Many of you have asked about the marathon where I qualified for Boston. Although it was my intention to blog about my BQ journey, the procrastinator in me won out and my blog wasn’t born until just after I achieved that first BQ. I wrote a race report though, which until today, has not been part of this blog.
Here I present to you:
Grand Rapids Marathon, 10/19/08 (My 2nd marathon)
After tossing, turning and enduring The Caveman’s snoring and Thing 2’s feet in my face for most of the night, at last it was 4:30am. Time to get up to eat.
I’d assembled my “pre-race nutrition” on the hotel bathroom vanity the night before: A Balance Bar, banana, ½ a dry bagel, some Amino Vital and a splash of strong coffee to wash it all down.
I sat on the toilet (covered) forcing the stuff down so I could digest it and top off my glycogen stores before the starting gun. Finally done and feeling disgustingly full, I went back to lay in bed and wait for 6am. Of course sleep eluded me again.
I had the kids dressed in their clothes for the day when I put them to bed the night before. All I had to do was get myself ready and roust them.
The morning low was barely 40. High 30’s even. Cold and clear. Perfect! Although a stubborn wind was forecast to kick up toward late morning.
After ample deliberation, I opted for a long-sleeve shirt and capris—the better to hide my IT strap (AKA Brunhilda) and keep it from slipping during the run.
By 7:15 we were out the door and on our way to a neighboring hotel where I’d agreed to meet up with a couple of my running friends. They were in the lobby promptly, clad in heavy-duty trash bags to keep warm as we began our trek to the starting line.
The sky was streaked with purple as we entered the starting corrals. After so many months of planning and preparation I was excited to finally be getting the final leg of this journey underway. I found the 3:56 pace group (affectionately called the “Beat Will Ferrell’s 4-hr marathon) and hung out behind them. I have a habit of getting too fast too early and I was hopeful the pace group would keep me in line.
I was happy to leave my friends, Dave and David, both accomplished marathoners. Dave had an ailing hamstring and planned to run slower than I, David planned to run faster. All the better to spare me any embarrassment should I fall, suffer gastric distress, collapse in a heap, pee, bonk, rupture my spleen, the possibilities are endless.
From where I stood I heard neither the national anthem nor the start gun. We just all started moving forward. We are off!
After a mile and a half on the streets we ducked onto bike paths. Our Will Ferrell group has 4 pacers: 2 guys one of which is exceptionally muscled with bulging glutes packed into black compression shorts. The other had a more traditional runner’s build with spindly black arm warmers and a jungle of pit hair to match. I’m not quite sure who the Ben-Gay smell is emanating from.
There are also 2 female pacers. A cute Asian girl with 2 braids and a dishwater blonde. None of the pace team looks a day over 30.
The miles began to click away, the pacers rotated each mile carrying the sign on a long stick with Will Ferrell’s head wearing a fez on it. We followed like a flock of dutiful sheep. Miles 3-6 are rolling hills and I can tell we are going too fast. Ferrell’s head bobs up and down and so do we. No worries. But I thought we were supposed to run even 9 minute miles?? At mile 5 we run 8:32. WTF???
At about mile 6 hamstring Dave catches up to me, says he’ll hang with me as long as his hamstring allows. Great. Not. But he’s so positive and full of great tips, I began to relax and actually enjoyed his company, although I can’t deny each time he ducked into the woods to pee I hoped he’d never find me again. The miles clicked away effortlessly. We are actually just ahead of the pace group. I see Caveman and the girls at mile 11—didn’t actually expect to see them until 14 for a fuel belt reload but it was a great surprise.
Average pace after 13 miles was 8:55. Getting some time in the bank—hopefully not too much though.
We looped around were back to Caveman at mile 14 for the fuel handoff. I’m still feeling strong. At mile 16 Dave is off to pee once again when I heard a woman scream, getting up with a bloody face. Not sure if she was elbowed or went down on her own. My heart goes out to her as I trudge up a windy incline into the sun. That would suck royally.
By mile 18 the Will Ferrells are still clipping right along, still a bit sub-9. The pacers are handing out sandwich cookies and everyone hoots and waves as the slower pace groups (Oprah, P. Diddy, Penguin and Al Gore) are oncoming.
At mile 21 I get a cramp in my side just to the left of my right hip bone. I tell Dave and end up running with my finger poked in my abdomen. Whatever it takes right? I am not stopping. By mile 22 Dave’s dicey hamstring gives out and I’m on my own. Average pace 8:59 now. My pace group is maybe 15 seconds ahead. I’m quite sure I’m not gonna catch them. Lots of people are walking now, or pulled over stretching.
The path has really opened up. I was GU’ing religiously every 45 minutes but I’ve lost track. I start grasping at whatever I’ve got to keep me going. My water is gone so I need to stop at the water stations, costing more precious time. I see a lady holding a sign that says “Your feet hurt because you’re kicking so much ass!” I love her.
At mile 23 my total run time is 3hrs 27 minutes. So basically I’ve got 33 minutes to run 3.2 miles. Simple any other day of the year but after running 23 miles it’s no small feat.
At mile 24 I’m on a long incline into hard wind, taking me out of the forest and back onto city streets. I hung behind a group and tried to draft. But they’re all circled around a young man who is staggering, barely lucid. Yikes! So I trudged on. Not the theme from Rocky but the slow motion groan you hear when he gets punched in the face by Drago playing in my mind.
Don’t. Give. This. Away!
You’ve come way too far to have to start all over for another attempt. I throw in some watermelon caffeine beans, put my head down and trudge on. Ack the beans are awful! I want to spit so badly but won’t. “How many patches of spit have you seen on this path today and you won’t spit?? But I don’t.
Suddenly I’m distracted by what must be an explosion in my right shoe. I look down to see blood bubbling up through the mesh. Nice. But I’m not stopping. I’ll get in on bloody stumps.
Make. This. Happen!
There’s a woman in front of me reeling—her boyfriend is holding her up trying to get her in. I do my best to pick up my pace. I hear a thumping beat in the distance and crowds cheering along the finish. It’s the last mile but the finish may as well be in Mongolia. It feels like eternity. I’m giving 500% but my feet are in quicksand. My average pace though is 9:00. Good I must actually be moving then! I’ve got time! A spectator says “look at the finish line—see the white banner? You’re there!” I am mesmerized by it as I approach.
This! IS HAPPENING!
Sorry these are some bad pics of pics but you get the idea.
I am in the final stretch, still oblivious to the cheering throngs when I hear The Caveman yell “Marcia you’ve got it! BQ baby! The crowd goes wild and chants BQ! BQ! BQ! as I cross the line. The race director, who prides himself on shaking every finisher’s hand gives me a bear hug and swings me off my feet. To be fair he had no choice as I collapsed onto him literally in a heap of blood sweat and tears. Gosh I hope I don’t reek too badly but how the hell could I not? Although by some miracle—probably because I didn’t drink enough—I managed not to pee even once! Hee hee!
There are hugs and high 5’s from the medal presenter, the foil blanket guy, the pacers, the faster David who got in ahead of me and of course The Caveman and the kids.
3:57:25
For me it was not a dream come true. Because Never in my wildest dreams did I EVER even dare to dream I’d be part of the Boston Marathon field one day. I’d been setting the bar too low, telling myself I was too fat, too old, didn’t have time to train properly, it would hurt too much, and on and on.
Until one day I stopped the excuses and negative self talk and decided to simply give it my best, whatever that was. So I trained, step by step, mile by mile, week by week and never looked back.
To all Boston Marathoners: Past–Present–and Future: I salute you!
