The (long) Run

I head out of the rink/transition area and onto Main Street and realize all those training ‘bricks’ and transition runs had paid off, as after over 8 hours I’m actually able to run. Just a few hundred yards down Main and I catch all of my family and friends behind the barrier on the right, Ann, Nick, Mike, Mary, Jaclyn and Cindy and Bob. All a bit drenched but cheering and yelling to me things I can’t quite understand but they seem excited and happy to be there despite all the rain. I wonder to myself if they’ve been drinking all afternoon, but figure it’s a bit early for that and I didn’t hear my sister yelling things like ‘give it to grandma” her standby sporting event instruction, so I figure they’ve exerted a bit of self control for my benefit. (Later I’m told she’s modified her cheer for Triathlon to “you look fresh” and the unknowingly cruel “you’re almost there” to folks with over 13 miles to go.

Sober or not, I’m happy they’re there and even happier to have made it as far as I have. I wave and smile and point to my legs and tell them “I’m running” mainly because I couldn’t quite believe it myself. When thinking about the run, my biggest fear was that I’d have to walk the whole thing so initially I’m happy just to be running – figuring every mile I can run is one less I have to walk.

Overall I feel good, and after the first mile I get all optimistic and decide I’m going to run the Ironman Marathon faster than the marathon I ran on it’s own in May. I was excited, I was inspired, I was motivated, I was wrong.

Once down the hills and out of town I immediately regret wearing my fuel belt. I’d trained with it a lot and did wear it for my earlier marathon, but it just wasn’t sitting right and felt heavy and uncomfortable. I thought about just dumping it but it wasn’t cheap, and I am, so I drink a little to empty one of the bottles. As I’m running out of town I get the sensation that I know TONS of people. Everyone is calling me by name – telling me how good I look, how strong I am, how nice my pace is, to ‘keep it going Mary Lou.’ I’ve never done a race with my name on my number before and it caught me by surprise, but I did my best to thank and acknowledge everyone that I was now on a first name basis with.

I think it’s at about mile two where the route passes the horse grounds. As I’m running by still feeling good I’m totally shocked to see my friend Lucy. I had met her at my gym three or four years ago and she’s one of the first people I started doing long rides with. Lucy, her friend Mark and her daughter Jenna had been in Vermont for a wedding and stopped to see the race ‘on the way’ back to Buffalo. It was a much welcomed surprise – and as happy as I was to see her, I was just as excited for having a ‘place’ to dump my fuel belt. She jogged along for a bit and told me how great I was running (thanks Lucy!) and then wished me well as I continued down the hill towards the River Road out and back.
After I hand off my fuel belt I thought that doing so might be something I could get disqualified for, thinking maybe I should’ve just dropped it on the ground and risk getting a warning for littering. Then I wonder if I do get DQ’d do they do it right away or wait ‘til I cross the finish line and then refuse to give me a finisher’s medal – that would kind of suck.

Shortly after the horse farm I also see James for the first time as he was making his way in on the first half of the run, a good 10 miles ahead of me. I felt bad to see him walking, but after greeting him he seemed content with the mix of running and walking he had to do and actually seemed to be enjoying himself – I no longer felt bad, I was just envious! I think it was in this same stretch that I also noticed Elizabeth Wittmack, another contest finalist who was taking her best shot at qualifying for Kona and was headed in and running strong.

The next 7 or 8 miles, through the out and back on River Road, went by ok, but I was beginning to hurt … a lot – in my lower back and butt (sciatic) and my knees, calves, quads and hamstrings, in other words, just about every muscle I needed. I was able to keep a good pace, about a 10 min mile when I was running and I followed the advice I was given by another BTC member and veteran IMLP’er, Dick Mullaney – nothing ground breaking, but sound advice to ‘have a plan, walk the hills and the water stations.’ So that’s what I did, I made a point to grab a cup of something at each aid station – about every mile. But the problem was I’d likely only take a sip and toss the rest and run on – I’m sure this lack of attention to how much I was drinking would later factor into my difficulties. But I was happy to start ticking off the miles and skeptical about how long this would last – on that issue, my fears would prove to be well founded.

Heading back into town I see Lucy, Mark and Jenna again, and it was a boost seeing how excited they were for me, I was really glad they were able to catch part of the race. But it was shortly after, when I hit the next set of hills coming into town that I sensed things were changing, I was just fatigued and sore and couldn’t bear to think about having to run another 15 miles or more.

The BTC cheering section were parked in the Score-This tent at the top of the Sentinal Road hill at the turn onto Main Street and it was nice to have a cheering section but the boost was temporary. Everything was really hurting and I was dreading the second half of the run. As I hit main street again I see my own cheering section – I’m not sure but I thought I remember there being half on either side of Main Street – they seem as relieved as I am to see that I’m still running, but I feel the batteries winding down and feared the difficulties ahead.

If you check out the run course you’ll see that you hit Main Street on the way in at about mile 11, and then there is this cruel little 2 mile out and back to finish off the lap. For the runners, or for me at least, this was the toughest part, you hit the crowd and want to be done, but no … you have another 2+ miles before you get to start the second lap – or finish which is what many of the triathletes were doing as I was just finishing my first lap. The first time, on what I’ll call the Mirror Lake out and back, was where I first started to lose it. I managed to run through town with the crowds carrying me, but once left to my own devices, around the area where we can pick up our special needs bags is where I first started to bonk, both physically and mentally. Everything hurt and I had so far to go. I walked by the special needs bags and opted not to retrieve mine – I only had an extra pair of socks, sneakers and a long sleeve shirt. Which given the current amount of rain wouldn’t last long, what was the point I figured. I continued on and tried to maintain a steady walk pace but that hurt too – I had run this part of the course on my training runs, but now it seemed SO much further.

As I made the turn to finish the last mile of the 1st half marathon I was wearing down mentally. It was a very bad idea to only focus on how far I had yet to go, over 14 miles, it just didn’t seem physically possible. I had to fight back the desire to just sit down and sob – I kept walking not sure what I was going to do - then I came upon the special needs area again. This time I thought maybe taking a break and at least putting on clean, dry socks and shoes couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t raining that hard at the moment and I knew I was in for a very long night so I put the long sleeve wicking shirt I had in there on over what I was wearing, changed my socks and shoes and started a slow jog back towards Main Street.

I used it as my own mini-transition and I was wishing I had something more in there: a towel, bio-freeze, pain killers, mountain dew – anything that would’ve tasted good or made me feel better. People had recommended some ‘treat’ item but I figured I’d be good with what was offered on the course and worried about how my stomach might react – I regretted not taking their advice.

I think I managed to keep a slow jog going as I passed all the spectators lining Mirror Lake Drive and at the split to continue on the next lap or head into the speed skating oval for the finish - I was just crushed looking at that sign - I would’ve given just about anything to be done. I fought the urge to cheat (and get DQ’d!) and continued on to the left and the second lap. I passed my friends and family on Main Street again and was wishing I were invisible. I was hurting and I knew it was going to be HOURS before I’d see them again. They were all excited and cheering for me and I just started to cry, I didn’t want them cheering for me because I was tanking, big time, and knew my chances of finishing were dwindling. I think I yelled out to them to get my special needs bags cause I didn’t want to lose the stuff that was in them – they told me I was doing great, that I looked good, I told them it was going to be a long night and tried to keep up something that resembled running untill I was out of their sight – I don’t think I was successful.

Next I would pass the BTC club members and a decent downhill. An amusing aside: as I passed, with the illusion of dusk due to all the clouds and rain (I think it was about 6:30 or so) and with me now wearing a different shirt I was secretly hoping that they wouldn’t recognize me, and no sooner did I think it than did Rich Clark call out on the bullhorn that I couldn’t fool ‘em with a change of clothes. It made me smile that he was reading my mind, but similar to when I passed my family, I didn’t feel worthy of their cheers or support – my being an Ironman was in jeopardy.

I tried to trot down the hill but it felt as if every jarring footfall was like a sledgehammer to the inside of my body. Bones and muscles in my back, ass, shoulders, neck and legs all seemed to be vibrating like a tuning fork and reverberated the pain through my limbs with every step. I hung my head and began what would be a several mile walk. I began to feel the pity of the onlookers and was thankful that my change of clothing had covered up my name, I wanted to be anonymous, hell, I wanted to be invisible. It didn’t stop some of them from telling me how ‘fantastic’ and ‘strong’ I looked – I often had to choke back the tears as I’d make eye contact and acknowledge their support with a weary nod or an uncertain shake of my head …'thanks.'

Around the horse farm (about mile 14 or 15) I was thankful Lucy & company were gone, and I figured they must’ve been driving back to Buffalo that night. I grabbed a gel at the aid station there – Powergel with 2X’s caffeine - and washed it down with a few sips of water. I continued on down the next hill to the turn on to River Road. Just as I made the turn I felt really ill, dizzy and sick like I may faint and wondered if I’d be forced to stop if I fainted. I hadn’t realized how little I’d been drinking and attributed how I felt to the caffeine I just had. I made it to the next aid station, just shy of mile 16 and knew I needed to do something to try to feel better.

As terrible as I felt, I so wish I had a camera, standing at the start of the aid station with a garbage can filled with white blocks, in the pouring rain I might add, was a volunteer in an army green poncho holding out wet sponges for us to use to cool off! Perhaps the people on a 3 hour marathon pace actually needed this, but at this time of day, considering the weather and who was left on the course, well I still can’t think about it without laughing.

I moved under the cover of the aid tent and leaned on and over a garbage can. I’m sure the volunteer who came over to assist me thought I was going to throw up, but I did it just to support and steady myself. He offered for me to sit down and I refused, I was exhausted and knew if I got even remotely comfortable I may just pass out cold, never to continue. If I was going to go down, I at least wanted to be moving forward, but this was the first time I really thought I was going to have to quit, I didn’t see how I could possibly cover all those miles, I wasn’t thinking about the time cut off then, I just didn’t know how I could continue to propel my body forward for the remaining distance.

Ok, massive ‘defining moment’ here. The volunteer stood next to me, holding cups of pretzels and chicken broth as I took what I could. He kept telling me to take all the time I needed, he was patient and kind as minutes passed and I still used the garbage can for support. Then I looked over to the road as an ATV race patrol vehicle came down the middle of the road heading back towards town. Sitting in the middle of the back was a guy huddled up in a mylar blanket, his race was over. I turned back to stare at all the cups in the garbage can, thought about the reality of giving up and knew that I didn’t want that to be me. Get over it. Get moving.

So I did that, I finished up my chicken broth, filled up my pretzel cup, and grabbed a cup of coke – I was worried about the caffeine but was sick of the Gatorade and figured I needed the sugar. I hoped if ate some more pretzels and kept moving the dizziness would pass, and eventually it did. Carry on.


Yet another shout out to the volunteers who nursed us all along the run in that miserable weather, and especially to the young man who assisted me at that stop. I’m thinking I wasn’t all that nice to him at the time, but I’m very much appreciative.

I walked on with a new attitude and resolve and tried to think positively – coming up with queer motivational quotes and sayings: “mind over marathon” “whether you think you can or you can’t, you’re right.’ And crap like that – it worked for a while, but the miles were going slow, everyone was passing me. I started to get pissed that I was even trying this, questioning why anyone in his or her right mind thought I was ready for this. I was whining to myself because I needed my ipod or someone to walk and talk with. I’d try to keep pace with people that passed me but I couldn’t, I was the slowest person out there, and to make matters worse it was still raining – what did I ever do to deserve this?

As determined as I was to keep moving I soon became aware of my pace, it was slow, really slow. I did some calculations and realized I might not finish – it was getting late, it was getting dark. At best I had a 25-30 min per mile pace and it was going on eight o’clock. Every step hurt, and I was stopping about every 5 minutes to try to stretch my back and legs. People would jog past me and all I could think was “How are these people running?” I was envious, I wished them well and told them ‘good job’ and cheered them on as they left me behind and then found myself secretly hating them and wondering what they did to train and how they managed to be so much better prepared than myself. I grabbed a mylar blanket from one of the volunteers and clocked myself over the next mile, it was over 25 minutes and every step still hurt, something had to give.

I’d like to say at that moment the clouds opened and the sun burst through and I got some kind of divine second wind, but I think it was just the huge construction lights being turned on and humming to full brightness. For whatever reason, at mile 18, I decided I had to try to run. Walking wasn’t working and my pace was too slow. So I tied my blanket around my neck like a cape and first started pumping my arms and then tried to move my legs along with them. The next thing I knew I was running, well, I’m not sure what I was doing would technically qualify as running, but at least it was a jog, probably at a 12-14 minute mile pace, but it was good enough and If I could keep it up it would get me in, hopefully with time to spare. And while it hurt to run, it actually hurt less than walking.

I kept it up, made the turn and now could see all the people still headed out behind me – it seemed like there were a lot and at first it was kind of motivating. Then I began passing those who’d passed me earlier and I really felt like we were all in this together – we were all just doing our best, sucking it up and trying to finish. Once I passed the nineteen-mile mark and still felt ok I knew I could not stop, for I may not get started again. I felt a bit ‘Forest Gump-ish’ but knew I just had to try to keep up this pace. I caught up with another runner, Cynthia, or she caught up with me, and we chatted for a while and it helped pass the time. We finally passed the 20 mile marker and I think I asked her how many 6 mile training runs she’d done, since that was all we had left – finally there was some hope!

At the ‘Inspiration Station’ on the River Road out and back there was also a spiritual/prayer tent, I was thankful that on the way back I no longer felt the need to seek some divine intervention, but believe me there were many times when I was sure that was the only way I was going to make it in!

So that’s how I covered the next 4 miles or so back into town, I kept up some kind of easy jog and never stopped or reverted back to a walk even on the hills – that would hurt too much, it was too hard. So I kept the motion of running, even if I was barely moving. I felt better, I knew I had a chance and I was no longer worried about the time cut off, at least not for me. I became extremely emotional when I made the turn back towards town – around the 22 mile mark coming in, but the 15 – 16 mile mark going out – it was about 9:00 p.m. and there were still people heading out – everyone I saw was struggling as bad as I was, or at least had been, and they were slow moving. I could hardly look at them, I had a sense of how they were feeling, and I realized a lot of them would likely not make it in before the 17-hour cutoff at midnight. I remember just wishing that the same thing that had happened to me would happen to them. That they would be able to run again, and have it hurt less – I was wishing it, but I was skeptical, and it just didn’t seem fair – they’d been out there in the pouring rain all day, and they still had so far to go, it was hard to see and I was thankful that I had gotten my ‘second wind’ so to speak at mile 18 and felt good about my chances of finishing – something I didn’t believe possible a few hours ago when I was doubled over a garbage can fighting off dizzy spells and an unbelievably strong desire to quit.