Race Recap

This is a good one to have in the books: the 2013 Wisconsin Marathon in Kenosha, Wisconsin. I had a great time with friends, achieved my time goal, and returned home healthy.

My buddy Steve encouraged me to sign up for this race earlier in the winter; we had both run there last year and enjoyed the flat course along Lake Michigan. Also, it is one of the few marathons held on Saturday. I was running pretty well through most of winter, and felt a spring marathon might be my shot at qualifying for the 2014 Boston Marathon.

I had three goals for the marathon, in ascending order: finish the race; qualify for Boston (3:15:00), and go sub-3 hours. Avoiding injury, I knew the first goal was easily attainable. My plan for the race was to run the first thirteen miles at 6:50 pace, do a physical assessment, and see if I could maintain for the sub-3 finish or, conversely, dial it back for the BQ time. There was no stress; just an opportunity to gauge my fitness.

After a decent (i.e. restless) taper week, I drove up to South Barrington to meet my friends Steve Spoelhof and David Phelps for the ride up to Wisconsin. In Kenosha, we picked up race packets, ate some pasta, and retired the night.

Up early on race day, I ate a simple repast of Clif Bar and coffee. We arrived downtown Kenosha with ample time for me to wring my hands over race attire--the skies were clear and race temperatures would be in the low-50's. For most people that is perfect; for me it is frigid. We made it to the starting line in time to connect with friends Matt Waterstone and Joe Huizenga. After a moment of silence to honor the victims of the Boston Marathon terrorist attack three weeks ago, the gun went off.

The first three miles were easy and I clicked off rather effortless 6:40-6:50 splits. Miles 4-9 I settled into a good rhythm, zoning out and continuing to nail fast splits. Miles 10-13 required a bit more effort, but at no point was I particularly uncomfortable. I had remembered Greg Lemond once saying that during the last week of the Tour de France in 1987 he couldn't feel his legs--this was a good thing, as it meant that his fitness and form had taken over. Over these first thirteen miles, I finally experienced that myself--I couldn't feel my legs. My half-marathon time was a new PR of 1:28:xx.

Miles 13-19 were a bit of a blur. I was beginning to labor, but also managed to hit my splits pretty well. I had intentionally backed off in order to hold 6:50-6:55 splits. Somehow, I had erroneously calculated that I need to do 6:58 splits in order to hit my sub-3 hour goal. Thankfully, I was comfortable going a much fast pace, as 6:58 would not have gotten me close. That ignorance could have been my undoing, but I think perhaps it graciously spared me (physically and mentally) a great deal of stress.

Even by mile 16 I was beginning to suffer, but by that time could count down in single digits...9 miles to go...8 miles to go...and so on. The turnaround (which would direct us back north toward Kenosha and the finish line, albeit against a modest northeast wind) couldn't come fast enough. Finally, I hit the turnaround, shortly thereafter hitting the timing mat for our 19.5 mile split (2:07:10). I was within striking distance.

By mile 20 I was in a world of hurt. It is really rather remarkable: on any given day I can go outside and click off a very easy 42 minute 10K. The last 6.2 miles of a marathon, however, are an absolute beast. You have to respect the distance. Mile 21 found me miserable and very earnestly asking God to help me. My legs ached, had no turnover, and my entire body was beginning to shut down. Adding to my stress was the anguish of knowing that I was on course to be so very close to sneaking in under three hours--the idea of coming in at 3:00:01 was more horrible that finishing at 3:15:00. There was still time, but I it was becoming increasingly clear that I was not going to be able to will my body to go any faster. I was coming undone, and there were still 5 miles to go.

At about this time God answered my prayer. My insides were burning, my legs were aching, and I was slowing down considerably (albeit still knocking out 7:10 miles). I had just passed a very smooth, effortless-looking running a mile or two back, and he now was passing me. He was going the speed I needed to maintain in order to get in under the wire, but not too fast. As he passed me, I knew that this was a gift. I locked in on his back and followed him all the way to mile 25. He was my savior. We exchanged maybe two words over these four excruciating miles, but I know his name is Jason, and I know I would not have finished without him (I was a bit emotional, physically wrecked, and ready to throw in the towel just prior to his arrival).

He dusted me at about mile 25.5, but by that time I knew I could make it. The last half mile of the race was white noise and deafening pain. For all the endurance racing I've done, I'm quite certain that I've never suffered as much as I did in this race. Those last 6-7 miles were absolutely hideous--a caricature of pain. The final two-tenths of a mile to the finish line was a staggering, incoherent shuffle of agony. Earlier in the week (and race) I had envisioned myself crossing the finish line under three hours with fists raised in triumph, ebullient with joy. In real life, I crossed the finish line...and stopped. I didn't even think happy thoughts. My only thought was, "I can stop now." I was in a world of hurt. I had no sense of elation or joy. The achieving of my goal had no real meaning. I grabbed a bottle of water, wrapped on a survival blanket, and shuffled to the car to put on some warm clothes. Walking hurt.

At the car, as I donned my sweats and drank a little Nuun, it began to dawn on me that a) the suffering was really over; b) I was already feeling much better, and c) I had met every one of my goals coming in: I finished the race, I qualified for the Boston Marathon, and I had broken the three hour barrier. I did a quick mental review of the race, and the drama began to make a little more sense (I was increasingly irrational over those last few miles and couldn't put two thoughts together): I remembered thinking that it would be horrible to not break three hours only because that would mean I would have to come back and do this all over again; I remembered that my heart was doing all kinds of weird fluttering things over the last 8 miles, and I was not sure how or whether I would mention that to Julie; I remembered that I knew I would make it under three over the last mile and a half, but I was even closer than I thought to the cut-off, I truly made it just under the wire.

My finish time was 2:59:19 seconds, which means that I ran 6:51 splits. Two seconds slower per mile and I would have missed it. I was totally off on my original assessment of how fast I needed to go, which was perhaps the biggest blessing of the day, because I would not have been interested in hammering out 26 miles at 6:52 pace (ridiculous!). Isn't the mind a funny thing?

So, the pertinent numbers for the morning were:
Total time--2:59:19
Pace--6:51 minutes/mile
Overall place--14th/1062
Men's rank--14th/614
Age group rank--4th
Hammer gel packets consumed--4
Cups of Gatorade consumed--12
Cups of water consumed--4
Potty breaks--0

In the end, Steve, Dave, and I qualified for the Boston Marathon. Matt, Joe, and Charlie all finished. Since being home, I've eaten...a lot. Reflecting on this race, like every endurance race, the best things are the community and friendship experienced, the achieving of a goal, and the suffering for the sake of that goal. Thank God for endurance sports!