getting by with a little help from my friends

or, the best laid plans
or, how not to do a marathon

In the morning, before the marathon, I read some of John Bingham's Marathoning for Mortals. He was talking about the need to develop three race-day strategies. One, for the perfect day, a second for a day that could be better, and a third for a day that couldn't be worse.

I had a strategy, and I thought I was flexible. I didn't think anything really about what I read, as in, this might be foreshadowing...

The day started off great. I woke up at four, had had a great night's sleep, had breakfast and coffee and time to fuss over my gear, and got downtown at about 5:50. I met up with the PFit folks, met an Assistant Coach I've been corresponding with, and generally had a bang up time. I hit the porta-potties 4 times before the start, because I just wanted to get it all out of my system.

I walked initially with two PFitters that I hadn't met before--we all had the goal of starting very slow and pouring it on at the end. They were great company. All along the beginning of the route there were crowds cheering and bands playing, and quite frequently cheerleaders. I was tremendously happy to see the radical or anarchist cheerleaders there, most of which were in the chubby continuum, cheering "Fit and Fat, we're down with that!".

At several points, we got to see other competitors. Coming down Front, we got a great view of the marathoning wheelchairs and the 5 milers, which was really incredible. There was one woman with a walker (as in, the assistance device) doing the 5 miler--now that's conviction.

The morning was cool and clear, with a nice breeze. I was busy chatting, looking for folks to cheer on and the like, as well as enjoying the music. By nine miles, I was about 4 minutes behind my splits times, which was right about where I wanted to be.
But I realized that I was dehydrated--at least, I should have realized that. I increased the water and the gatorade (though in retrospect, not enough).

But by the time I hit about ten miles, I started feeling a hot spot on the ball of my right foot. And I thought, maybe I should stop at the next medic station and have them treat it. Of course, I've never stopped to treat a blister or hot spot in a long walk, and it didn't occur to me that it might be a bad thing to try out.

I stopped at the medic, this one sponsored by a blister pad company, and lost about 10 minutes while she put the pad on my foot. Immediately afterwards, I knew this was the wrong thing as it was hurting much more. But I trudged on. Once I hit the halfway point, I tried to pick up speed--not a lot, but I was setting goals to pass people in a leisurely fashion, and I did.

I was doing a Gu every 3 miles, and sipping off a Gatorade. By the time I hit Checkpoint Charlie, where you have to have a marathon bib to be able to cross the bridge, I was feeling seriously nauseous, and afraid to have any more gatorade or Gu.

(Now I realize that in the past, I would do a Gu every 45 minutes, but I'd have diluted gatorade or powerade or better yet Smart Water, which contains no sugar. Don't change anything!)

By the time I got to the St. Johns Bridge, I saw my original companions again, who commented on how badly I was limping. Oh, shit. Still, I was okay. That was mile 17.

Mile 18, my beloved was waiting for me, with a new water bladder and sports drink. Luckily, that sports drink included Smart Water, so I took that. I got a tremendous amount of encouragement from seeing him just for the brief time, and I had been looking forward to it, counting down the miles.

Mile 19, I decided to detour into the portapotties, and once I got off my gear, there were Hanna and James. Oh my gosh! I wasn't expecting to see them, but I was so very very very happy to see them. They gave me a lot of encouragement, told me I looked good and fresh, basically said all the right things and smiled at me, and hugged me. Yay!

I learned soon after that I was really dehydrated. I was still also really nauseous, so even water was kinda iffy. So I trudged on. Marathon officials started moving us onto the sidewalks, which meant I had to be looking down at the uneven pavement rather than straight ahead.

By mile 20, I was really in pain, and I decided to see the medics again. The medic took a look at my foot, tore off the blister pad, and told me the ball of my foot was entirely raw. There's nothing I can do for this, she said, except coat your foot in vaseline--it's going to hurt, but hopefully this will help.

As I limped away I realized that my shoe was tied too tight. I loosened it, and then I started to bawl. I wasn't going to make it, there was no way I was going to make it, all I wanted to do was finish the marathon, but I wasn't going to make it. I tried to think of honorable ways to bow out--like being hit by a car, or somehow seriously messing up my feet. I was coming up to the photographers, and I started shouting, no pictures, no pictures, please don't take my picture.

Who knows. I was wearing my sunglasses and hat--perhaps it wasn't obvious that I was crying harder than I can remember crying since my father's funeral.

I bawled and bawled, and then a car pulled alongside the road. It was Anne and Rachel with the baby. Anne jumped out and hugged me, and walked with me, very slowly. She asked me about how marathoners motivate themselves. Oh, go the next mile, get to the next aid station, get to the next tree, I said. Okay. Why don't we go to the next aid station, it's just a couple blocks up, she said.

So we made it to the mile 21 aid station, the PFit aid station. There were two folks that I didn't recognize at all, and Jone, my best walking pal, who hadn't done the marathon because she did a 60K about a month ago and blackened a toe. I was still bawling, but Anne, a nurse, switched into medical professional mode, and had me sit so she could take off my shoe. Her assessment was similar to the one at mile 20, but she cut out moleskin to go around the blister, which stretched across the ball.

I cried for about the next mile, while Anne tried to encourage me with buddhist philosophy and Jone told me about her marathon experiences. I tried to contact my sweetie, but he was already downtown. And he had Jill's number, so I couldn't call her.

By mile 22, I was doing okay. I was no longer crying, I was moving a little faster, and I was even able to make conversation with other marathoners.

There was a group of two women and a man--the man had an old external frame backpack on, wearing sandals. They were sweet. I had passed them and they had passed me several times at this point, but it didn't seem to be a competition for them. They had lots of homemade goodies they were noshing on, and they were all in great spirits.

Anne and Rachel tagteamed with me til about mile 23, but Jone, bless her soul, walked me in. It was tremendously encouraging, because she'd stop about every mile and move her car, and each time she'd come up and say, hey, you're moving faster, you're gonna make it. And at some point, I started to believe that too.

Going up and down the curbcuts was murder! My toes were hurting, my shins were hurting, and of course the bottom of my feet felt, well, worse than hamburger. I heard from my beloved and was able to let him know that it might be an hour before I'd cross the finish line.

While I was on the Steel Bridge, I heard from Mela, who had just finished her marathon and was quickly prepping for a business trip (she left within about 20 minutes of her call). And then I heard from my sweetie again, and I was able to say those magic words -- I'm on the Steele Bridge. Jone walked with me down Front, to Salmon where we met up with my beloved and Jill, and they all walked me in.

It was great to cross the finish line and to hear them announce my name--pronounced correctly! I collected a bag full of food, a medal, and a space blanket, and then headed home.

I was unable to tolerate the ice bath (I'm going to try again this morning), I started cramping up horribly, I was hot and cold, and then I got heartburn (maybe my choice of dinner wasn't so smart). My sweetie kept doting on me, taking care of me, it was lovely.

And this morning? I feel better than I thought I would. My arms and stomach are sore. My thighs feel fine. My left calf feels fine. My right shin is killing me. And I have a blister on each foot (though my left foot blister is small and inconsequential).

I asked my beloved last night to remind me how miserable I was when I start talking about doing marathons again. He said, oh I know you, you'll do more. I'm afraid he's right. I did so much wrong this time that I'd like to redeem myself...

finish time: 8:57:02