUSHER on mine made it feel like I had hundreds of friends along the roadside watching and cheering for me. Strangers yelling “LET’S GO CRUSHER, YOU CAN CRUSH IT!” and similar is very uplifting as well, even when I know I don’t actually know those people yelling it. And I appreciated it even in the later stages, when I could no longer believe them when they shouted “LOOKING GREAT, CRUSHER!” No, I certainly did not (I have seen the photographic proof), but thank you all for your positivity regardless.
Out of that neighborhood loop, back onto the long busy road for a short while. I knew we’d turn off again at some point, and didn’t it have to be soon? Weren’t we going to head to the bike path and start toward the end, soon? How could we not even be to mile 20 yet? The heat’s claws were working their wickedness; I dropped to slower than 9:00 for mile 20 and hope of anything faster became a foggy, forgotten dream. My right leg started to fall apart – my hamstring began to tighten, a sensation that wrapped itself around my upper leg and into my glute, down to my knee. Is this cramping? I wondered. Can I run through it for the next six miles? Then the thing happened where I was desperate to guzzle every cup of water at the aid stations (coming at least every mile now), but I could only take a couple sips because when it hit my stomach, it hurt. Gatorade was worse.
It was the same feeling that eventually forced me out of Boston in 2014. (In 2012, I had cratered well before this point; I felt sick, among several other disastrous developments, but have no memory of whether drinking water made it worse or not.) I couldn’t allow myself to pass by the water, however, because I was thirsty. It seemed like I could feel all those sips sitting in my stomach, not being absorbed, and after mile 21, I began to experience waves of nausea. They rolled in and out, and while the leg issue seemed to dull after a couple miles, I reached a point where I finally succumbed to the nausea and had to walk. By “succumb” I do not mean to say I threw up, though sometimes I thought I might just feel better if I did – get rid of that unabsorbed water and Gatorade hurting my stomach – but I was desperate not to be that person pulling off to the side of the path to hurl, so I gave up and walked until it eased. Over the last 4 or so miles, I mixed walking and running. I would run for a couple minutes until the nausea swelled again, at which time I’d step off the path to walk for a couple more minutes. After going through mile 22 in 9:29, the final four tick off a litany of awful, humiliating splits:
23 11:04
24 10:21
25 10:40
26 11:36
Yes. I walked in the final mile. I did not want to -- it was too disgraceful -- but I did not have a choice. I tried to run it, but the shame I felt by not being able to even jog the whole last mile was superseded by my desire not to be overcome by the nausea, not this close, so I ran/walked until it eased. I was able to jog the final stretch, though. I recognized the line of rail cars as I approached the very loud finish area, and knew I was almost through this.
In moments, I was running between a chute of the crowd and I thought I heard B as I plodded on, desperate for that finish line; I could not even turn my head back to quickly check if it had been him. I had been running for miles with my chin down, struggling on, and I couldn't spare the energy to try to look. He forgave me. "You weren't looking like you were doing too good there." No, I really was not.
And then, at last; at long, long last; the turn off the pavement onto the grassy area and the final tens of meters to the finish. As I approached the finish line, my name boomed out over the loudspeakers. Yes, that’s me – I’m done, in more ways than the obvious. I felt awful – stomach sick, legs dying. I collected my medal on the other side of the finish, and all I wanted was to lie down and throw up, but I held both desires in check as I slowly moved my way through a hot, defeated crowd, trying to find my way out of the finish pen. I held a cold and wet bottle of water in one hand that I could barely twist open, and was lassoed by a photographer to fake a giant smile holding my medal in front of a VCM backdrop. YES! the photo says, I FINISHED AND I’M HAPPY ABOUT IT!
I was happy to be finished, but I wasn’t happy about the finish. My net time was 3:49. This is nearly thirty minutes slower than I wanted to run this spring; twenty minutes slower than what I would have considered the very upper limit of acceptable. The only thing I could tell myself that was positive was 1) it was still under 4 hours, because there had been a point when I had doubted I would even crack that disappointing mark, and 2) it was still a long, long way from being a personal worst.1
The crowded finish area amplified how awful I felt. I eventually broke free from the mob, and was walking gingerly through a parking lot when I realized that the place I needed to be to meet B and his parents was back on the grassy space I had left; I felt beaten down by that realization. I really had only so very little much left in my legs and system, and I was going to need it all just to make it back to the hotel; here I had expended more than you might have guessed going the wrong way. I honestly did wonder if I would be able to get back to the hotel on my own accord. Nevertheless, I had to find B before making that call; they would never find me over here if I collapsed. I crept back to that madhouse of a grassy area, almost dazedly heading toward the flags with initials on them, the family meeting area; suddenly B was there, his parents were there, and I could safely lie in the grass and not worry that my people were worrying about where I was.
In 2012, I should absolutely, hands-down, have gone to a medical tent at the conclusion of the race. I did not feel quite as shredded this year as I did then, because while I had not run exactly smart this day, I did not run as abjectly stupidly as I had in Boston – and was not so clearly and obviously destroyed, so I did not feel I needed to go to a medical tent. Should I be so foolish as to run another marathon when it’s above 80F, I will simply disregard any thought that I have no need to a medical tent; I probably do. With clarity of hindsight, I realize I should certainly have done so; it might not have been the worst, but I was in bad, bad shape, and an IV would likely have made a world of difference. Instead, I laid on the grass, letting that vague nausea wash up and over and away again, before heaving myself to my feet to creep the six blocks back to the hotel, expecting I’d be OK once I just got back, took a shower, and was able to cool off for a while. (Though I tried to keep up drinking water at regular intervals throughout the following days after this race, I fought the effects of dehydration for at least a week.)
It had gotten to the upper 80s, very nearly 90, and it was humid. In a cruel twist, the sky had begun to cloud over – during the time I had been on the bike path, under tree cover. By then, I don’t think it mattered much – the temperature was already too high and combined with the mugginess was probably stronger than any benefit of cloud cover. In fact, shortly after I had finished my race, the directors, using the Wet Bulb Globe Temperature that takes all these weather conditions into account, decided the conditions were too extreme to continue and canceled the rest of it.
There was controversy about this, of course, though I only read about it online later. Anyone who came across the finish line up to a time of 4:30 was given an official result (due to their probable location on the bike path at the time of cancellation, inability to access them with shuttle buses, etc.) but anyone else was meant to stop and hitch a ride back. Some people ignored the orders, and were upset that they didn’t get a finish time, but the race directors stood by their decisions, which they explained in detail. At times later in the race, I wasn’t sure if I would break 4 hours, but I knew I was well ahead of 4:30 barring an absolute disaster – in which case, I would have bailed, on my own, anyway – I'm glad I didn’t have to deal with obeying orders and sucking up that disappointment on top of everything else.
I had to pause several times on the way back to the hotel. Half a block from the hotel, seated on the front stoop of an office building, I looked up at B, who stood at my side (as he has for every marathon I’ve run while he’s been my boyfriend, except the one in Des Moines) and said “I am not running another marathon this year. Don’t let me try to change that decision.” Normally, I do not consider decisions made during a race or its immediate aftermath to be binding, but I think this time, it is appropriate. As disappointed as I am by the way this race turned out, after this arduous spring when I ran more miles than I ever had before in an equal time period, I cannot immediately turn around to give it another shot – the way I did in 2014 after I quit the Boston race and made up for it in Vermont. It’s too late in the season for a make-up marathon and besides, I went the whole distance this year; wouldn’t be good (AT ALL) for my legs to try to run another any time soon. I am just going to have to accept that sometimes, things just don’t go the way you’d planned them to, and that’s just how it’s going to have to be. I have a very nice qualifying time for Boston 2017 in my pocket – 3:24 is 20 minutes better than the qualifying time for what will be my new age group – so I do not need to worry about reaching that mark (because I certainly did not on Sunday May 29th). I will spend the rest of this year recovering, recharging, and getting ready to get ready for my master’s marathon debut in April 2017.
Also, the next time I face a marathon with temperatures in the 80s, I think I am now more likely to say thanks but no thanks. I’m not sure collecting a medal and being able to say I finished in such torturous conditions is really worth the physical (and psychological) cost.
To conclude this long race report, I want to thank the Vermont City Marathon team and volunteers for putting on such a well-organized race, and heartfelt thanks as well to the citizens of Burlington for making an inevitably miserable day slightly less so. (Special gratitude to the ice-water sponge man.) I don’t know if I will run this race again – I don’t know how many more marathons I have left in me, and I’m thinking I might avoid the late May risk of heat from now on – but I will always fervently recommend this race to anyone that asks; and B and I are already making plans to return to Burlington for non-running pursuits, because the town is so cool. (Even when it is so hot.)
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1When your personal worst is 4:18, it’s not a difficult feat to run poorly and still be well under that.
But we came all this way, and I still hoped I might be able to leverage some intelligence into a half-decent time, if nowhere near the PR I’d hoped to take a shot at. And I could still hope it might be cloudy, right? 80s and overcast is not as bad as 80s and sunny. I tried to drink water every time I thought about it all day Saturday, all evening, and whenever I woke in the night, so that I could start from a full tank, hydration-wise. It made for an interrupted overnight, but I’d rather wake up several times to pee being well-hydrated than sleep soundly and wake up in the hole on that front. I never sleep soundly on race eve anyway, so might as well be getting something out of it.
Morning came muggy and sunny. No wishes had been granted. The sun would be out for the worst of it all.
I ate my oatmeal, wondering if it might be better next time to practice eating a cold breakfast instead of a hot one, just in case race day comes up steaming. I showered, I dressed, I looked out the window at runners leaving for Battery Park well before 7 a.m. Why would you do that? Why make yourself stand out in the heat any longer than absolutely necessary? It was in the 70s already at 7 a.m.! We did not leave the hotel until around 7:30, which was the latest possible. We had two blocks to walk to Battery Street, then up that bear of a hill about four blocks to the park at the top, where the start waited. In 2014, I wore a light jacket when B and I walked over, from a closer hotel, and while I didn’t wear it for long, at least it had been cool enough to have on for those first few minutes outside. This year, I was sorry to have even put on the singlet, and thought briefly about abandoning it and pinning my bib to the front of my sports bra. I decided it would be better to have my torso’s skin covered if it was going to be super sunny, so I left the shirt on. After a little tarrying and photography in the crowded Battery Park (half a thought to use a portapotty though I did not at all feel it was necessary, just wanting to out of habit, the lines deterring me from even that), I said good-bye to B and his parents with plans on seeing them by the hotel, which was between miles 9 and 10, if not before.
I walked up the street in front of the starting line toward the preferred corral, thanks to my 2014 Caesar Rodney time, and slipped in between a few rows of scantily clad men (and a few women) to position myself for the start. I thought about this year’s Caesar Rodney, how cold and horrid it had been, but that little trick of psychology didn’t help. The sun was on us, and already-hot bodies were all around me. Another woman slipped in to stand next to me; I could see from her bib that her name was also Courtney. She turned to me and wished me good-luck; I said the same, and told her that is my name too (though my bib indicated me as CRUSHER). I don’t know why people always enjoy finding others who share a name, but it added a little pleasantness to a moment I was otherwise only feeling sorry for myself. This was going to be awful. It was at least 75 when they finally started the race a little after 8:00 a.m., and not a dry 75 – at least Boston 2012 had not been humid. We were not going to get even that small fortune this day.
For the first four miles, I could not control my legs. I tried, honestly. I know how stupid that sounds; obviously I am in control of my body, so how could I not just slow them down if I wanted to? I tried. I looked at my watch and knew I was going too fast when it read anything less than 7:45 (even 7:45 would probably have been too fast); I would hit the brakes and back off, but then I’d look down and see I was cruising at 7:30 or even 7:2X again.
1 7:38.6
2 7:24.5
3 7:43.4
4 7:34.9
You’re going too fast, you idiot! Get a grip! But this portion had some downhill, and I was streaming along with a large host of others with cheering fans lining the way, so I got carried away in spite of my repeated attempts to rein my legs in. I repeatedly failed. My legs were just going to run whatever the hell they wanted to run, I guess.
Between miles 4 and 8, the route heads out on a divided highway (VT127, past the Ethan Allen homestead) that is shut down on race day. There is essentially no cover on this stretch – though I do recall toward its farther reach that it dipped close enough to trees along the side to afford some shade, however brief and relatively ineffectual. I finally got a grip on pace during this out and back, partly due to willpower but mainly due to physiological responses. There had been a water stop between miles 2 and 3, but not another until a little past mile 4 – by the time I came upon that one, it felt too late. I had been praying to see it come into view well before it finally did; I was thirsty. Not desperately so, but too thirsty for comfort. There was another one about a mile on down, and I was thirsty again when I hit that one. These conditions were ugly.
Where I had been running foolishly well under 8:00/mile for the first four, I finally got down to 8:00 and change during this out-and-back. I took a gel around the water stop between 6-7; ugh. The sticky Gu was unpleasant. Coming back into town from the highway, the course ran up a short but difficult hill; as the route leveled out again thereafter, I considered my condition. I did not feel terrible, but I certainly felt a long way from where you’d hope to feel as you complete the first third of the distance. As we headed back through downtown, I told myself it was only going to get exponentially worse – I knew it would, I had experience with that – and advised myself that it would be OK to drop out and spare myself a terrible time and the accompanying misery. No one would judge me negatively for doing something that, honestly, was eminently sensible. But quitting really is a last resort, and I did not feel that I gotten to last resort territory yet.
I suggested to myself that I would reassess closer to the hotel in a mile or two; if I were going to drop out, it would be easier to do it where I could easily find B and his parents, and quickly escape into a cool hotel room. And by the time we raced through downtown again, and turned the corner to head down Main Street toward Pine (the intersection at which the hotel lies), I felt somewhat improved, and so passed by my personal supporters with a wave and as much of a smile as I could put on my face.
Mile 10 came and went (7:42, thanks to some downhill). I had been running for just shy of 80 minutes, which was not all that shabby; but I could not feel very good about it, because I could feel the weather taking its toll one sweat bead at a time, and the stretch between 10 and 11 was a lot in the sun again. Finally we curved through a residential neighborhood with some tree cover, and it was here that the 3:30 pace group caught up to me. They did not overtake me with gusto, instead easing up and only getting ahead inch by inch, in part because I could not prevent myself from reacting to the spurt of adrenaline that said “Crusher, you do not want to finish over 3:30, maybe you can stay with these guys.” But around mile 12, they had crept farther and farther away, and I finally had to admit that while I could probably let my legs go and stay with them a while longer, it would only be a matter of time before they dropped me again and dropped me hard, leaving me to pay an even steeper price in the end for having tried. It was exceedingly disappointing to accept this and to let that bobbing 3:30 sign go.
I took another gel around the half, where the race course nears the lake. There was a bit of a breeze in this area, which only took the slightest edge off the sweltering heat. I thought to myself that I had less than two hours of running left to do, which wasn’t that bad, was it? Or would it be most rational of me to drop out, cede the fight in submission to the heat, and retreat? Again, I decided I would make that call when I came across B and his parents again; I expected to see them somewhere along Battery, either on the approach to the long hill or somewhere on it, so not too far into the future. The gel helped, and when I passed them at the bottom of the hill, I was feeling decent enough to forge onward.
The hill was tough. It was always going to be tough – it was in 2014 when it wasn’t quite as hot, it would have been even had it been cooler, simply because of its steepness and its length and its location in the race. I was doing OK though pace-wise – still in the 8:00s, that hill’s mile coming through at 8:37. I would get another decent two miles in (if we’re only considering pace, and not the fact that I did not feel decent) before the wheels started wobbling. After the hill on Battery, the course runs along what is probably a very busy road on normal days, with little cover again. It is long and straight, with undulations; you can see the string of runners along the curb for what seems like miles and miles ahead of you. I knew the course turned off this road into a side neighborhood at some point, but it started to feel like I was never going to get there. Somehow, this road kept lengthening itself between me and that turnoff. I grabbed ice for the first time along this road; I rubbed it all over my shoulders, my face, my neck, my head, and put the last small piece in my mouth. That was quite nice.
Before I begin to detail the excruciating crumble that I began to undergo starting between miles 18 and 19, I want to write a little bit about the spectators and fans. Except for that out-and-back along the highway, spectator support is nearly constant, and very regular on the course. Downtown it’s solid, of course, but in the neighborhoods, most houses had people out watching and cheering. (One lady made a dash across the runner-strewn road, precariously carrying a large and extremely fragrant pie. Many neighbors seemed to make race-spectating a party situation.) This year, many of those spectators had their own water stops, or offered ice, fruit, and other items to soothe the hot runners passing by. The race had official sprinklers and misters out after mile 10, but too many spectators to count had their own sprinklers and hoses out, as well. I ducked under countless sprays, which would give a brief but welcome blast of coolness; I’d wipe the droplets on my arms to spread them out for a quick shot of cooling evaporation before it just turned to warm sweatiness again. Fortunately my shoes never got over-wet, but my sunglasses did get spotty, which was moderately annoying to look through mile after mile. (I made the mistake, after one particularly sprinkly sprinkler, of trying to wipe them on the edge of my singlet. That only succeeded in smearing the lenses, and I spent the last 7 or so miles seeing through half a haze. At least, I think I can blame the haze on the sunglasses and not my deteriorating state.) I did not take but maybe one spectator’s water cups, as in the last half of the race, official aid stations were numerous enough, but I did scoop ice on several occasions and once, a moment of utter bliss: a man handed me a sponge that had been soaking in ice water, and I squashed it hard on the top of my head. I had expected coolness, of course; but I was not prepared for the bracing shock of that ice water streaming over the top of my head, down my face and neck, across my shoulders. It was momentary ecstasy. I wish I could go back and thank that man personally. It was only seconds before the sweaty heat overcame the ice water again, but my spirits were lifted for a little while thereafter.
And aside from the sustenance, the crowd were vocally supportive all along the course. I approve of the trend of putting names on bibs as well as numbers; having CRUSHER on mine made it feel like I had hundreds of friends along the roadside watching and cheering for me. Strangers yelling “LET’S GO CRUSHER, YOU CAN CRUSH IT!” and similar is very uplifting as well, even when I know I don’t actually know those people yelling it. And I appreciated it even in the later stages, when I could no longer believe them when they shouted “LOOKING GREAT, CRUSHER!” No, I certainly did not (I have seen the photographic proof), but thank you all for your positivity regardless.
Out of that neighborhood loop, back onto the long busy road for a short while. I knew we’d turn off again at some point, and didn’t it have to be soon? Weren’t we going to head to the bike path and start toward the end, soon? How could we not even be to mile 20 yet? The heat’s claws were working their wickedness; I dropped to slower than 9:00 for mile 20 and hope of anything faster became a foggy, forgotten dream. My right leg started to fall apart – my hamstring began to tighten, a sensation that wrapped itself around my upper leg and into my glute, down to my knee. Is this cramping? I wondered. Can I run through it for the next six miles? Then the thing happened where I was desperate to guzzle every cup of water at the aid stations (coming at least every mile now), but I could only take a couple sips because when it hit my stomach, it hurt. Gatorade was worse.
It was the same feeling that eventually forced me out of Boston in 2014. (In 2012, I had cratered well before this point; I felt sick, among several other disastrous developments, but have no memory of whether drinking water made it worse or not.) I couldn’t allow myself to pass by the water, however, because I was thirsty. It seemed like I could feel all those sips sitting in my stomach, not being absorbed, and after mile 21, I began to experience waves of nausea. They rolled in and out, and while the leg issue seemed to dull after a couple miles, I reached a point where I finally succumbed to the nausea and had to walk. By “succumb” I do not mean to say I threw up, though sometimes I thought I might just feel better if I did – get rid of that unabsorbed water and Gatorade hurting my stomach – but I was desperate not to be that person pulling off to the side of the path to hurl, so I gave up and walked until it eased. Over the last 4 or so miles, I mixed walking and running. I would run for a couple minutes until the nausea swelled again, at which time I’d step off the path to walk for a couple more minutes. After going through mile 22 in 9:29, the final four tick off a litany of awful, humiliating splits:
23 11:04
24 10:21
25 10:40
26 11:36
Yes. I walked in the final mile. I did not want to -- it was too disgraceful -- but I did not have a choice. I tried to run it, but the shame I felt by not being able to even jog the whole last mile was superseded by my desire not to be overcome by the nausea, not this close, so I ran/walked until it eased. I was able to jog the final stretch, though. I recognized the line of rail cars as I approached the very loud finish area, and knew I was almost through this.
In moments, I was running between a chute of the crowd and I thought I heard B as I plodded on, desperate for that finish line; I could not even turn my head back to quickly check if it had been him. I had been running for miles with my chin down, struggling on, and I couldn't spare the energy to try to look. He forgave me. "You weren't looking like you were doing too good there." No, I really was not.
And then, at last; at long, long last; the turn off the pavement onto the grassy area and the final tens of meters to the finish. As I approached the finish line, my name boomed out over the loudspeakers. Yes, that’s me – I’m done, in more ways than the obvious. I felt awful – stomach sick, legs dying. I collected my medal on the other side of the finish, and all I wanted was to lie down and throw up, but I held both desires in check as I slowly moved my way through a hot, defeated crowd, trying to find my way out of the finish pen. I held a cold and wet bottle of water in one hand that I could barely twist open, and was lassoed by a photographer to fake a giant smile holding my medal in front of a VCM backdrop. YES! the photo says, I FINISHED AND I’M HAPPY ABOUT IT!
I was happy to be finished, but I wasn’t happy about the finish. My net time was 3:49. This is nearly thirty minutes slower than I wanted to run this spring; twenty minutes slower than what I would have considered the very upper limit of acceptable. The only thing I could tell myself that was positive was 1) it was still under 4 hours, because there had been a point when I had doubted I would even crack that disappointing mark, and 2) it was still a long, long way from being a personal worst.1
The crowded finish area amplified how awful I felt. I eventually broke free from the mob, and was walking gingerly through a parking lot when I realized that the place I needed to be to meet B and his parents was back on the grassy space I had left; I felt beaten down by that realization. I really had only so very little much left in my legs and system, and I was going to need it all just to make it back to the hotel; here I had expended more than you might have guessed going the wrong way. I honestly did wonder if I would be able to get back to the hotel on my own accord. Nevertheless, I had to find B before making that call; they would never find me over here if I collapsed. I crept back to that madhouse of a grassy area, almost dazedly heading toward the flags with initials on them, the family meeting area; suddenly B was there, his parents were there, and I could safely lie in the grass and not worry that my people were worrying about where I was.
In 2012, I should absolutely, hands-down, have gone to a medical tent at the conclusion of the race. I did not feel quite as shredded this year as I did then, because while I had not run exactly smart this day, I did not run as abjectly stupidly as I had in Boston – and was not so clearly and obviously destroyed, so I did not feel I needed to go to a medical tent. Should I be so foolish as to run another marathon when it’s above 80F, I will simply disregard any thought that I have no need to a medical tent; I probably do. With clarity of hindsight, I realize I should certainly have done so; it might not have been the worst, but I was in bad, bad shape, and an IV would likely have made a world of difference. Instead, I laid on the grass, letting that vague nausea wash up and over and away again, before heaving myself to my feet to creep the six blocks back to the hotel, expecting I’d be OK once I just got back, took a shower, and was able to cool off for a while. (Though I tried to keep up drinking water at regular intervals throughout the following days after this race, I fought the effects of dehydration for at least a week.)
It had gotten to the upper 80s, very nearly 90, and it was humid. In a cruel twist, the sky had begun to cloud over – during the time I had been on the bike path, under tree cover. By then, I don’t think it mattered much – the temperature was already too high and combined with the mugginess was probably stronger than any benefit of cloud cover. In fact, shortly after I had finished my race, the directors, using the Wet Bulb Globe Temperature that takes all these weather conditions into account, decided the conditions were too extreme to continue and canceled the rest of it.
There was controversy about this, of course, though I only read about it online later. Anyone who came across the finish line up to a time of 4:30 was given an official result (due to their probable location on the bike path at the time of cancellation, inability to access them with shuttle buses, etc.) but anyone else was meant to stop and hitch a ride back. Some people ignored the orders, and were upset that they didn’t get a finish time, but the race directors stood by their decisions, which they explained in detail. At times later in the race, I wasn’t sure if I would break 4 hours, but I knew I was well ahead of 4:30 barring an absolute disaster – in which case, I would have bailed, on my own, anyway – I'm glad I didn’t have to deal with obeying orders and sucking up that disappointment on top of everything else.
I had to pause several times on the way back to the hotel. Half a block from the hotel, seated on the front stoop of an office building, I looked up at B, who stood at my side (as he has for every marathon I’ve run while he’s been my boyfriend, except the one in Des Moines) and said “I am not running another marathon this year. Don’t let me try to change that decision.” Normally, I do not consider decisions made during a race or its immediate aftermath to be binding, but I think this time, it is appropriate. As disappointed as I am by the way this race turned out, after this arduous spring when I ran more miles than I ever had before in an equal time period, I cannot immediately turn around to give it another shot – the way I did in 2014 after I quit the Boston race and made up for it in Vermont. It’s too late in the season for a make-up marathon and besides, I went the whole distance this year; wouldn’t be good (AT ALL) for my legs to try to run another any time soon. I am just going to have to accept that sometimes, things just don’t go the way you’d planned them to, and that’s just how it’s going to have to be. I have a very nice qualifying time for Boston 2017 in my pocket – 3:24 is 20 minutes better than the qualifying time for what will be my new age group – so I do not need to worry about reaching that mark (because I certainly did not on Sunday May 29th). I will spend the rest of this year recovering, recharging, and getting ready to get ready for my master’s marathon debut in April 2017.
Also, the next time I face a marathon with temperatures in the 80s, I think I am now more likely to say thanks but no thanks. I’m not sure collecting a medal and being able to say I finished in such torturous conditions is really worth the physical (and psychological) cost.
To conclude this long race report, I want to thank the Vermont City Marathon team and volunteers for putting on such a well-organized race, and heartfelt thanks as well to the citizens of Burlington for making an inevitably miserable day slightly less so. (Special gratitude to the ice-water sponge man.) I don’t know if I will run this race again – I don’t know how many more marathons I have left in me, and I’m thinking I might avoid the late May risk of heat from now on – but I will always fervently recommend this race to anyone that asks; and B and I are already making plans to return to Burlington for non-running pursuits, because the town is so cool. (Even when it is so hot.)
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1When your personal worst is 4:18, it’s not a difficult feat to run poorly and still be well under that.
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