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I'm not sure whether it was arrogance or ignorance
but I lined up on Sunday full of confidence and raring to
go. I had my race strategy all planned out (including a sprint
finish!) and had even bought one of those race pace bands
from the expo. Ever the type A personality, I set myself a
time target that was actually faster than any of the training
runs we'd ever run.
I ran with the group and took it pretty steady, except for
a glitch at mile 2 when a ridiculously long wait in a porta-potty
line resulted in my racing to catch everyone up again. By
mile 16 I still felt fine - though my feet were on fire -
but I was way behind my predicted time so I decided to speed
up a little and focus on my mile splits. It worked up to about
mile 22. I was so pleased to get past that cutout of the dreaded
wall and at this point was still checking my watch and listening
out for the mile times as my brain tried to figure the math.
And then everything changed, suddenly, unexpectedly. Physically
I became conscious of my appalling posture - I was really
bent forward and though I tried to straighten up at the water
stops I just couldn't. And I ached, in my back, my hips, my
quads and both big toes. I stopped thanking the supporters
and withdrew into myself, trying to will myself to the next
aid station or mile marker, unable to believe my 'easy last
5 miler' had gotten this hard. All those quotes I'd chosen
to ignore about the marathon not really starting till mile
20 dogged my every step. Though each of those last few miles
was desperately difficult, nothing quite compares with that
last mile through Zilker. As I turned into the park, a man
caught my eye and looking straight at me said "you look
strong enough to sprint this last bit" - I teared up
and even though a part of me knew it couldn't be true, his
words were enough to get me around that first quarter mile.
And then I felt total isolation. I've honestly never felt
quite as lonely as I did right there. We were so close to
the end and could see and hear the cheers of people finishing
but all around me runners were stopping, barely able to walk
yet alone run. I too walked a while, unable to talk to anyone,
feeling overwhelmed by the physical and mental pain. As the
crowds built up I started to run again and as I came down
that final chute I decided to cross the finish line with the
best smile I could muster. I did, and then promptly burst
into tears and started to hyperventilate. Thank god for Chris
Gunderson who appeared like magic with one of those fab silver
capes and steered me through the finish line hoopla. He even
stayed and helped me find my husband Erik who had been standing
further back from the finish line and lost sight of me as
I crossed the line.
I hated leaving that field on Sunday, I wanted all of us
to be together, to share stories and our pride in one another
for finishing. I left feeling kind of flat and unsure of what
to do next. Reading other people's stories has been a real
blessing and has helped me put my race and post-race feelings
into perspective. I do feel really proud to have done this
and I've worn My finisher¼s shirt two days straight
with more to come. But to be honest I'm equally proud of the
journey that got us to that point - six months of pretty tough
and intensive training - and the people that made it possible.
So in true Oscars style I'd like to firstly thank Marie for
being such a consistent and supportive coach. Thank you also
to husband Erik for putting up with 6 months of marathon obsession
and more pasta dinners than he cares to remember. And thank
you Kate, Stephen, Tom, Kerri, Christine and everyone else
in 10:20 red for being such a fantastic group to run with
and for helping this London girl feel so at home in Austin.
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