Bay State Marathon Race Report or Being Cold Part Trois

The weekend began auspiciously. Rain was forecast, but the day was only slightly overcast and beautifully balmy. Today it's even more beautiful: in the 50s, sunny with just a light breeze.  Ahhh.

But marathon day. Well, the weather fucking sucked. 

I knew it would suck, because the forecast said it would suck. But I still held out hope. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. In the 40s wasn't too cold and a little rain never hurt anyone, right?
Wrong.  Bring on the hypothermia! January decided to show up and give us a little preview, and her little display did not disappoint.

I got up at 5 a.m. to eat and chill, and then went to meet my GNRC friends so we could carpool to the race. Somehow twelve of us fit into two cars, and we started the hour long trip to Lowell. I'm always a chatterbox (big shocker) before races, and my peeps in David's car put up with that very nicely. Thank you!

The Bay State Marathon is known throughout New England as a fast and flat course, perfect to use as a Boston Qualifier. Fast and flat is relative, of course. In New England a purely flat course does not exist. We have plenty of great hilly marathons--Mt Desert Island Marathon in Maine, Clarence de Mar Marathon in New Hampshire, and of course, The Boston Marathon (one of our easier marathons, actually) known for its stretch of hills that culminate with the well-known Heartbreak Hill. Flat marathons, however, we lack.  The Bay State course circumnavigates the Merrimack River (known in its day for the Lowell Mills it housed), so it's as flat as they come. There are a few rollers, and some modest climbs when going over bridges, but really its elevation profile is pretty ideal for New England.

I have not run a fast, flat course of any kind in a long, long time, so I was PSYCHED to see what I could do on this course. I had a big goal, I  had trained well, and I was ready to run hard. When we arrived in Lowell the weather was not bad. It was moist, but not raining; cool but not cold. Most people were dressed in shorts, long-sleeved wicking Ts and jackets.  I felt confident that my apparel choice was both wise and, importantly, marathon chic: I had on shorts and a fitting Craft shirt with a fitting Terry tank top over it, arm warmers and gloves-- all black.  I even had black socks with skulls and hearts on them. I was nothing if not dressed for some bad ass running.

We packed in like sardines at the start. The marathon was1600 strong, and there were no real definitive pace zones. The human pacers were late to arrive, and so people just lined up where they felt made most sense--e.g. the FRONT. I was toasty warm at this point, and also a little claustrophobic. I was surrounded by about 10 men, all towering over me and smashed up next to me like we had known each other intimately for years. Everyone was chipper and friendly, though, and to be honest, I appreciated the warmth of all the bodies around me.

(This pic. was taken at just about the 1/2 mile mark. Obviously it was taken last year, though, when it was SUNNY.)

The race began unceremoniously with a GO! I couldn't see or feel any movement given my location in the armpits of men, but soon enough the crowd inched forward, and within 15 seconds I was at the starting line. It was crowded for awhile, but people were fantastic about moving around to accommodate various paces. For a large marathon start it was extremely civil. It occurred to me that perhaps others didn't experience it this way. Triathlon and its let's pummel each other in the water beginnings have inoculated me against mass running starts, I think.

In no time my Garmin let me know we had hit goal pace. Time to hold steady, and oh, was that hard. I felt like a million bucks. The last few days I had been bouncing off the walls, aching to run and just get it OUT. And now, I could go!! But I couldn't go. Running 7:30s felt like 9:30 pace. I actually wondered whether my Garmin was just not reading the satellites correctly and I was actually just inching along. But I stayed centered. I stayed calm. I was cool as a cucumber. (Someday I am going to write a post on cliches and their origins. Where the fuck did cool as cucumber come from? )

First mile 7:29. Second mile 7:31, Third mile, 7:30. Fourth mile 7:29.

All was well with the world.

At five miles (7:31) I took my first gel. I well add here that no one appeared to be fueling--not just at this early point in the race--but in general, throughout the whole race. Again I wondered if my triathlon racing the last few years has altered my perception of things. In the running world people just don't fuel like they do in triathlon world. When I ask my running friends if they fuel for the marathon they say things like, "Oh yeah! Of course! I take water ever four miles and at least two gels during the race."

That's not fueling, at least not in my book.  I took five gels during the marathon, and I alternated water and Gatorade throughout the whole damn thing, too. Perhaps I over-fuel. I don't know. I love the hit of power that comes five minutes after a caffeinated gel.

Anyway. I digress. I took my first gel. BING! Carb and caffeine hit.
Had to reign myself in again. Within five minutes I had the urge to hammer. But I did not.

7:32, 7:29, 7:30, 7:28.

The funny thing about doing an open marathon after doing a bunch of 1/2 Ironman and a full, is that 3 hours and 20 minutes just does not seem that long--at all. I thought about the race like this:
First 10k. the swim
middle 14 miles-the bike
final 10K. the run

By mile 8 I was (figuratively) on the bike and I felt like no time had passed. At this point we had to cross a bridge, which was a nice diversion.

(This is the bridge.)

The problem was, this was one weird bridge. We ran on the foot bridge part, which was separate from the car portion of the bridge, and this footbridge moved, almost imperceptibly, but VERY disconcertingly, with our footfalls. I was in a pack when we crossed, and the many footfalls created a chaos of subtle movement that made you feel like the earth was moving beneath your feet. My pack had been moving right along at a 7:30 clip, but we slowed down to 8:30 pace for the whole, long bridge. Grrr. Messed up my perfect pace. I was irritated--and when we got off the bridge I couldn't help it. I let it blast to make up time and finished the next mile on ...
7:31. Ahhhh. Back to the plan.

At mile 10 I was approached. His name was Rob. He wanted a friend. I wanted him to get the fuck away from me.

I have a nice problem, however. I couldn't tell him to get away because I felt guilty. He was clearly a friendly, harmless guy.  I decided to take the terse answer approach to get him to leave me alone.

"So, what pace are we running?"
"7:30"
"So, what are you gunning for?"
"3:20"
"Bummer about the run, huh? It's getting colder."
"Yep."
"You know, you're the first girl I've really seen out here. I think you'll place pretty well today if you can hold this pace."
Was this a pick-up line?
"There's a girl just ahead," I pointed.

When I slowed at water stops, he'd slow too. When I picked up the pace, he would too. When I moved to the right, he would too.
At mile 13 I saw Brian, Kristina's husband, and he shouted to me. I slowed, hoping Rob would just go ahead. No luck. Thanks anyway, Brian.

I needed another approach to get rid of him.
I took in another gel.
Gel makes me fart.
Usually I try to be quiet when releasing a little noxious air. I wait for a car to pass and when the noise is just enough, I release.  If no cars make an appearance, I opt to let out little squeaks ever so queitly, but repeatedly, until relief sets in.
Not today.

I just let it rip.
Several times in a row.
The smell was just right; a perfect blend of methane and sulfur that would surely slow him down or knock him out. It was truly vomit-licious--worse than a race-day porta potty filled to the brim.

It did not work. He ignored it. He was going to hang tough because, I now realized,  I was his pacer.  I knew what this was, and I knew his presence was making me itch. I wanted to be alone with my pace and my thoughts and my breathing. I did not want ideal chat, and I did not want to be anyone's rabbit.

It was mile 17, and our relationship, though so new and fresh, needed to end. NOW. I  had but one option left.
Smoke him.
I picked up the pace to 7:00s. He held on. I held 7:00 pace for several minutes, and he fell slightly behind. I let him lag for a bit, and then I took a deep breath and turned on the jets. I picked it up to 6:45 pace, then 6:30, then 6:15 and I blitzed out of there. Within a minute he was dust.

Finally. Relief.

I was concerned he'd try to catch me, so I held 7:20 pace for a bit just to make sure I was in the clear. Of course, if jetting ahead of him like that didn't give him the signal that I wanted him to get the fuck away from me, I didn't know what would.
I repeat, though. The guy was nice. He meant no harm. I simply did not want him near me; it was as simple as that.

Onward! I had to go over that crazy ass bridge again, because this was a two loop course. Luckily I wasn't in a pack this time and the experience wasn't so traumatic. After the bridge I began to notice the weather. My previous obsession with getting rid of the stalker nice man who just wanted a friend to pace him, had blinded me to the increasing cold. The temperature was not in the 40s--this was the mid 30's for sure. Additionally, the rain had picked up and was a steady, relentless, driving P.I.T.A.  My gloves were soaked, my arm warmers needed to be wrung out, and rain was pelting my face and making my eyes sting. Still, I was the QUEEN of pacing.

7:31, 7:32, 7:34, 7:29.

And then I hit mile 20. I was on the run (figuratively) and I felt  great! (if very cold and like a wet dog.)  I was passing people left and right--people, I noted, who had passed me earlier in the race.
There was only one problem. My Garmin said I was at 20.25 miles. The race had me at 20 miles.

I'm sure you've all experienced this annoying dilemma. Your Garmin is GREAT. It helps you keep pace, it lets you know when you heart-rate has sky-rocketed, it tells you exactly where you are and gives you your mile split automatically. The problem is that it tells you not where the race says you are, but where you actually are.
In a race, you weave. In a marathon, that weaving adds up. It's not that the race is measured incorrectly (usually). It's that you add 3-4 tenths (at least) onto your marathon just by moving around on the course. Everyone does it. Everyone actually runs 26.5 or more instead of 26.2. Why is this important? Well, if you use a Garmin then you may very well believe you are running 7:30 pace--and you ARE. But you still won't get the time you're going for unless you make sure the pace you're running will get you to the end of 26.5 miles, not 26.2 miles. At 7:30 pace, I was headed for a high 3:17 IF I was to run 26.2. But when I hit 26.2 miles, I would still have three tenths of a mile to go.
I knew this, and I know it's the same for everyone. But it still pissed me off. I was clipping off those 7:30s, but it didn't matter. I need to hurry up, or I still would not make my 3:20 time goal.

At mile 23, I finally started to feel like crap. I attribute my late arrival at the shit point to Jen's outstanding coaching. Anyway, the rain was vicious, I was chattering, and the course was going ever so slightly uphill. To say I was grumpy is an understatement.
And then my quad seized. This has never happened to me, and at first I had no idea what was happening. I looked down andI could see it pulsing! It was alive! (Of course it was, but you know what I mean.)  It didn't hurt that much though, so maybe it wasn't a cramp. Maybe it was just having a little quad seizure? It did slow me up, though, and alas, that is when my perfecto pacing came to an end. Mile 23- 7:46. Mile 24-7:44.
Damn it.
I got to the One Mile to Go! mark. I would crush this mile. I would crush it crush it crush it.

I didn't crush it. But I did it in 7:31. At least I was back on pace! Too bad the race was over...

3:19:34.
My watch read 7:32 pace for 26.5 miles.

I was happy, but more than that, I was fucking cold. I start shaking violently almost immediately after I finished. I  had plans to watch all of my friends come in if they hadn't finished before me. But that plan was GONE. I went straight to get the bag I had checked. I considered heading to the medical tent, but I changed my mind when I realized it was outside. My shaking was increasing and I was feel sick to my stomach. I knew what this was--and I was not going there again if I could help it. I got my bag, but there was no where to go except a stadium bathroom. (The race ended in an arena.) I went in, put my stuff on the floor of a stall, and tried to figure out how to get my hands to work enough so that I could get myself into dry clothes.

It was comical. My shirt got stuck halfway off my head. I fell forward and banged against the bathroom wall. I was stuck for at least a minute. Finally I got the shirt off, and then my quad seized again and I dropped onto the toilet seat, except that my shorts were half off and I fell IN the toilet. I pushed myself up, and then just sat on the edge of the toilet seat, half naked, shaking and really concerned I would die in this bathroom stall. Since I was sitting there, I decided to pee. Or try to. A little tiny tinkle came out. I pushed myself up using my arms and looked. It was orange. Yuk. Post marathon pee. I needed to get some water in me. That meant I had to re-start my effort to finish this changing fiasco.

I finally got my shorts off and my dry clothing on. I clumsily put my wet shit in the bag, and left the stall. Twenty minutes had passed. Yes, I spent 20 minutes in a stall attempting to change. The scene in the bathroom was now hysterical. Women in soaking running garb and wrapped in mylar sheets shook violently, wet hair clinging to their purple faces. Many hadn't checked bags, and I just felt so bad for them. What would they do? A few of us got the idea to sit undeneath the hand dryers. That was delicious. I just sat there, the hot air streaming down my shirt. We each took turns. The problem was that as time passed, more and more desperate women came in. We, the ones now donning dry clothing, needed to move on.

I went outside and found a few friends. Dan, who had run the half marathon, brought us some warm soup and let use wrap ourselves in blankets he had brought with him. Then we headed to the car. An unceremonious departure, I will say that!

Later that afternoon Dan and Melissa had the GNRCers over for a post-race fiesta. We had cause to celebrate! We had numerous Boston Qualifiers, successful first time marathons, and quite a few fantastic half marathon performances. Not only that, but our lowely little Open Women's Team placed 8th out of 16th in the club division, just ahead of the B.A.A (Boston Athletic Association) and just behind Whirlaway Racing Team, two of the most competitive running teams in New England. We rock.

Final result for moi:
3:19:34, 7:37 pace
5/188 in my Age Group (30-39)
19/629 for women, overall
247/1561 Overall

And now it's time to rest.

(Except that I really, really feel like going for quick little run right now....) ;)