So I ran a little marathon

Maybe you have heard of the race.  The New York City Marathon.  As I promised, it was not fast and it was not pretty, but I finished.  Being too stupid and too prideful to quit really helped get me through the gutcheck moment where a metrocard and a slice of pizza were all I really wanted.


I am so beyond late with posting this.  For that I apologize.  But this blog is a hobby and I don't do hobbies on deadline.


4:45am 11/7/10 (race morning) - i wake myself up from a fitful night of sleep. Having spent the night at the newly opened Jewel Facing Rockefeller Plaza (yes that is the actual name of the hotel, and it was a nice place, great location, but they need to get their act together service wise) I get dressed and grab my clear bag stuffed with post race clothes.  I decide at the last minute that I don't need to carry around a pair of pants to put on after the race.  I will regret this decision many hours later.  I stumble into the lobby, the staff wishes me luck.  I set out for a nice jog to the Hilton New York where Fred's Team is having a pre-race breakfast.


I feel so lucky that my first marathon experience included Fred's Team.  It was a great feeling to be part of an organization of people so dedicated to such a noble goal.  It was not until that moment that I realized the marathon took place on the day of the memorial service for my cousin Robbie down in Puerto Rico who lost his battle with lymphoma in August.  I also realized that the marathon was the day after my Aunt Iris's birthday.  While breast cancer claimed Iris twenty years ago, I still miss the hell out of her.  So timing wise, it was a powerful weekend.


6:00am 11/7/10 - I have nibbled at a bagel and had a cup of coffee.  I feel too nervous to really eat.  There is a table full of gu packets for us to take.  I laugh as I think, "Amateur hour, I have my gu packets in my bag."  Therefore I decline to take any.  My failure to eat anything and my failure to grab free energy gu will haunt me throughout this day.  Team members are busy writing messages on their shirts.  Mine is short and simple - For Iris and Robbie.  My OCD is firing on all cylinders because my lettering is uneven.  I curse myself for not having it screenprinted on there ahead of time.  The smell of Sharpie helps to bring me down. 


6:30am 11/7/10 - we all head towards our buses to get to the starting line.  Let me tell you this, you have not lived until you have had a police escort through midtown.  The ability to blow through red lights is awesome.


7:00am 11/7/10 - I reach into my bag to grab my gatorade bottle.  Everything in my bag is soaking wet.based upon my failure to close the bottle.  I think that this problem will sort itself out because my clothes are sure to dry by the time I cross the finish line with a race time of 4:30.  There are so many miscalculations in that sentence I can not even begin to explain. 


7:30am, 11/7/10 - the bus arrives at Fort Wadsworth.  Holy Handgrenades it is freezing.  I am now wearing my Fred's Team Uniform of a long sleeve technical tee and the shortest shorts ever, an old pair of adidas windpants, a zip up running jacket, a watchcap and some thin gloves. The race has not even started and the amount of life left in my iPhone has me concerned.  I hope that by the time my wave heads to the corrals to start the race it warms up a bit. It is at this point that I realize that I did not bring the four packets of gu that i had planned to use at miles 6, 12, 18 and 22.  No, I brought one packet, and if we rewind you will remember that I declined to take free gu at the team breakfast.  Crap. 

10:00am, 11/7/10 - after killing time, waiting in line for the porta potties, wandering around the start villages and looking in vain for other people who I know that are running it is time to head to the corrals.   It has not warmed up very much.  I decide to ditch the windpants though.  It is a sad moment.  Those pants went through high school x-c with me.  In addition to 4 years of college non running, mostly limited to playing playstation and binge drinking.  It is like saying good bye to an old friend who hasn't done a very good job keeping you warm and makes alot of noise as you run together. 

I look for my pace group.  I am hoping to do this crazy thing in about 4 hours and 50 minutes.  But when I find the 4:50 pace group, they are so far back from the start that I can't bring myself to join up with them.  How often do you get to run over the Verezano Bridge?  I decide I am not going to let myself get caught in the mass of humanity, I am going to start closer to the front of the pack. I am going to enjoy the scenery and go big.  Are we still keeping track of my race day mistakes?  Good.

10:40am, 11/7/10 - finally, wave three starts.  Running over the Verezano was amazing.  I was in the westbound lanes on the upper deck so I got to enjoy some amazing views.  The bridge is littered with cast off clothing of the runners who started in the prior waves.  I decide against tossing away my gloves and hat, instead I stash them in my jacket pocket.  Possibly the only smart decision I make all day.  We pass the first mile midspan.  I am feeling good.  I am thinking I can conquer the city.  I am thinking my target pace was way too pessimistic.

We hit Brooklyn, I open up the pace as the crowd on Fourth Avenue goes wild.  Of course they are all there to see me.  This delusion is reinforced as i remove my jacket.  My Fred's Team shirt has my name written across the chest.  So now the crowd is chanting "Danie, Daniel" as I run by.  I give random high fives, I shout back at the crowd, I waste alot of energy.

As I hit the 5k mark the 4:20 pace group catches up to me.  Pause for a moment to let that sink in.  I had wanted to do a smart marathon in 4:50.  The 4:20 pace group should not have even been in my sight, let alone in a position to pass me.  Yet, it has taken them a little over 3 miles to catch me.  Suddenly I realize what a stupid thing I have done.  I still feel good, but that nagging voice is now in the back of my head.  The voice is telling me that I just f-cked my race by starting way too fast.  This isnt a 10k or a half.  This is a marathon and I can't coast out the end of this to make up for a stupid fast start. 

The nagging voice in the back of my head is almost over powered by the gung ho voice that creeps up at these moments to make me do stupid stuff.  This voice wants me to keep up with the 4:20 group.  "After all," it says "you are still feeling strong, 23 more miles isn't a big thing."  I tell that voice to go straight to hell.  I let the 4:20 group pull away from me.

Still feeling good. I do my mental checklist.  Legs, good: Breathing, good: Feet, no heat spots.  I hit 10k before I realize it.  That is 6.2 miles for everyone who lives in America.  Brooklyn is great and it is going by at a good clip.  I try to keep an eye out for some friends who told me that they would be out along the course in the Williamsburg area.  Did not have much success in spite of the fact that one assured me that she would be easy to see based upon the fun hat she was wearing.  Everyone was wearing hats, it was cold, and fun is a very subjective term. 

As I approach the halfway point I begin to feel the grinding in my left knee that I knew was coming.  I look around at the runners surrounding me as I back off my pace on the approach to the Pulaski Bridge.  I curse them for having cartilage in their left knees.  I curse them for doing better and smarter training than I did.  Slowing down I cross the Pulaski.  My entry into Queens is less inspiring than my entry into Brooklyn.  Now my mantra has become one of "Please god, just let me survive this."

Oh yeah, and somewhere in Queens the 4:30 pace group blows by me.  So to recap, I had wanted to run a 4:50.  Instead I start way too fast.  So fast that it takes over half the race for the 4:30 pace group to catch me.  The nagging voice in the back of my head is now laughing at me.  The gung ho voice (who sounds like a marine corps DI) is even at the point of telling me that I have really screwed up big.  

The clicking and scraping in my knee has now become audible.  I can't get the sound out of my head.  So I turn up the volume on my headphones to drown it out.  Oh, and by the way  my iPhone is now around 75% dead.  I do not conquer Queens.  I just try to survive it.  I must look like crap because a random spectator offers me a banana.  All my childhood fears of embedded needles and stranger danger go right out the window as I eat the first thing I have had all day.  Remember, I skipped breakfast. 

On the approach to the 59th St bridge my spirits begin to pick up.  I put my knee out of mind and just slug out each stride.  My cousin Blanca was standing right by the start of the bridge.  Her recollection of how I look at that moment completely disagrees with how I thought I looked.  While I thought I was looking good and on had passed through my gut check moment Blanca tells me that I looked like I was in immense pain and wanted to curl up and die.  I totally do not have a poker face.

The 59th street bridge incline sucked.  The grinding is back, accompanied by a good dose of pain every few steps.  Also the bottoms of my feet are barking.  No heat spots, but each footfall is jarring.  I curse the book "Born to Run" for selling me on the whole idea of minimalist running footware.  I want to throw my barely there mizunos off the f-cking bridge and miracle my cushioned, memory foam, heavy as hell asics out of thin air.  My confidence does rise however as I realize that some of the people who are surrounding me have wave two on their race bibs.  I have caught up to the tail end of the prior race wave.  Awesome.  This minor victory is short lived as the 5:00 pace group passes by me. 

On the downhill from the bridge I try to open it up a bit.  This Sunday stroll is really embarrassing.  I have told my pregnant wife that i would be in Central Park around 3:30 or 4pm.  I am going to need to pick up the pace if I am making that date.  Immediately my knee tells me that being fashionably late is perfectly fine.  I limp/skip/ hobble my way down the bridge and onto First Ave.  If the crowd along 4th was wild, the crowd on First is both wild and drunk.  My type of party.  But I am way to far inside my own head to enjoy it.

I jog/hobble past my friend Nicole on First Ave.  She said I looked like hell.  I believe her. She has no reason to lie.

I put on my best face at I approach Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center.  The kids from the hospital are out in the cheering section.  I may be in pain and half a step away from hopping the subway, but if those kids can deal with the things they have to deal with then I can put on a good show as I run by.  High fives and some pats on the back help carry me a few blocks uptown, but I am completely gassed and hurting.  Each impact shoots right up my left leg from my knee to my hip. 

As I get to mile 18 I make a decision.  I know that I can't keep running the way I am running.  I walk to the aid tent, a runner comes out as I am about to get on line.  He looks at me and says, "If you absolutely don't need to get help, don't step foot in that tent.  They kept me there for 40 minutes to watch me before they let me go.  My goal is shot."  Gung ho voice chirps in and says something along the lines of F-ck this tent, just keep biting the inside of your cheek and get through this.

I step off the line for the aid tent and get back on the course.  I take a few steps. The taste of blood in my mouth from biting on my cheek for the past few miles and the shooting pain up my leg convince me to do an abrupt about face back to the aid station. 

I tell the paramedic I just want my knee wrapped up and I will be on my way.  Instead they take my temperature and tell me to sit down.  FML.  A big ziploc bag full of ice is strapped to my knee with saran wrap.  Wow, ziploc and saran wrap mentions in one sentence.  I wonder if I could get them to pay me for the plug.  Anyway, with a freezing bag of ice strapped to my leg a physical therapist commences stretching out my leg.  I am unashamed to admit that if you heard something that sounded like a pig getting stuck with a chainsaw somewhere it was me.  The paramedic asks me how many asprin, motrin or whatever I have already taken today.  I lie and say none and my prudent lie is rewarded with pills.  I grab a few salt packets off the table and devour them.

Thirty or so minutes after stepping into the tent, they give me the clear to get on my way.  My goal, which was already out the window is now completely lost.  The best I can hope to do now is just finish.  I have an ice pack strapped to my left knee.  Jogging with it there is annoying.  Freezing water is dripping down my leg.  My sock is soaked, my left shoe is getting water logged.  Once I hit mile 19 I rip the thing off my leg and toss it on the street. 

I shuffle as best I can.  Bending my left knee is really not an available option.  But I am keeping a steady, if slow, pace and picking off a few other unfortunates along the way.  The Bronx goes by pretty quickly, not because I was moving very fast, but just because we were only in the Bronx for about an mile.

Manhattan beckons again and my main concern now is that the hotel is going to hit us up for an extra night if Dori and I don't check out by six.  It is freezing when the wind hits you and I am glad I decided not to toss my hat and gloves away in a fit of joy back on the Verrezano earlier in the day.  I missed Nicole at 106th, probably because the only thing I was really looking at were my feet.  The shuffle downtown to Central Park continued and now I found myself passing more people.  Who would have thought?  I am still in a nice amount of pain, but my crazy straight legged stride is minimizing it. 

Somewhere around 96th some a--hole yells out, "Riverbottom Nightmare Band."  I look up and there is Kevin, obnoxious signs and all.  Not content to just yell random nonsense at me from the sidewalk, Kevin crashes the marathon in jeans, a parka and scarf to run the last few miles with me.  It was a great gesture and very appreciated.  After almost six hours of talking to no one but the demons in my head, it was a welcome break to be able to talk to an actual person.  Plus, Kevin quietly picked up the pace here and there to break me out of the rut I was in. 

We hit Central Park and I am in the best mood I have been in since Brooklyn.  No offense Queens, Upper East Side, Harlem and the Bronx but I was in no frame of mind to enjoy you.  Kevin is being so obnoxious that other runners are shooting him and me dirty looks.  My awkward stride probably has some spectators and other runners thinking that there is some disabilty that I am battling.  Aside from chronic stupidity there is not.

With 200m to go some race official finally notices that a lunatic holding signs and telling New York to "let him hear it" has crashed the race course.  Kevin is escorted off to the sidewalk.  I just keep moving, hoping that he isn't getting tasered.  With 100m to the finish I see Dori standing at the sidelines.  Holy crap I think I may survive this.  I cross the finish line as the cloak says 7:17:40.  At first I am completely destroyed.  Then I realize that I have to back out an hour since my wave didn't start until an hour after the first wave.  So that means it took me 6:17:40.  I am still completely destroyed. 

A medal is draped over my neck and a space blanket is handed to me.  I have no idea who did any of that.  I just walk down the finish shoot trying to get out of central park and back to my hotel.  The Fred's Team volunteers and coaches find me and lead me back to the recovery area where my post race bag is waiting.  Upon opening it up I discover that all of my stuff is still soaking wet.  So that was pretty great.  Also I curse myself again for taking my sweatpants out of the bag back in the hotel that morning.  It is now freezing cold.  I make a kilt out of a cast off space blanket. 

The runners aren't allowed to exit the park until you get to 77th.  My wife is waiting for me at 65th.  My phone died somewhere in the Bronx.  The hotel is at 51st.  Yeah, my legs were up for all that.  Dori and I find each other and flag down the first pedicab.

I will spare all the drama and nonsense about the trip back to the hotel and the long drive home.  I will also spare you all the details of my post marathon Monday spent laying in bed and trying not to move because everything hurt.

I will say this.  For the first few days post marathon I did not even want to think about ever running another.  But for the past few days all I have been to think of is giving it another shot.  I have a pretty crappy personal best to beat.