Short Version:
I ran a marathon this weekend. It was my 10th and completed 364 days after my very first marathon. My time was slow (4:21), but considering what I went through to run this marathon, it was the one I’m most proud of finishing. My family and I had quite a victory dinner afterwards.
Long Version:
I woke up at 3:00 am Wednesday morning to catch a flight to South Carolina for the Myrtle Beach Marathon. The weather forecast called for cool temperatures and I was looking forward to a nice, flat run along the coast. I was also bringing my mother along so she could visit with her best friend from high school, someone she hadn’t seen in 50 years although they talk almost every day. We arrived for a layover in Washington D.C. a little before schedule… then we sat….and sat…. and sat some more on the tarmack. Finally, an hour and a half after landing we pulled into the terminal. Rushing out of the plane, we quickly checked the departure board, afraid we may have missed our connecting flight. Thank goodness it was delayed and we had an hour before taking off again. An hour passed, then two before we were boarding the plane. As soon as we found our seats the crew ushered us back into the terminal: no co-pilot. We waited again. An hour later the co-pilot arrived, so back on the plane we went. And we sat….. and sat…..and sat again, watching planes around us de-ice and attempt to pull away from the gates. It was no use, the planes were frozen to the ground and trucks couldn’t get enough traction to break them lose. The crew eventually announced our flight had been cancelled and we were to deplane. We proceeded to customer service and we were informed that all flights to Myrtle Beach were full with huge standby lists. The soonest we could possibly get a flight would be Monday, two days AFTER the marathon. Could we fly somewhere in S. Carolina, N. Carolina or Georgia? Not a chance until mid week. Then we tried to rent a car with a few other stranded passengers only to find no cars available. How about Seattle, could they fly us home to Seattle? Nope, not until Saturday night or Sunday. Argh! O.K. maybe it wasn’t meant to be, could we get a refund or voucher for another trip? No again, act of God and all that stuff. We tried to get a hotel room but couldn’t find anything under $200 dollars a night. I looked at my watch: 1:30 am Thursday. I’d been awake almost 24 hours and had only eaten a bagel and two veggie tacos since Tuesday. Not the best pre-marathon diet. Then I had an idea (I think it was the lack of food/sleep that sent this delusion my way), maybe we could get to Arizona in time to run the Lost Dutchman! I checked for flights to Phoenix, no luck. Tucson? No. Palm Springs? Nope. San Diego? BINGO! 2 seats were available to San Diego the next morning, but it would cost us because we were changing our itinerary. Oh well, I forked over the money and we had two tickets in our hands. I called my wonderful S.O. who winters in Yuma, Arizona and asked if he could pick us up in San Diego and drive us to Apache Junction. He agreed and met us in San Diego only to find our luggage was hopelessly lost. The airline had no idea where it went and, unfortunately it contained all my running gear, including shoes.
We finally arrived in Apache Junction Saturday afternoon. A few quick calls and I located a pair of my favorite running shoes, then stopped at Target to pick up Champion shorts, a singlet and a jog bra. At the expo I registered for the race and bought some GU, Body Glide and sunglasses.
I arrived at the pre-dawn start line decked out in black Champion shorts, white Champion singlet, blue Brooks Adrenalines and socks that were too big and too thick. I had just five minutes to enjoy the pre-race campfires and coffee that have become a legendary part of the Lost Dutchman experience. The race director asked us to make our way to a chalk line drawn in the dirt as a shotgun blast signaled the sunrise and start of race. The remote location meant that the marathoners started alone, without crowds to cheer them on… just the company of fellow racers. It was a fast start, too, with the first 7 miles up and down (though mostly down) a dirt fire road. I let myself get caught up in the momentum…. partially because I was so happy to be running after 5 days off and partially because I didn’t have the mental strength to hold myself back. Mile 8 put us on pavement and along a highway. We would alternate between dirt and pavement, but the constant climbing and descending would remain with us throughout the day. The heat and hills were starting to take their toll on runners as many were reduced to a walk. By mile 20 my early speed caught up with me and I was having a hard time controlling my heart rate. I slowed to a snails pace, reminding myself that this was a training run for Boston and time didn’t matter. I continued to the finish with the slowest jog I could muster. I crossed the line in 4:21. My legs were cramping and my socks had caused my toes to look like they were capped with a series of red Jelly Bellies. I ate a little, sat around on the grass a little then hobbled back to the car. I looked down at my medal and thought how appropriate it was to be wearing the Lost Dutchman around my neck, my 10th marathon, 364 days after I ran my first and on the very same course.
Marathoning… it’s about the journey, not the race.
