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Send in the Clowns - BAC 10K Challenge
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Well done on a super run in horrific conditions KC.
I see you decided to run for fun in Mrs Klown's clothing after all;)
http://www.runnersworld.com/boston/2012/slide12.html
Hope you're enjoying the celebrations:D0 -
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Three days before the race, it hit me. I knew at that point that I wouldn't be able to aim for a PB, and the realization knocked me for six. I was having a conversation with my OH and my buddy as we were getting into the car at temperatures of about 76'F (24'C), and it dawned on me that the start of the race would be a few degrees hotter. I vocalized my decision to give up on the PB, and had to turn away, as I didn't want anyone to see my massive dissapointment. I felt crushed. Immediately thoughts turned to combinations and permutations. Thoughts of buying an entry for London on the black-market, Kildare marathon in May; Cork in June, something, anything. But, it was all pointless. I still had a marathon to run and regardless of what pace I ran it, it was still going to knock the crap out of me, so I might as well defer any decisions until later, when I have a better idea of what kind of shape I'm left in. The best option in terms of getting the most out of my training, would have been to pull out and run another race, but that didn't even get a moments consideration. You can't come this far and invest this much and not run the 116th Boston marathon.
Race morning:
I had managed to avoid any weather forecats the day before the race. I wasn't trying to avoid the reality of the situation, I just hadn't been anywhere near a TV screen. An easy recovery run in the morning, out to Fenway to see the Red Sox in the afternoon (amazing experience) and then we spent the evening wandering around Boston finding food and supplies. So as I watched the luminous dials of the radio-clock in the hotel room tick off the hours until 5am, I hoped that the much-sought after cold front might have moved in over night. I gave up the pretense of sleep at 4:30 and stuck on the weather channel. No cold-front, no PB. A quick breakie of oatmeal and coffee, and I headed off to meet the Irish gang, decked out in jeans, jacket, fleece etc for the morning's cool temperatures. Leaving the air-conditioned hotel into the street I was hit with a blast of heat that set the tone for the rest of the day. I reckon the lads and the rest of the marathon hopefuls got a good chuckle at my atire. It's always a comfort meeting people you know and making new friends in the nervous build-up to a marathon and by the time we headed to Boston common to jump on a school bus, we were all in good spirits, despite the trauma of what lay ahead of us. The bus journey was one of the highlights of the day, as everyone shot the breeze with the people sitting near them as the busses carooned around the empty streets of Boston on their way out to Hopkinton. Sooner than expected we emerged blinking into the sunlight and said goodbye to new aquaintances before heading to a shaded spot under a large tent. The organization was top-notch and the loos were always within 20 seconds reach, and water and bananas were on hand for anyone who hadn't brought supplies. The conversation invariably turned to strategies. Mine couldn't have been more simple.
Race Strategy
Based on previous marathons, I knew that I typically ran the first 20-22 miles of a marathon at around 160bpm, so I figured that if I ignored pace and stuck to that HR, effort levels would be consistent with previous races, and I would minimize the risk of doing serious self-harm during the race. I knew it meant I would go out fast, and slow as the heat took its toll, but at least I would finish, and hopefully in a reasonable state. In terms of target time, I had none. I had no idea what time I would cross that finish line, and truth be told, I didn't give a damn. Sub-3 would be lovely, but I had no idea just how damaging the heat would be.
The journey to the start line
We all had to hand in our bags on different buses, so with a final thumbs up, we all went our seperate ways. Fortunately I met Figs again soon after passing the buses and we started the easy walk to the start line. At this point the temperature was around 80'F (25'C) and about as hot as it ever gets in Ireland. Figs and I jumped into queues for portaloos and then I was on my own, headed to Wave 1, Corral 1. As I arrived, I noticed a large number of runners hanging around the chute into the pen, and not entering. The reason was clear. The chute offered shade, the pen offered heat, so I too joined the group in the shadow of a tall tree. As is the case with all US marathons, the pre-race buzz was amazing. Helicopters, blimps, sky-signs, police and army patrolling everywhere and then an emotional rendition of the Star Spangled Banner and I headed into the corral.
The race
With twelve minutes to go, I was sweating heavily, just standing still. I considered hunkering down, so at least I'd be in the shade of the other runners, but we were all in the same boat, so it didn't seem right. The elites arrived in beside our corral, and were gracious enough to offer high-fives and words of encouragement to their non-elite counterparts. The gun went off and we were running. The focus of the first few miles was just to find a bit of space and get comfortable. I wasn't worried about going out too fast, as I was running based on my HR which was showing a pretty steady 152bpm. At this stage I was running very comfortably and was suprised to see an average pace of 6:08/mile. Haha! I knew that wouldn't last. I started to take drinks as soon as the aid-stations arrived (first gatorade, then water; half in the mouth, half down the back) and focussed on enjoying the thrill of the scenery and the fun of the spectators. Marthastew had lent me the 'Road to Boston' book, which described the route mile by mile, with interesting historic anecdotes, so at least in the early miles I was able to relate to locations on the route. I passed the 10k mark in something like 38:30, and my HR was now up to 160, and I had to start pulling back the pace and letting other runners go by.
I'm not sure if it was the weather, but my memory of the race was that we were permanently running uphill. Now I know that Boston has a 440 foot net downhill, but that doesn't matter a damn when every mile is a struggle. You don't notice the benefits of the flats, you don't notice the downhills all you notice is how tough these small hills are, and the impact they are having on your body. By mile 8, I had stopped sweating. I made a determined resolution to get more liquids into the system. I switched the data fields on the watch so that the only thing showing was my heart rate. Time was no longer relevant. The focus was just to keep going comfortably. I was surprised to pass the 10 mile mark in around 1:02, which meant that I was running at a good trot, despite the rising temperatures (around 27'C). Running on tarmac, the heat from the black tar was reflected straight back at us so we were being nicely flame-grilled equally from below and above.
As I hit the 12 mile mark, I was in bits. My decline was happening more rapidly now, and I was beginnning to question my strategy. My HR was still 160, so why was I feeling worse and worse? I managed to swallow a salt tablet with a cup of water, and then heard the roar of noise that marked the beginning of Welseley and the famous Welsely girls. One of my great life regrets is that I didn't stop to get a kiss from a Welseley girl, and I may have to return to do the marathon again some day, just so I can correct that great injustice. They rose the spirits; they were amazing. The guys around me were like great hunters, picking out their targets with precision. I laughed and had a blast for that entire mile, but it was over all too soon, and we were left with the heat and the hills. Again I was impressed with my half way split, of 1:23:34 on such a hot day, but the first half of the route was the easy part and the hills lay ahead.
My watch was beeping the splits, so despite only showing my HR, I was able to keep an eye on my general decline, and it was brutal. As I headed for the hills, I passed a digital clock that read 86'F (30'C) and much of the enjoyment of the race was gone. Because I do a lot of long runs, I have never found 26.2 miles to be a great distance, but passing the 15 mile mark, after 30 seconds of struggling with the maths, I realized we had 11+ miles left and there was nothing left but despair. I have never before been in a situation where I was watching out for the mile markers to count down the remaining distance, but that's exactly what I was doing now. We were all united in our troubles, but there was no talking, no smiling, just runners determined to reach the finish line. People were beginning to walk. Some were stumbling, others just fell. The rest of the route was dotted with medical staff surrounding fallen runners who had tried to stick to their original targets. Those who looked most comfortable at this stage, were the runners who clearly spent a lot of time in the sun. I ran much of the race with two dark-skinned runners, but they suffered just as equally as I did, it was those with obvious suntans who fared better.
The support along the route was amazing. Children, adults, students, every age, shape and size lined the route to provide the much-needed encouragement to keep us going. Ice, popsicles, water cups, sun-screen or just a hug; they were all handed out with massive generosity, covering every inch of the course. Just standing along the route for hours in those temperatures was a significant challenge.
By mile 20. I was all but defeated. Never any thoughts of quitting, but any aspirations to run the entire route comfortably had faded away. As we hit a hill on mile 19, I had asked my fellow runners if this was heart-break hill. Not yet, I'm afraid. My heart sank. As I hit the next water-station, I stopped and walked through it. Half the reason was to ensure I got enough liquids into my system, but mostly because I was beat. I got going again. I stopped to use a portaloo as the clock was now as relevant as the pace bands I had left behind in my gear-bag. I got going again. I arrived at heartbreak hill determined to run the entire distance, and took some small comfort from the fact that despite the pace I kept ticking away to the top.
The last few miles should have been the easiest, but on this particular day, they were a massive struggle, and my pace hit rock bottom (8:04) with worse to come. When I saw the Citgo sign (usually an indicator that you're back in the city, with only minutes remaining) I checked my watch and realized that I had something like 16 minutes to run the remaining 2.2 miles. Ordinarily a piece of pi$$. Today? Not so much. I jumped in behind another running who had picked up the pace, but could only last 200m, before the wave of nausea hit me. I slowed down. As we passed under a bridge, out of sight of the public eye and hot sun, many runners took a break to walk and try to cool down and I was one of them. Emerging once more in the sun and we all picked up the pace again (vanity even in desperation!).
The finish:
As we rounded a corner, I spied an unfurled Irish flag, with Emer_911 at the other end of it. I blew her a kiss grabbed the flag, and hoisted it up over my shoulders (and the reaction from the crowd was amazing). Despite the agony and exhaustion, my spirits lifted. Even though I still had a mile to go (and it felt like ten miles), the last mile was amazing. Any time I needed a lift, I just held the flag aloft, and the crowd screamed me forward. Into the final straight, the remaining 400m looked a very long way away, but I had the flag, and nothing could stop me. I passed the finish line, with 3:04 showing on the clock (3:03 officially) and ground to a halt. Runners were dropping like flies around me and being carted off in ambulances and wheel-chairs. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, hoping that somewhere there might be some water.
Aftermath:
After reclaiming my bag and getting some water and food that I couldn't stomach, I made my way to the family reunion area. I was feeling wretched. I bent my head down to try and stop myself from throwing up. I still had the garmin running, and it was showing my HR at 120bpm. I needed help. I couldn't raise my head for fear of throwing up. Eventually I caught the eye of a medic, who got me a sick bag. Another guy 10 feet away was also about to throw up but the medic had only a single sick bag, so she ran backwards and forwards between us, based on whoever was looking more wretched. Eventually I managed to sit down, and after a few minutes my heart rate started to drop back down, first to 100, then all the way back to 80bpm and I started to feel more normal. I had to stand up, otherwise I'd be hoisted into a wheel-chair (5 minute rule), but thankfully Emer and my buddy showed-up, and I eventually managed to maneuver myself into an upright position. I couldn't stomach any food, but eventually we made our way to an air-conditioned bar/restaurant, and with the cool temperatures, I returned to normal, and was soon sipping on the long awaited beer.
So no tales of triumphant heroics, just a long painful death-march to the finish line. No pride in my run, but not necessarily any significant dissapointment in my performance either. Things just conspired against us. However, I will take a long list of wonderful memories from the day too. The school buses that took us to the start line. The banter in the tent, with a bunch of sound Irish lads. The amazing crowds that kept us ticking over. The first 8 miles of the race.
The Welsely girls. The last mile. The beers and exchanged stories afterwards. Boston marathon kicked the crap out of me. But I'm not done yet. I've swung two strikes at this marathon target, but I have one swing left.
Summary: A marathon in 3:03 and change.1 -
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