The Crash & Burn of Marathon One

Date: January 19, 2003

Place: Houston, Texas

Event: Houston Marathon

Lauren & I flew from Boston to Houston via a roundabout North American tour in order to save money on airfare.  This caused a late arrival and we missed the pasta feed.  I did make it to the Expo on Saturday where I made the rookie mistake of purchasing a running shirt to wear in the marathon. Why I thought long sleeves & Texas went together escapes me.  It was a mistake I’d pay for as the race unfolded.

 
Sunday (race day!) morning I got up and ate a bagel with peanut butter and nervously did a “pre-race ritual”. Unfortunately, I didn't have an established pre-race ritual because this was my first marathon.  Shorter races really don’t require such preparation.  So I did the best I could.  As the starting time approached, Lauren & I began the two block walk to the auditorium & starting area.  When we exited the hotel, we entered a sea of runners all walking silently in the pre-dawn light.  I was surprised at the lack of conversation.  Nobody spoke.

 
The auditorium was packed with runners and families. The lines to the porta-potties were 20 deep and Lauren & I just plunked ourselves down to stretch and relax while we waited. The wait wasn’t long.  In a matter of minutes we heard the announcement that runners should go out to the starting line. The starting line was a 4 lane highway divided by jersey barriers.  Ladies on one side, men on the other.  At mile 3 we would merge.

It was very exciting to be standing in the crowd of 8000 runners. The gun went off and we all sort of looked at each other. It was kind of funny. It was so crowded, that even though the race had begun, we were still standing around.  Then like granules of sand, we started a slow slide toward the actual start line.  The crush of people was amazing. It was certainly a circumstance I didn't anticipate.  After 3 minutes, I was across had begun what was to be: The Great Lesson.

My purpose of running this marathon was to finish with a ‘Boston Qualifier’ time.  In other words, cross the finish in 3:10:59 (or faster).  Since I began training in July of 2002, qualifying for, and eventually running the Boston Marathon was my only goal.

Mile 1 in 14:00! I was shocked!  The crowds made running almost impossible.  I had to make up the lost time.  So for the next few miles I zigged and I zagged to get around and through the crowd to make up time.  I was concerned. How was I to make up the time to average 7:15 per mile if I’m taking 14 minutes to go 1 mile? My answer – take immediate action!

So, I ran faster than I had planned to make up the time.  I cruised down the palm tree lined streets cheered on by throngs of spectators. Still, there was a good deal of weaving to do even as the miles wore on. I remember having to "time" a passing to keep my pace smooth. Otherwise, I would find myself coming up behind a block of runners, slowing to their pace, and then when space allowed, passing.  Finally, at mile 10, the road cleared and the next batch of runners were all in single file.  I burst past and someone kindly remarked as I went by, "Good run!"  When I tried return the courtesy I found I was incapable of conversation - I was running too hard.

Three miles later - at the half way point - a radio station disc jockey was announcing names over the loudspeakers as we passed. Fans were yelling encouragement from both sides of the roadway. I was trying to listen for my name when a fan yelled out my bib # and shouted "Pace yourself!"  Huh?  “Pace yourself?” Everyone else is getting “Good job!” or “Way to go!” and I get “Pace yourself!”?

My spirits lifted a little by the fact that mile 14 & 15 came and went without a problem. But then the race started to change.  The road surface didn’t seem quite as smooth as it was before, the crowd seemed to be thinning, and was it just me or did the fans look a little weary? And then on an odd part of the course (an on-ramp) I suddenly felt alone.  A runner was up ahead, but he wasn’t running anymore.

And then the slowing began.  Up to this point I had been able to calculate my average pace but now my ability to do simple math vanished.  Fortunately, the volunteer timers from mile 16 on were calling out your "pace" instead of the "time".   Mile 16: "7:13" pace.  Mile 17: "7:14" pace.  Then mile 18: "7:15".  Now I was worried. I was still in the ‘teens’ and "down" to my goal pace. The spectators yelled "Only 8 more miles to go!" To my right, a family was anxiously looking beyond me holding up a sign that read "Jason is going to Boston!" I thought, "If he's behind me then he's in trouble!"

Still oblivious to the warning signs, I tucked in behind a runner that was running the same pace.  We zigzagged around a few tight corners and had just entered a tree-lined parkway when it happened – the first hitch.

I started experiencing severe hesitations in my stride.  Beads of sweat broke out over brow. I tried to press on. Mile 19:"7:16". Oh no! Below qualifying pace!  I tried to accelerate.  Nothing. I tried to stay steady – no dice.  I tried to find any comfortable pace… there was none. And SLAM!

With Houston's skyline in view and 6 miles to go, I hit the wall.

It was like nothing I had experienced before.  I had come to a complete stop - frozen in the middle of the parkway.  My legs were on fire and unable to move. My jaw dropped and my eyes widened.  Pain!  I moved my right leg, only to find it stiff and unyielding. The same for the left. Six miles out.

I started rubbing and massaging my quads vigorously.  Anything to alleviate the pain. Rub rub rub. Take a few steps. Rub rub rub. Take a few steps. I was in deep. Complete depletion, nothing left, physically unable to continue.  Unbelievable!

Then, ever so slowly, the pain lessened.  I tried to jog but that wasn't going to work, so I walked - like I had wooden legs. I found I could walk only a few feet before I would have to stop and either double over in pain as I massaged my screaming legs, or squat down (that eased the pain too).  Over and over I repeated this process as a stream of runners flowed by. After the first shock of surprise and pain, I started to feel a sense of shame or humiliation.  The crowds going by all look so fresh.  I imagined the thoughts of those passing: “Hey, didn’t he pass us 10 miles ago?” “Look at him, that’s what you get when you don’t know what you’re doing!”  And one husband / wife team actually high-fived each other as they passed me.  Misery.

Of course, it only got worse.

Dehydration.  A little late to realize I was a Mainer in Texas wearing a long sleeve shirt. The only thing I could think of now was that I hadn’t traveled from Maine to Texas to drop out. I was going to finish if it killed me. My total focus was on this one goal - to get to the finish line. It consumed me.

I started to attract the wrong type of attention. Medical personnel would stop me and ask questions.  I can’t remember the questions or my answers.  But I remember making a special effort when passing a medical station to bluff through.

Rub, walk, repeat.

A long, long six mile walk.  I thought the finish would never arrive.  But it did.  I “ran” the last 2 blocks into the finish and leaned my head down as they put the finisher's medal around my neck. I never imagined just how good the weight of that medal would feel.  I finished and that’s all that mattered.

Until the nausea hit.  As I entered the auditorium, it was all I could do to get from one seat to the next as I made my way across the expanse of the "runners only" section.  I was trying to get out of there to get to Lauren.  I thought if I could just get to her I'd be ok. I made it to her but I couldn't go any further and she summoned the medical team to come get me. I was wheeled away into the medical area to be re-hydrated and watched carefully. My blood pressure was low and the pulse was weak - typical symptoms of dehydration. Cured easily by taking fluids - it just takes time. This bothered Lauren as she wasn't given any information and was not allowed into the medical area. She was instructed to wait like the others.  The nurse who attended me continuously took my blood pressure - it was a bother really as the cot I was laying on was very comfortable.  Just what I needed - a place to lie down! Nice heavy blanket, dry shirt, water.  After my blood pressure came up, they walked me around the medical area to see if I'd fall down.

Some lessons:

Lesson #1: A marathon is 26.2 miles; not 20.6 miles. I ran the race like the race was going to be over at the 20 mile mark. This was a function of my long runs being 20 miles. I had heard that "if you can do 20, you can do the last 6 miles". Well, this isn't exactly true.  I was trained for the wrong distance.

Lesson #2: An 18:00 5k does not automatically translate into a 3:10 marathon -not without significant distance training.

Lesson #3: Hydration please. I took fluids every 3 miles (even though water was provided every 1 1/2 miles) and continued running with my water.  Needless to say, my actual fluid intake was quite low. By mile 21 I had to stop at a medical station for water. Mile 22 required a porta-potty stop for 5 minutes. At mile 23 I was quizzed by a medical team about my ability to continue on. I lied.

Lesson #4: Seek medical treatment before it seeks you. Running the last 1/2 mile on legs of jelly, lungs of iron, double vision, and crossing the finish line like a man just rescued from a deserted island is not recommended.  When I finally reached Lauren I had to lay down on the floor hoping that the nausea would subside (it would not). Once Lauren realized I wasn't about to get up, she summoned medical help.

Lesson #5: Make all preparations to avoid the above situation as the wife will be less than pleased. Flying her to Houston so I can "collapse” does not make a happy wife. To top it off, I had to take a cab to go the 2 blocks back to the hotel.  I fell asleep for 4 hours.

In summary, I was under-trained, overdressed, and inexperienced - in that order. The whole ordeal was a learning experience and I became full of respect for the distance and the challenges that make the marathon unique.

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