One Mile At A Time

As I look back at the marathon last week, many of the details are still very fuzzy. This was by far the most mentally challenging race I have ever run, and as a result, I didn’t really pay very close attention to my surroundings. At this point I probably couldn’t point out a single landmark I ran past, save probably the oil refinery-looking place we ran through at mile 24. But what I do remember is the mental games I had to play in order to get to the finish line. Here is the best explanation I can put down in words as to what the race was like for me.

Well, first of all, this is the first time in the four marathons I have entered that I have been both fully trained, and injury free. Having trained for and completed three marathons in the past, all of which ended in some sort of injury, I had pretty much convinced myself that I was never going to be able to run an entire marathon without my knees giving out. And, actually, my orthopedist was totally convinced of this, which made it that much harder for me to remain optimistic about this race’s outcome. So, as one might imagine, despite the fact that I made it through the entire training season injury free, there was still a large part of me that was afraid I would get halfway through the race, and my knees would start acting up, once again forcing me to hobble for hours to the finish.

At 7:40AM, the race started off without a hitch. Because I had Craig Harrison, my season long marathon training partner, with me, it was easy to start the race without going out too fast. We had planned at length for this race, and our main goal was to not go out too fast and burn up our legs. And, as is usually the case, the first 8 miles flew by in a flash. But, at around mile 8 or 9, Craig wanted to drop back a bit in an effort to conserve his energy for the second half of the race. Considering my legs felt totally fresh, I wanted to stay at our current pace of about 8:30 per mile, so I kept on going.

The next couple of miles clipped by, and I was feeling great. Yet, somewhere between mile 11 and 12, my right knee started to ache in its usual spot. I did my best to convince myself that it was just a twinge, and that after a couple of miles it would go away, but sadly, I was wrong.

What made this new obstacle even harder for me was that I was now running totally alone. I had trained the entire season doing my long run with my training group, so while I was physically ready for this race, I suddenly felt very unprepared emotionally. I was repeatedly telling myself that everything was going to be fine, but the fact that I still had 15 miles left was making it difficult to believe. By mile 13, the pain in my knee was progressing so quickly that I was fairly certain that not only might I be unable to run the entire race, but that I may not even be able to walk to the finish line. It was at this point that I thought back to all of the miles I had logged with the team this season, and remembered how strong my legs felt each and every week for the past four months. So, at mile 14, I decided that come hell or high water, I was going to run all 26.2 miles of this race if it was the last thing I did.

I set my mind on just getting to the next mile marker. I figured that no matter how much my leg hurt, I could always run one mile, because that was like an inch compared to what I've logged this season. When I reached the next mile marker, I took my one minute walk break like it was the only thing keeping me alive, and then set out to knock down the next mile. Admittedly, I have always thought that Team in Training’s 9 minutes of running, then 1 minute of walking program was kind of wimpy, and planned on only doing it for the first 13 miles of the race, but I would be lying my ass off if I said I didn't count the seconds between each walk break.

As mile 14 slowly became mile 18, I decided to focus on what I was most familiar with. I basically had 8 miles left in the race, which was roughly the distance from my house in Venice to the Marina del Rey jetty and back, a run I took no less than three times a week for most of the season. I figured that even if I had a dead homeless person strapped to my back, I could make that run because by now it had become second nature to me. Meanwhile, my knee was getting worse, but I refused to let it get to me, and did everything I could to just focus on the next step I had to take.

I resorted to a lot of strange behaviors during the run in an effort to get my knee pain out of my mind. One thing I did, which actually worked really well, was that I repeatedly pretended to draw the pain out of my knee with my right hand. I am sure to those around me I looked like a freak, because throughout most of the second half of the race I was holding my right hand about 6 or so inches from my knee, methodically clenching and unclenching my fist like some sort of crazy witch doctor performing an exorcism. Another trick was to envision the pain from my knee flowing throughout the rest of my body, so that in theory as it moved from my legs into my torso, it would become dissipated and be much less noticeable. While both of these techniques seem a little strange (let’s face it, they are), it really worked for me, and I plan to use them in the future if the need arises.

To be honest, I don't remember any of the course after mile 11 or so. I was so focused on just getting over each hurdle that I never really stopped to look around me. The only thing I remember was the right turn into that oil refinery-looking place, because it was right after mile 24, the moment I realized I was actually going

to make it. Rachel Herschberg, my team’s campaign manager, was standing there when I came over the bridge, and she gave me this look of amazement because it was the first time she had not seen me hobbling slowly toward the finish line. I remember when I saw her that I had a huge rush charge through my body, which at first felt amazing, but soon turned to dizziness and came precariously close to knocking me on my ass. I enjoyed the moment for a second, but had to force myself to get my head back into the game, because two miles out of 26.2 isn't much, but it was still two miles I needed to get through.

Finally came the last straightaway before the short succession of turns before the finish line. My body at this point was really quite displeased with what I had done to it, and my left quad had been flirting with locking up on me in a cramp for about three miles. But, like my right knee, I had willed my quad to give me just a little more time so that I could finally finish a marathon without having to walk the last section. I remember seeing two of my coaches, Chris and Kevin, in the distance. Without my glasses I couldn't even begin to make out their faces, but their ubiquitous purple shirts, and the clear amazement their body language illustrated when they saw me lumbering up the road, made it obvious who they were.

This was my fourth marathon finish. The previous finishes have ranged between 4:22 and 7:08, and each one holds a special place in my heart. But each of my previous marathons resulted in my having to walk either all, or at least a major section of the end of each course. This race represented the first of my four attempts in which I managed to run the entire race. And not only was I going to eclipse my PR by 29 minutes, but far more importantly I was going to break my brother's family marathon record by more than 6 minutes! I am sure as I write this he is out in the streets of South Jersey training with the intention of getting his record back.

It is not that having had to walk in previous marathons is anything to be ashamed of. I am extremely proud of my other races, probably as much so as I am about my performance in Phoenix. But it is the fact that I finished this race on my own terms, in spite of my body attempting everything it could to prevent me from doing so, that is so important to me. I think this is the first time that I realized that running marathons isn't about actually running the race itself, but instead the entire journey you take from the moment you decide to run a marathon, until you find yourself back home, icing your joints, and recounting the ups and downs with anyone who will listen.

There is so much about running these races that has become so important to me: the money I can raise to help my friends in their fights against cancer, the hours of down-time I get during my mid-week morning or evening runs, the ridiculous conversations I shared with my group 1 friends on long training runs, and the pride I try to hide when I tell people that I run marathons. At the moment I found myself staring down the finisher's chute at the finish line, everything that makes training for a marathon so fantastic became crystal clear. So, as I took those last few steps toward the giant balloon arch, I didn't think about catching my purple-shirted escort, or about getting the perfect finish line photo, but instead I did everything I could to embrace the tears that welled up in my eyes, and tried to calculate how long would be a reasonable amount of time before I started training for my next race.

This race represents one of the most mentally challenging things I have ever done. I had to spend so much time inside my own head, never allowing my mind to wander. I attribute my ability to do this to several factors, but most specifically I owe it to everyone around me who helped me through this season. My Team in Training coaches convinced me throughout the season that this is something I could do, and that knee problems are merely obstacles that you need to navigate your way around. My brother, Andy, whose constant ripping motivated me to improve upon not only my best performance, but also his. The rest of my family for listening to me drone my training. And, most importantly, Meredith, for her willingness to always walk Pete when I had to get up early to run, for listening to me recount each and every long run I took, and for her tolerance for my piles of smelly workout clothes.

Thanks, everyone! And don’t forget to click here to see all of the photos from my race!

One Mile At A Time

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Kevin seemed to grab me and whisk me on toward the finish line. And as I made the last couple of turns toward the chute, convinced that he was trying to get me to a sub-6:00 mile pace for the last .2 miles, it seemed like a scene from Saving Private Ryan in the streets. Maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me, because the details are now pretty fuzzy, but I think I remember seeing a man at the 26 mile marker being administered oxygen by an EMT, and another runner just around the penultimate turn lying on the ground, beaten, maybe even dead? I kept sweeping my head from side to side trying to take in the carnage, but Kevin told me not to worry about them, but instead to focus on the purple-clad runner about 50 feet in front of me.

I remember that purple shirt, one of the thousands of purple shirts I had seen that day, seemed to take on some sort of celestial quality as it was now a beacon that would figuratively drag me to the finish line. And after about 100 yards I turned the corner and suddenly found myself in the finisher's chute, almost unable to believe I was really going to make it.

There is some amazing quality that a giant balloon arch and a digital clock has on a runner, one that makes all pain and suffering just melt away. The reality of the fact that I was actually going to make it to the finish line finally allowed me to let my mind wander for a second. I thought to myself that I needed to gesticulate in some great, triumphant way as I crossed the finish line so that I could finally have a finisher's photo that didn't show me looking down at my watch. I thought that I should sprint in and try to catch that purple shirt I had spent the last tenth of a mile fixated on. But suddenly, my mind shifted back into my race mode, and now instead of concentrating on my knee pain, or my cramping quad, I had this overwhelming rush of pride.