Like an 80-yr-old man

I recently sent the following two texts to my sister. "I can go up stairs without having to pull myself up with the banister." "I can go down stairs all by myself!" These were huge accomplishments. I still have yet to run without pain, but that text too will be sent.

Yes, yes...it's recovery time.

The St. George Marathon last saturday zapped me. Quite literally. I...couldn't stomach my goo (Clif Shots actually, and I generally quite like them). I forced down water and some gatorade, but in running 26.2 miles, it's nice to replace at least a few calories, especially when running against the wind the entire time.

It rained for the second time in the marathon's 32 years. The rain wasn't bad. It was nice to not run in the blistering heat, but that wind. Well, I finished and I'm actually just proud that I did. My very nice coach, Tom, later explained that it was dehydration that made my muscles seize up.  I collapsed just before mile 26 and then felt my legs would give way again with about 200 meters to go. I committed a sin and walked. Just before the finish line, I walked but I couldn't help it. I would have crawled to the end, but running, running felt impossible. 

Unfortunately the crowd did not agree with me and cheered louder. I couldn't see anything. Just that loud roar in my ears. I thought they were mad at me but I felt helpless to continue running. I looked behind me once, twice. I didn't want to lose my position to another girl. Someone passed me, a male voice said, "you're fine. just keep running."

I screamed and ran. I have never been in muscular pain like that. More than fatigue, fire and something else that I cannot describe, something that most athletes feel at some point in their competitive careers. 

I hobbled, like an eighty-year-old man who can't straighten his legs, passed the first time pad and collapsed at the far edge of the second. My gratitude goes out to those two nice Army reserve guys who helped me to the med tent, to the nurses who took my vitals and gave me water, and to my little sister who rushed to the med tent, to my older sister who couldn't (bum knee and tired 4 yr old daughter), to my mom who wandered for an hour to find the car with my dry clothes in it, and to my dad (still running at the point when I collapsed) who got me into running when I was 7.

This all sounds horrible. It was not. I ran my second best time (2:53) and finished one place better than last year (4th overall), so it really wasn't a bad race, per say. Just a tiring one. Sometimes I wonder why I do this to myself.  I hurt during the marathon and for days after, but there is something in crossing that line...

This is why I call myself a novicexpert. I have been running for years, but still I am learning (learning to force that goo down, learning what my pace is or should be, and reinforcing my long-held conviction that despite the pain, I love running)