I would feel remiss if I were to begin this race report with my 4am wake-up call the morning of Sunday, May 1, 2011; to do that would, in no insignificant way, neglect everything that built up to that alarm: the five months I devoted to training for this race, the support I received from friends and family throughout my training (even when I became completely unlikeable, which I’m well aware happened), their continued votes of confidence through my first taper – boy, that was something – and the whirlwind forty-eight hours that preceded my toeing the start line in those final seconds before the race started.
On the other hand, to start from the absolute beginning – early December, 2010 – and drag all of you through my entire journey would be tedious, if not completely boring. Instead, I’ll just touch on the catalyst that started this training cycle, a piece of advice that I was completely skeptical of and completely unhappy to be heeding: run slower.
Apparently, the key to running faster is to run slower, I was told. And the key to fewer injuries – which plagued my first marathon training cycle – is running more miles. What?
Let’s fast-forward through the next four-and-a-half months with some bullet points:
My first “official” week of training for yesterday’s race was December 6-12. This was the first time I’d ever run 6 days in a row. I ran 40 miles. They were slow. Really slow. But I wasn’t injured, and I felt good. Of course, I was skeptical about this whole run-slow thing, especially given how easy it felt. I had just gone from running 6- and 7-milers at a 7:30 pace to running 3- and 4-milers somewhere between 8:30 and 9:00.
Still, it wasn’t going to do me any good to test a theory for one month and then give up on it and return to the habits that kept me straddling the line between injury and semi-injury the first time around. I tacked on more miles to my weekly totals, running my first-ever 50+ mile week in early January.
At this point, I made a plan and proposed my goals for this race: C goal was to PR and not get injured, B goal was to hit sub-3:20 and not get injured, A goal was to BQ and not get injured. A fellow runner told me that I should shoot for the BQ or nothing. He assured me I was capable, and it was just going to take dedication and adherence to the high-mileage, low-speed plan. I was uneasy about that, since 3:10 seemed like a very high bar to set, but as soon as I read his suggestion, I had already decided to go for it, despite myself.
My focus on the marathon wandered about halfway through my training. I was reaching a mental and physical plateau, and easy miles had become boring. I signed up for a couple trail races, finishing second in both. After completing my second half marathon – a grueling, 14+ mile trail run that took me over 2 hours and really gave me no indication of how that result could translate to a road marathon – I realized that maybe I was doing something right by completely switching up my training. Until that point, I had been logging tons of flat-ish, slow road miles. The base was there. Adding monster hills, trails, and race experience to the mix, unbeknownst to me, was the beginning of my build period.
Around the middle of March, I realized that I was putting in as many hours as I ever had before – previously, I was cross-training on the bike at least 5 hours per week – but I wasn’t tired, grouchy, or over-trained in the way I was the first time around. I knew something good was going on, and I knew I had a huge peak in front of me. My focus returned after that trail half.
During the last week of March through the beginning of April, I peaked and broke a cardinal rule of training: I picked up my mileage to 69 and 69.5 miles per week, respectively, and started to add tempo runs and a hell of a lot more GA work to the mix. All at the same time. I rode the line between over-reaching and over-training, but I felt no niggles – early warning signs of possible injuries – whatsoever. My legs were holding up, and I was willing to push myself as hard as I could. So I did.
I admittedly might have over-trained a tiny bit. I started to notice the symptoms – extremely short fuse with regards to anything that I could possibly deem as “incompetency,” feeling a lot less social, etc. – but had the support of a friend who quickly became an extremely good friend. Every night after class, Deaf events, or just random game nights at her sister’s house, she would wait for me to say, “Hey, do you mind sticking around to talk for a little bit?” Then she would sit and listen for hours as I rambled on and on about everything, running-related or not.
This was hugely significant for me. I had never been able to talk to anyone about running or any sort of training before – sure, people asked how running was going, but as soon as I started to give the answer I thought was appropriate, their eyes glazed over like I was speaking another language. Or at the very least, the details I wanted to share were never requested. But I agree, talking running really is another language.
But instead of losing interest and wishing she’d never asked, this friend asked more questions. When I apologized for such a long-winded response, complete with splits and a hell of a lot of running jargon, she replied, “No, that’s exactly the kind of response I wanted.” Her interest validated what would become over 150 hours that I spent focusing on what would hopefully be a less-than-3:10 experience.
Then taper started. Whereas I’d been rehashing my college days throughout most of my training – late nights, a number of hangovers, complete “youthful exuberance,” as it was referred to – now it was time to get serious. Maybe.
I was looking forward to the first week, since my legs had sustained some pretty decent wear and tear on back-to-back 20+ mile long runs, the second of which ended with 10 at race pace. I went into those final three weeks extremely confident, as everything I’d ever read suggested that nailing a 20 with 10 at pace meant I was ready to hit my goal. Of course, within the first week, I started questioning the sanity of such a conclusion. Not only was that run 6.2 miles shorter than the race, but only half of it was at pace! And to be honest, it didn’t feel that fantastic running those ten miles. They hurt. Bad. And during the last two, for the first time in my life, I started to bleed time and couldn’t do much about it. How the hell was that supposed to translate to a perfect race?!
The 16-miler at the end of my first taper week didn’t help my confidence. It, too, hurt. It was hot out. My knees bitched. It felt like the 22 I’d run two weeks before.
Nor did the 12-miler help. My anterior tibialis muscles – just to the outside of the shin, both legs – had started to hurt quite a bit in the last week, and this one didn’t really fix the problem. But I knew that now, it was better to do less than more. I wasn’t going to see many gains during these three weeks, so cramming a bunch of tempo runs or pace miles wasn’t going to help. Now was time for my body to recover, my legs to heal, and my race-readiness to peak.
Still, the runs weren’t feeling great. Nor was I. A series of events – sparked by, but not limited to, a funeral for a friend from high school – weren’t helping my already spinning brain. Without my normal mileage, I didn’t have those hour-long meditative releases. I was stuck with all of this. And it was only getting worse.
Oh, that last week. I suited up for my first 4-miler in God knows how long and thought to myself, “What’s the point?” Why even bother running a measly four miles? Then I realized that at the beginning of my cycle, I was doing two 3-milers per week. So, drudgingly, I did it. My legs weren’t fresh, and my mind was satisfied. I wanted to just throw the race away and run up a mountain. Racing was stupid, and putting myself through all this was even stupider. What was I doing?
The stress of the rapidly approaching race weekend was bubbling over at this point. Not only did I have a huge goal to hit – using a training system I’d never tried before and therefore was still a bit unsure of – but I also had a long two days leading up to the race.
As many of you know, I had an interview – this is the wrong word for it, really, but since I didn’t know the sign for “screening,” I always used “interview” while discussing it with ASL-related friends, so it stuck – in Northern California on Saturday. Which meant I had to drive up there Friday (a seven hour drive), wake up early to squeeze in my last run on Saturday, then drive from Davis to East Sacramento, focus on ASL and looking awesome from 9am-3pm, then drive another seven hours home. Hopefully I’d get some sleep in there.
I was not excited about all of this happening on the same weekend as my marathon. I had put in five dedicated months for this race, and now a mandatory interview/screening day might completely blow my race… But when I found out that I had passed the first application process, I realized that this was more important than running a perfect race. There’d be other marathons, and it was time for my “real” life to get started. My mom, with all good intentions, said I could always switch to the half marathon at the last minute. Oh, Mom, you’re the more supportive person I know, but if you think I’m ever actually going to back out of a race, you’re insane. I was going to bury myself on this race, whether it mean 7:10s as planned or walking in the last 10 miles and crawling across the finish line.
The drive up Friday was inconsequential. I showed up at my brother’s place in Davis, cooked dinner for us, really wanted a glass of wine to help me get to bed (my body still hadn’t adjusted to earlier bed times over the last week, so I was worried I’d have trouble sleeping again), but I had sworn off alcohol – as well as all the other junk I’d been eating for the last few months as a carry-over from the holidays – for the last week of taper. My brother’s roommate was having a dinner party, his other roommate was watching an NHL playoff game, and it was rapidly approaching 10pm. My brother went to his room to sleep.
Fortunately, the dinner party ended, as did the hockey game, but a few people stuck around and were chatting in the kitchen. I was trying to set myself up on the futon in the living room area, which is in no way separated from the kitchen. I finally got into a hazy state of consciousness and was in and out until I got a text message at midnight. I decided I could either become infuriated and probably keep myself up fuming about it or I could just turn my phone to completely silent and accept that whatever happens will happen. I voted for the later.
I managed to get a solid six hours of sleep in. Woke up and felt pretty refreshed, suited up for my last run of the cycle in, and stepped out the door into gale force winds. It was chilly, but really beautiful. I headed east towards Sacramento along a road that paralleled the freeway and enjoyed the sunrise. There were hardly any cars on the road. I tried not to pay attention to my splits, but running 8:2x’s with the level of effort I was putting in wasn’t encouraging. I picked up the pace for the last mile, finishing at race pace. It didn’t feel great or easy, but it wasn’t terribly difficult. I managed to catch a glimpse of myself in a full-length window. I was happy to see that my stride looks, in my opinion, really good. I feel like I’m landing correctly, have become much more of a midfoot striker (I used to heelstrike really awfully), and I looked relaxed.
I had some time to stretch and eat before my interview, and I made it there with about twenty minutes to spare. We quickly got started.
Now, I’m normally a very shy person when it comes to getting involved in a group of people I’ve never met. If I’m with a friend and am introduced to a group or a few new people, I can ham it up and be really comfortable. Perform a little bit, what-have-you. But going into a situation cold? Oof. Fortunately, in Deaf events or ASL-related gatherings, this doesn’t seem to be an incapacitating problem for me. It’s a cultural thing, in some ways; in the Deaf community, there’s nothing even remotely awkward or unusual about walking up to a complete stranger (at a gathering or event, of course) and introducing yourself. I guess this is probably the same in the hearing community, but it’s not something I’m comfortable with doing. Maybe it’s the language and interest in Deaf culture that acts as a launching point for a conversation. I don’t know. Either way, I was able to quickly meet about a third of the people there and strike up conversations.
The day went by pretty quickly. I made a few mistakes, realized I made them as I was making them, but just pushed through it. There were 30 people there and 22-23 spots available, and I was/am confident that at least 7-8 were worse than me. When I texted this to my main confidant – who had by this point claimed herself to be my coach – she replied, “There are a lot more than that worse than you.” Kind of a strange way to word a compliment, Coach, but I know how she meant it. I had a few moments to shine when others in my group faltered with an explanation and started looking to the rest of us for help, and I was able to make a pretty decent impression on the director of the program, as she knew I had come from southern California for the interview and therefore stood out by default. I was disappointed to find out that we have to wait a week or two to find out if we’re in, but then again, if I had gotten a “no,” I would’ve been devastated. Not because it really matters – it doesn’t, as I’ve already been accepted to two other programs – but that would’ve been a huge blow to my already taper-fragile confidence.
The drive home, too, was inconsequential. I ate my last big-carb meal as soon as the interview finished – a huge bag of pasta with some tomato sauce – which is extremely hard to do while driving. I talked with friend-coach about possible plans for Sunday, where I would meet everyone or where they might watch from, whether or not they’d be there for the start (I wasn’t about to ask anyone else to wake up at 4am).
We’re going to skip over what led to this text message and just transcribe it here: “You’re going to do well because you don’t need luck. You’re amazing.” Let me be clear about something: I know that most people don’t run marathons. I know most people don’t even run, let alone run six days a week. But when you train correctly and build up your mileage safely, running longer and faster doesn’t seem significant. I tend to forget what it means to be a marathoner, what it means to go out on a Sunday morning and run twenty miles – simply because you like it – so I’d never stop to think that anyone would see my training as anything more than serious dedication. Needless to say, that one hit me like a freight train and gave me the chills. I thanked her profusely and prayed to God she was right.
I got home a bit earlier than expected, which gave me time to gather some things for the morning, get snappy with my mom – sorry again, Mom – and be in bed by 10pm. I didn’t fall asleep immediately, but I was able to rest soon enough.
In less than six hours, I’d be starting the biggest day of my running career, to date.
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