A Vermont Marathon

The 40th anniversary Green Mountain Marathon was my first foray into the marathon world. With a third place finish out of 412 finishers and a time of 2:46:04, I'll admit that I am pretty pleased with the results.

As my earlier post may have indicated, I had a lot of things that were worrying me at the start of the race. My first concern was going to be that I would make some kind of mistake in pacing and crash. In the end, I came close to dying utterly, but managed to keep my balance on that knife edge between foolishness and compromise.

The last week leading up to the marathon, I backed off the mileage big time. My last long run was a 13 miler with Max along the Mohawk in Amsterdam, New York. After that, I did a seven, a six and two five mile runs as well as a three miler on Friday, trying to hover around 7:30 pace. This was supposed to be the easy part, but mind games made it harder. Jeez, I think I feel a tweak in my back. My left ass muscle feels weird. Hey, I wonder if that will turn into a debilitating tear at mile 12. I wonder what it feels like to drop out of a marathon.

Plus, I began to feel that despite the dramatically decreased mileage and pacing that the runs were still taking energy out of me. I was still sweating, still breathing hard. The fact that running didn't feel effortless and free made me worried.

I got some peace of mind from talking race strategy with my dad, a veteran Marathoner with nine Bostons to his name. I had structured much of my training, especially the last two weeks of taper according to his marathon regimen.

In order to remember what fast felt like, I made sure to do a few pick ups during the runs and sped up to a 6:20 pace for a mile on Thursday. I was still far from easy in my mind.

For Friday and Saturday, I hydrated mercilessly, downing a glass of water every time I walked by the kitchen sink. While you were pounding keystones Friday night, I was knocking back pints of gatorade. I boosted my carbohydrate intake with white bread, oatmeal and whatever other grains that I could get my hands on. I wasn't being very scientific about the process, but what I lacked in method I made up for enthusiasm.

Naturally, my high liquid intake corresponded with an impressive urine output. During the ride up to Vermont, I stopped twice in Connecticut, once in Massachusetts and twice again in Vermont, usually just pulling off the interstate and sprinting for the nearest patch of trees. If humans marked their territory the way dogs do, I could have laid a convincing claim to half of New England.

I had a place to stay in Burlington thanks to my buddy Dave who has taken second place in the Vermont City Marathon twice and is a general, all-purpose badass. The last time I was in Vermont, it was to watch him (and his sister!) compete in the Death Race, a multi-day, batshit-insane challenge that includes crawling under barbed wire, splitting wood, running up mountains, more barbed wire, jumping in a pond and eating raw onions. I wish I'd written down what I'd seen while my memories were fresh, but of course it would be nothing to the actual experience of a competitor.

I'd met Dave's parents at the Death Race. They were gracious enough to open their doors to me and also give me an excellent pre-race meal of tortellini, italian bread and fresh salad. Dave's sister, who lives in the area, dropped by and after our meal, we all went down to the basement for a game of bumper pool.

Dave's dad was obviously an old pro, and placed his shots with deadly accuracy. I could almost see the telemetry working in his brain as he squatted in front of the table and took it all in through his shark's eye. About halfway into the game, he let us in on a secret; there were tiny lines underneath the bumpers that he used to figure out the angles.

Race time was at 8:30 the next day, and registration started at 7:00. I planned on sleeping soon and getting to the race early. Since Dave had fled the nest, I got to sleep in his room. Remarkably enough, I slept pretty well and felt eagerness rather than dread, when the first of the many alarms that I set went off at 5:20 in the morning.

Downstairs, I constructed my Master Plan Breakfast of tea, oatmeal and honey. Dave's mom was up and offered up some craisans, which I threw into the mix. The breakfast gave me energy and the desired bowel movement: a sure recipe for race-day success. I would have read the morning paper, but the clock was ticking in the back of my head so I said goodbye and headed out.

Screw wheaties!

When I stepped into the morning darkness it was cold but not freezing, which I took to be an encouraging sign. It was about a thirty minute drive to the course, which is in South Hero to the north. The course is on an island in Lake Champlain, connected by a highway that runs between Vermont and New York. Along the way, I passed through tracts of farmland, ghostlike in the gray half-light of dawn. Mists hovered about the lake edge and drifted past yellow stands of maples. I drove to the start line where a volunteer pointed me back to a lot I had gone past. The sun came up soon after I stepped out of my car.

Another volunteer was shuttling runners in a van so that they wouldn't have to walk the half mile to the start. I waited around for a bit, but when the van ended up taking too long, another guy offfered to shuttle some runners over in his Prius. I took shotgun and saved my legs the extra effort.

The start was right outside of Folsom Elementary School where they had tables handing out race packets, tee shirts and pins. I took my number and attached it with pride to my purple North American Distance Squad uniform top.

Having already diverted to talk about the Death Race, it now only seems fair to mention this earlier enterprise. As a member of the NADS, I raced with 12 of my other friends including Dave; as well as Max and Ben, whom you may recall from my Peru entries, in the New York Ragnar Relay, a 185-mile non-stop competition from Woodstock to the Tappan Zee Bridge just above Manhattan. After an afternoon, night, and morning of nonstop racing and shuttling, the NADS came in first with a time of 19:25, putting Team Google in its place with a good hour gap between us. I should be careful about smack talk though since Google owns this blog and have probably invented ways to kill people through the internet.

Myself  in NADS uniform

For a closer look at the jersey front--also my hairy pits

My final preparations for the race included two more piss stops outside and one more in some hedges as I walked to the starting line.

The start of the race was alongside an apple orchard. I huddled in with some of the other runners, shivering in the cold wind coming off the lake. While I was just wearing my uniform singlet and a pair of shorts, other runners were in fleece tops, jackets and wool hats. Some also had sophisticated bandoliers of liquids and gels to ensure ultimate hydration during the race. Based on the amount, I'd been peeing, I think I take my liquid intake pretty seriously, but that was much further than anyone needs to go. My plan was to start hitting the gatorade stops around Mile Ten.

Fortunately, I was able to squeeze in pretty close to the start line and there was probably less than a three second delay between the time the gun went off and when I crossed it. It wasn't a chip course so runners looking for hyper-accurate course readings would have to get them from their own watches.

I screwed  up my watch at the beginning though when I hit the wrong button in my excitement. I had to wait until the two mile mark to get it set again and be able to have some sense as to what pace I was running.

Deprived of the rigidity of the stopwatch and pumping with adrenalin at the start of the race, I found it hard to guess what pace I might have been running in. Still, my suspicion was that I was going faster than I had planned for. I could see five people in front of me and it was hard to ignore the urge to keep with them. Sure enough when I got to mile four, I calculated that I was running sub 6:30 pace. I felt great, but I was worried because I was supposed to feel great for many more miles. I didn't want to start suffering until at least mile 18. For the present, there would be no drama in the race, no one was huffing and puffing and I felt free to smile and wave right back to all the cheering bystanders.

The pace bike was still in sight by mile six, but I was sure that it was well out of range. More immediately, I had an older guy, Rick was his name, running in right in front of me. I still wasn't sure if I wasn't going out way too fast, but I reasoned that it was in my interest to keep up because I could draft behind him during the windy sections. We traded places a few times. He would begin building a lead on me which he would lose as soon as we passed an aid station and he downed a cup of gatorade.

"Hitting those water stations pretty hard," I told him when he went by again.
"Hydrate early, hydrate often" he told me, and then got back in front.
We had struck up a quick conversation earlier, when I had asked him what time he had on his watch. It turns out he had screwed up at the start too, but was unfazed by this.
"Sometimes it's better just to throw the watch away" he said.

Right after the halfway mark

Rick and I get some gatorade

I stopped briefly about five miles in to relieve myself in some trees. I probably lost about ten seconds, but gained considerable peace of mind for the rest of the race.

At around Mile Eight, I knew I was going out harder than I planned, but decided that I wasn't willing to throw on the brakes. Why not just go based on feel--I mean other than the fact that I was probably delusional and would pay dearly for my foolishness later?

Dirt road gave way to pavement and then back to dirt and pavement once again. Lake Champlain was in view for a few places, allowing me to see the waves, angry whitecaps whipped up by the wind. For the most part, the wind was behind us on the way out, which foreshadowed struggle on the return.

At 11 miles, I came to my first aid station, grabbed a gatorade cup and slowed to a jog in order to chug the contents. Just past Mile 12, I saw the leaders go by me from the other direction. They were two steely haired speed demons, wearing the same green uniform tops, something that usually means trouble. The other two guys were about a minute behind, with perhaps a 100 meter gap between them.

I turned around soon after and crossed the half marathon mark (where they had an official clock) in 1:24. Shit! I'm on pace for a 2:48 marathon! My legs undoubtably felt more tired then they had been 13 miles ago; I knew that pain was on the horizon, but I still felt cocky and felt myself picking up the pace slightly. I hit the mile 14 aid station with a lead on Rick and chugged another gatorade.

"Hey, seeya later!" I heard him shout. That meant that I was alone again with no one to draft off of.

Crowd support got a big boost over the next four miles as I went by the runners that were still going out. "Way to go, you're in fourth!" "You're in fifth!"

Around Mile 16, I heard "Go Tom! Go NADS!" and saw Dave's folks driving by in their Subaru. I was right at the special boundary between where discomfort transitioned into pain. The tweaks I'd felt earlier in my back and in the left side of my ass had indeed begun to hurt, much as I had feared.

Still, I had fresh encouragement, in that one of the guys in front of me had slowed and now was in my sites. After an aid station I nestled in behind him and let him block the wind for me. He knew I was there and veered over to the middle of the road so that I would lose the advantage of the draft. Since he wasn't going to let me benefit, there was no reason to stay there, so I went past him.

I got my last hit of gatorade at Mile 20, slowing down slightly to tip the cup. I still ended up spilling half of it on my uniform, but that was okay.

They say that when you hit Mile 20, you're halfway there. After Sunday, I'm inclined to agree. Unlike most races I've run, this pain had nothing to do with breathing hard and everything to do with soreness. Legs, ass and feet were complaining bitterly about my lack of regard for their well-being. I didn't let myself slow though; once you do that, it's easy to lose spirit, and things can go south very quickly. Instead I picked up the pace. God, this thing better be over soon, I thought.

Meanwhile, I saw third place about 100 meters in front of me. He's probably out of range. But I was closing in on him. With four miles to go, I put myself in drafting position. At this point, the wind was blowing hard off the lake, which was churning with dark waves. A cold drizzle from the clouds spritzed us as we went. By staying behind him, I could save myself from some of this abuse.

 He was slowing down. I slowed with him, saving my energy for when I'd make my move. Finally, we were going up a hill and much too slow. I made my move. As soon as I stepped out of the draft zone, the wind slapped me over the face and chest. I heard his footsteps pick up the pace behind me and understood that this was his plan; he had wanted me to pass me so that he could use the draft and reclaim the lead after I'd tired myself out. I considered slowing down again, but decided to make the most of the situation.

When the wind came up again, I put my head down. My legs felt pounded and distorted, my feet felt like raw hamburger inside their shoes. I was very glad I had decided not to have worn flats because at this point, my knees and everything else surely would have been shot. This really sucks. I thought. But I was excited too. If I could hold this pace, I would finish with a much faster time than I had dared to hope.

200 meters after I made my move, I heard the footsteps fade away. I was alone in front and behind. Third place--if I held. I like to think that with two miles to go, I had dipped below six minute pace. There was one last hill on the dirt road until Mile 25. Everything hurt, and I knew it would continue to hurt after the finish line. But the pain was good in the sense that I would not second guess myself after I crossed the line. If I felt great at the end of the race, I would have to doubt whether I had put the right effort in. In this way, pain built peace of mind.

Right before the hill, I went by Dave's parents again, cheering me on from the side of the road. It was without question, a huge boost, one that helped me tackle that last obstacle before the end.

The last mile was pain. My feet, barely felt like part of my body; they just told me that they hurt. But there was no second-guessing any more and the anticipation of the finish line rose to conquer all the bodily pain. It was also a flat finish on pavement with the wind behind me again. With nothing left to lose, I was free to concentrate on keeping my head pointed forward, turning my legs over and watching the glimmering digital display at the finish line coming closer.

I "sprinted"the last 100 meters, and crossed the line into the finish chute where they took the racing tag away from me and put a finisher's medal over my head. Done. And not just under three hours, which had been my stated goal, not 2:53, which had been my secret goal that I kept to myself, but 2:46:05. I was well within the Boston qualifying zone. Come April, I plan to test myself again. In some ways, I wish I'd done this marathon slower, because it's going to be a bastard of a time for me to try and P.R. again.

I sagged to the sidewalk in front of the elementary school, right next to runners one and two. They had finished in 2:42:44 and 2:44:37 respectively. I had closed on them in the second half, but there was no way I could have caught them, even if I'd done a perfect race.

Dave's folks came over to congratulate me and gave me some swedish fish to keep my blood sugar going. After they made sure I was not going to die, they took off, leaving me with an offer to drop back at their place if I needed some more rest.

After a while, I hauled my poor, suffering bones back into the school gym and feasted on bagel slices, vegetarian chili and cider. I talked with a few marathoning vets about their racing experiences. I took away that Boston was a great race, New York is a great race to get jostled by unruly crowds and have assholes splatter you with the urine they've been saving in gatorade bottles.

I stuck around for a couple hours until the awards ceremony, which bestowed a golden apple upon me and a year's subscription to New England Runner. Sweet.

Of course, now that I've taken third place, I intend to make a few lifestyle changes to reflect this reality. For one, this douchy picture I had taken of myself will now be the way I represent myself to the world on Facebook.

Yo, sorry for partying!

I'm not going to go overboard here. I'm not actually going to wear my third place trophy around my neck, which would be going excessive. Instead, I'll be humble and wear my finishing medal, and only explain my incredible marathon to people if they ask me about why I'm wearing a medal around everywhere. Meanwhile, I'll have the golden apple attached to the front of the Mazda as a hood ornament--keeping things low-key. I may also have to start dressing differently. The tee-shirt is never coming off obviously, but I will probably wear an expensive fur coat over it. This is not meant to flatter my own vanity, but only to give the marathon the respect that it deserves. I would appreciate everyone's support as I make these changes.

Finishing medal

Third is the one with the golden apple.

One more word to fellow members of the North American Distance squad. I feel pretty good about my marathon, but I also feel something else: a target on my back. You guys are all in awesome shape (which is why we're going to kick Google's ass again this year.) With XC training and all the other running under your belts, you could also lay out some serious hurt in a marathon. I think we should all follow Dave after Ragnar and do the Vermont City Marathon in May. It'll be fun to put a lot of people behind the purple and make them read our battle howl as we go past: