I've struggled with how to respond to seemingly innocent questions like, "How was the race??!" and "How did you do?!?" In my mind, there is no simple answer, no pat reply. I find myself squeaking out, "I finished," and then going on to try and explain how the race went as people's eyes slowly glaze over, their smiles start to fade, their heads nodding but not really comprehending what the heck I'm talking about. I stop myself and just say again, "I finished." They don't want the details, but how does one possibly describe 26.2 miles of ups and downs, agony and ecstatic, dejection and elation into a sound bite reply?
The start was chaotic. There were 39,000 runners (although I heard somewhere there might've been as many as 44,000) packed like sardines into 39 corrals in Balboa Park. The gun went off at 6:15, but my group didn't hit the start line until almost 7am. I was SUPER excited, well hydrated, well pottied (three times through the portapotty line before I queued up!), well nourished with my regular pre-long run breakfast...I was READY! Crossing the start line was exhilirating and terrifying at the same time.
Miles 1 through 8 were fantastic. I felt great, and had to keep holding my pace in check. Passing through mile 5 we ran through Petco Park, where the jumbotron screamed in bigger than life letters, "The San Diego Padres congratulate you on your first 5 miles!" That was cool, and got me excited all over again. We ran on through downtown and back to Balboa park. I had fallen into a great pace and I felt like I was "in the zone." And then....the 163. We ran on the 163 freeway from about miles 9 to 12.5. This is where things started to unravel for me.
The marine layer that had hung around all day the previous day decided to burn off early on race morning, so by about 7am when I started, it was already gone. The humidity was pretty intense. So much so that at mile 6, I kept feeling something dripping on my back. I reached up and literally wrung sweat from my ponytail. Ugh. By the time I hit the freeway miles, it was hotter, more humid, and on the freeway asphalt with NO shade, beginning to get brutal. The freeway was uphill, which I had trained for and wouldn't have been so bad, except the camber was extreme. (Camber is the way a road is arched or angled in order for water to drain off and not pool in the middle of the street.) By mile 10, my hip was hurting from the angle and I was getting side of foot blisters from my feet repeatedly hitting the sides of my shoes instead of the bottom. I walked mile 11 to 12.5 until we got off the freeway because I was beginning to be in severe pain. I stopped at a med tent just after that to be sure I hadn't REALLY hurt something. They iced me and gave me some muscle rub and sent me back on my way.
I pushed through to the half marathon mark and was still feeling okay about my time, but I was hurting and mentally out of sorts, frustrated that I had been thrown off so early on in the race. My pace became slower and slower until I realized I could be walking and not be MUCH slower, so I decided to walk again for a little while and see if my hip pain subsided. I don't remember much about miles 14-18. I know that I was running as much as I could with some walking breaks to rest my hip. I remember seeing my Coach, who encouraged me and helped me remember that I was going to finish and that was all that mattered. I remember an adorable little boy on the side of the road, not much older than my youngest son, dressed up as Elvis and playing an inflatable guitar while screaming, "You guys ROCK!" I remember wanting to hug the sweet elderly lady passing out orange slices and bits of wisdom like, "Just keep putting one foot in front of the other!" I remember somewhere in there I stopped at a med tent again, for more ice on the hip, which was continuing to ache and throb relentlessly. When I thought I was ready to move on, I couldn't get up out of the chair they'd sat me down in and had to be helped. Someone looked me in the eye and said, "Do you want to continue?" I remember nodding and numbly moving on, thankful to be upright again.
About halfway into mile 18, I remember saying a prayer, and telling God the last nine miles were in his hands because I was getting really scared I wouldn't make it. I have never wanted to quit something SO BADLY at that point, but I was not going to allow myself to give up. I hurt. A lot. I was hot. I was frustrated with myself. I really wanted to just throw up my hands and say, "It's not my day, I'm out. Ya'll have fun!" But somehow my feet kept going. I jogged along. As we ran along Mission Bay, I gave myself a stern talking to. "You have a little more left, you know you do. Pull it out and suck it up, buttercup!" Suck it up buttercup became my mantra, and I said it to myself over and over.
Miles 21 to 25 were a lap around "Fiesta Island." It was not, as it's name would imply, a Fiesta. Someone said the city of San Diego used to use the island as a place to dump human waste. It was definitely a wasteland. It seemed barren and endless, and with the breeze that had kicked up over the bay, it filled our eyes and mouths with blowing sand. It was not a party. Thankfully, I met up with another Team in Training member from Virginia. She and I talked (okay grunted and grimaced a lot and talked some) through mile 24. It was a godsend to have someone to suffer with, to talk to and to take my mind off my hip and my frustration. We were just two strangers with a common goal, pulling each other through a rough spot.
Approaching 25, my new BFF needed to stop to clear her shoe of a rock she'd picked up. I thought if I stopped I might not want to start again, so we said our goodbyes and I kept dragging myself forward. Now, in addition to my right hip screaming at me, my left knee was starting to really hurt. I'd been trying to compensate for my hip and evidently my knee was now in rebellion. I imagine I looked like Quasimodo minus the hump as I limp/shuffled my feet along, arms pumping as I willed them to make my feet keep going. I was not going to finish like this. I took a deep breath and forced myself into a better form, in spite of the protests of my body. The finish line was coming into sight and I knew I was almost done. I could stop soon, and if I could just run, really RUN the last mile the stopping part would come much faster.
Miraculously, my pace picked up. It hurt so badly, but I wanted to finish strong. I was almost through mile 26 when out of nowhere my assistant coach popped up. He wondered if I was okay. I must've looked awful. (In fact, he told me later I DID look awful, but he wasn't about to tell me that at that moment!) I remember telling him I was dying. He said, "You are SO close! You are almost there!" I wanted to hug him for telling me that. Those were the most wonderful words I could've imagined hearing.
As I came down the last .1 stretch, both sides of the course were lined up many people deep with people, cheering, screaming, yelling my name. (It is amazingly effective to put your name on your shirt. You wouldn't believe how much it helps when people cheer for you by name!) I don't know who yelled it, from which side of me, but a woman's voice rang out, "GO JANA!! You're a MARATHONER! You're a MARATHONER!" when I was just steps away from the finish line. I can still hear those words in my head even now. As I crossed the finish, my intention was to throw both my arms up in my "signature" finish line pose, but I found that I only had the energy to get one arm up there. I was done. It took me 6 hours and 15 minutes. A far cry from the 5:30 I was hoping for. Still, done.
I completed 26.2 miles. Do I need to explain the highs and lows, the pain and frustration, the joy and relief when people ask me how the race went? Maybe I don't. Maybe I just need to resist the urge to try and describe it all. Maybe I just need to smile and say, "It went fantastic. I finished!"
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