Lost Dutchman Marathon 2011

I don’t think of myself as a runner.  When I hear the word runner I visualize one of those people that really LOVE to run.  The skinny guy who wears running clothes all the time, works at the local running store, can’t wait to go outside and hit the pavement, and doesn’t miss a day for a decade at a time.  The people I am fond of yelling at in my car when I pass them on the road (where they can’t hear me) “Run you running fool!” 

I run because I love how I feel when it is all over.  I love the energy and health I get from exercising regularly.  I don’t enjoy the feeling of dread I have before each run, I don’t enjoy the plodding monotony.  Hate is a strong word so I won’t say I hate running, but strong dislike is probably about right.  I still can’t believe that I fell into the marathon trap.  The fateful day was February 20th 2011 at the Lost Dutchman Marathon.

The morning air was damp and clammy as I quietly closed the hotel room door and walked to the car.  It was difficult to see out of the fogged windows as I drove through the darkness to the Apache Junction rodeo grounds.  Intermittent patches of rain slammed on the windshield and the headlights revealed streams of water running parallel to the road.  After pulling into a parking spot I turned off the car and just sat for a moment.  “Am I really going to do this?” I thought.  It was my last chance to back out, but I knew that no matter how rough the next few hours were going to be, I had invested way too much to quit.  I double checked my gear bag, checked the time on my watch, zipped up my windbreaker and took a deep breath. 

As I approached the shuttle bus I felt a mix of nausea and excitement.  I felt a jolt of nerves when a race volunteer asked to see my bib.  I had double and triple checked my bib before going to sleep on Saturday night, but I hadn’t made sure that the bib was still attached that morning.  What if the four bobby pins holding it on had all been faulty and I’d dropped the number in the hotel parking lot?  I reached down and was reassured by the familiar crackling of the waterproof material.  After showing my bib to a total of 3 volunteers I was finally at the steps to the bus. 

The bus ride seemed to last for hours.  I experienced the familiar feeling of limbo that I feel before any big event in my life: sitting at a desk watching the professor pass out the final exam, waiting in triage to be admitted to a labor room, standing in the lobby before an interview.  Although many people were talkative, I dealt with my anxiety by sitting alone and reading.  I flipped through the short story collection I had thrown into a ziploc in my bag and started reading The Murderer by Ray Bradbury.  The story illustrates a world where electronic devices, music and advertisements surround every person at every moment and silence is unknown.  I had to smile at the parallels between the world Bradbury had predicted and the scene that surrounded me that morning.  Many people sat alone with music in their ears to keep them company or played on their touch screen phones.  I was grateful I hadn’t been able to bring any music since it allowed me some time to meditate and concentrate on the task to come.

The bus drove on and on into the dark Arizona morning.  Other shuttles returning to the rodeo grounds passed us constantly and it continued to drizzle throughout the drive.  After a 45 minute ride the bus pulled into the race warm up area.  It was like a scene out of a movie.  80 campfires burned brightly in a grid with small groups of runners surrounding each one.  The smoke rose high into the darkness and reflected the lights from the fires.  Tables were set up with warm drinks and water.  The breakfast bread was all gone by the time I arrived at the start so I was thankful I had slipped a granola bar into my gear bag.  I didn’t feel like talking to anyone so I walked through the warm air surrounding the campfires but didn’t stop and sit.  About 10 minutes before the race was scheduled to start the sky started to lighten to a dark grey color.  The mountain behind us was spectacular and shrouded in mist.  The light quickly revealed a beautiful Arizona desert morning.  The rain left behind a clear and beautifully green landscape. 

The sky was surprisingly clear for the start and the temperature was perfect at about 55 degrees.  While walking to the start some multi-marathon veterans noticed how nervous I looked and took pity on me.  They really helped me relax and gave some helpful advice.  My nerves returned when I talked to another veteran (she had completed 16 marathons) and she said “You chose THIS for your first marathon?!?”.  Luckily for me I didn’t have much time to think about this remark since the gun went off and the race began!

Can you see me?

The first 6 miles of the race were absolutely beautiful.  We ran down Peralta Trail on a sand and clay trail that was the perfect running surface.  I held a pace that felt comfortably slow and I could hardly believe the times on my watch.  There were a surprising number of enthusiastic supporters on the sides of the roads and in the neighborhoods we ran through and I was feeling awesome – even thinking a 3:50 marathon would be a possibility. 

After mile 6 the rest of the race was on paved roads and I soon felt the effects of the harder surface on my spoiled body.  At mile 11 I started to feel a nagging pain in my right knee and hip and it continued to get worse until I felt like I was Quasimodo dragging a dead leg with me.  I was having a hard time fighting the pain and I couldn’t imagine making it 15 more miles.  Somehow I managed to take it a step at a time until I got to an aid station at mile 16 that advertised a first aid kit.  2 Advil and 2.5 miles later I was starting to feel like I could keep going and seeing Erik and the kids at mile 18.5 and 20 only helped me more.  The green shirted guy who had been running near me for 10 miles or so mentioned how nice it was I had a cheering section.  I smiled, clapped my hands, checked my watch and decided to push for 4 hours.  I had 6 miles left to go and around an hour to get them done. 

At mile 22 I felt the pain in my knee start to return with a vengeance.  Somehow I managed to go into a trancelike state and continued to run through the pain.  The LD Marathon has a “wall” after mile 23 made of wood and painted bricks.  I got a little emotional as I realized that I had 3 miles left and I was going to finish!  I was fighting with myself – the conflict between wanting to walk through the pain and the possibility of breaking four hours was huge to me at that moment. 

My running buddy, the green shirted guy, pulled abreast of me right as I was feeling discouraged.  “Let’s go, I think we can get 4 hours,” he said.  “I’m dragging my leg like dead weight but I think we can do it”.  I told him my knee was killing me too.  He proceeded to explain that he was 69 and had artery replacement surgery in his leg in October.  That was a wake up call for me!  He helped encourage me up the last hill at mile 26 and I forced myself to speed up through the last .2 miles. 

Right before the finish chute there were a bunch of spectators blocking the way.  I slowed down and gasped, “Excuse me.  EXCUSE ME!”  The ladies turned around and gave me a nasty look before jumping out of the way.  I was ready to mow them down; I needed every bit of momentum I had to make it down that chute!  I saw the clock ticking 3:59:12 as I forced myself to run as fast as I could across the finish. 

YES!  I BROKE FOUR HOURS!  It was an amazing feeling, and very surreal.  I could hardly walk as I took my medal and went to meet my family.  

I’ve spent the 2.5 days since my race recovering.  Sunday afternoon was awful.  I was sore and tired and could barely move.  Yesterday was worse.  I’ve lost two toenails and my right knee continues to nag.  As the soreness starts to fade, however, I’m starting to realize it was worth it.  I can cross 26.2 off my list of things I want to do before I die, and I can do it with pride knowing I did my very best.

It hurt.  So bad.  I told Erik right after the race that I couldn’t believe I had done that to myself.  15 miles of forced march on a screaming knee?  Only a fool would do that to their body.  I guess that is what I have been reduced to.  Run, running fool!