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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