The following post is a guest entry from Jon Schwenk. Schwenk and I met during a college backpacking class in the Spring of 2004 and have since peer pressured each other and some choice friends into thru-hikes, marathons, and other somewhat unpleasant events.
D.W.
Why would you do this to yourself?
I guess the bulk of the readership here has completed a
number of marathon-distance (or longer) runs, and probably a long time ago. So
sit back and relive that first nervous race as I recount all the mistakes I
made that you probably no longer do.
I’m not a runner. I’ve never really enjoyed running and shin
splints and asthmatic-leftover labored breathing did nothing to help the cause.
But I knew a marathon was inevitable—I was the last of the infamous Tennessee
studs ( a moniker given to Matt, Jon, and I while on our 2008 thru-hike, D.W.) to run the 26.2. We’re also close to all of us finishing half-iron
distance triathlons (looking at you, Dave).
In fact, it was at
Bird’s Colorado triathlon where
Cody clued me in about barefoot running and landing on the balls of the feet more so
than the heels. As we ran around Sloan Lake a day before Bird’s tri, Cody intrigued
me with the basics of the new barefoot running fad. I did some reading and
decided to give it a try—I might as well stress my calf muscles which can
become stronger instead of my shins which instead of getting stronger only feel
more and more like someone trying to pry my ‘em off with a screwdriver.
I scored a pair of Vivobarefoot Neomesh Airs from
steepandcheap over the winter and sent in my money for the Twin Cities
Marathon. It seemed odd to be paying $100+ dollars to do something I can do for
free anytime, but I’m glad it was expensive. Committing is the easy part;
following-through requires serious effort and perseverance and the money spent
was a good motivator to keep going.
I needed a plan, and the internet provided dozens of them. I
chose
Hal Higdon’s “Novice 2,” an 18-week plan with three runs throughout the week and a long run
on the weekend. The long runs started with 8 miles and gradually increased to a
maximum of 20. Some of the runs were labeled “pace,” indicating they should be
run at the speed you intend to run the marathon. After some pre-training test
runs, I figured I could swing an 8 min/mile pace (3:30 marathon) and that
became the training goal.
Running, I discovered, is also a mental exercise. If you
don’t feel like running, a 3 miler can feel like an 8 miler. If you’re excited,
a 3 miler can feel like an awesome 2 miler plus a 4 miler after the excitement
wanes. Patience seemed to be the key; don’t think about how much is left or how
far you’ve come. Just get your mind to stay home and monitor how the body feels
and check your form. Then wait it out. It was during the training runs that I
began to enjoy running. I found solitude during early-morning runs along the
Mississippi River or around the Lakes or along forested greenways. Opening up
my stride for a few miles was freeing and I felt strong. I explored miles of
Minneapolis I hadn’t seen before.
Months of training prepared me body physically and mentally
for the race, but I hadn’t worked out a raceday strategy—how fast and hard
should I push it? My training gave me a
certain amount of gas in the tank, and I knew I’d run out before the race was
over. The question became: how fast do I run to maximize my fuel efficiency?
The experts seemed to agree that running the entire race at the same pace was
the way to go. Well that’s impossible for a beginner, and nearly impossible for
anyone. The tendency for newbies seems to be push it too hard initially,
thinking “I feel great” before crashing later in the race.
Out of curiosity, I looked up Dave’s and Bird’s splits and
did some fancypants plotting (a dollar to whomever first names the software
used to make the chart). What I saw was pretty remarkable—although Dave’s
average time was much faster than Bird’s, their pacing appeared to have the
same shape! A caveat: Dave’s pace plot only contained 4 points, so the curve is
heavily interpolated, but based on
what he said about the race afterward I believe it’s fairly representative.
What I saw when I looked at this plot was the seemingly unavoidable beginner’s
tendency to push too much early, leading to very painful and difficult final
miles.
I figured I should try my best to even out my splits
(maintain the same pace) even if I failed. The only way I could think to
achieve this would’ve been to run the entire race slower than normal until I
was hanging on for dear life. But I knew from training runs that slowing myself
down was almost impossible. I decided to leave my watch at home on race day to
avoid its judgmental hands.
Here goes nothin’
After a surprisingly restful sleep, I awoke and immediately
scarfed down a bagel loaded with cream cheese and peanut butter. Mom was
already Facebooking, but I lured Bird out of bed with the promise of coffee (but
I never found the filters). We bundled up and hit the road around 7 am, and
while waiting on the backed-up off-ramp the bank clock kept reminding us that
it was 28 degrees out there. Great for running but terrible for waiting.
We parked and wandered around the starting area, and I
decided I’d better visit the Portapotty one last time. Now ordinarily I
wouldn’t mention it, but it so happens that this decision probably changed the
outcome of my race. Because by the time I left the Portojohn, the corrals were
filling up. I bid adieu to my cheerleaders (Bird, Mom, Leah, and Anwar) and
walked to my already-almost-full corral. 7:55. I threaded my way as far forward
as possible, settling down behind the 4:30 pace group and waited for the gun.
Someone talking through a bullhorn and cheers and we’re off!
Except we weren’t off in Corral 2, we
stood around for a few minutes before walking toward the start line. Six
minutes later we crossed and there’s no going back now. It was bumper to bumper
and there were no passing lanes. I felt like I was jogging—stuck between the
4:30 and 4:35 pace groups—so I tried to pass but it took way too much effort to
gain so little ground. I decided to go with the flow, but my heart sank a
little bit when at the 5k marker I read the clock time: 33:xx. “Don’t worry
about time, just have fun,” I told myself. Luckily not long after the runner
density lessened and I settled into a comfortable stride.
There was some humor along the course. I remember reading in
the race booklet something like “Portojohns are scattered throughout the
course; if you’re caught “going” elsewhere you will be penalized,” but after
about a mile we ran by a long, tall wood fence and it was lined with guys
“watering the lawn.” There were plenty
of signs, too: “Worst parade ever,”
“Stop reading this and keep running,” “Puke and rally!” “Run faster-I just
farted,” “It’ll feel better when it stops hurting,” and “It seemed like such a
good idea 4 months ago” among many, many more.
It was nice to have my fan club travel to a few spots along
the race, although it must’ve been anticlimactic for them. Battle traffic for
an hour, rush to your spot, then wait and wonder if I’ve already passed, then
cheer for 15 seconds as I run by—but it was encouraging and I’m glad they made
the effort. My PhD advisor unexpectedly cheered me on a couple of times, too,
while she waited for her husband to pass. And I got plenty of high-fives from
all the kids along the way.
It’s dubbed “America’s Most Scenic Urban Marathon” but I
didn’t even notice the scenery. Actually, the halfway (13.1 mile) point was
beside a lake so I took a second to think, “Hey, nice lake.” I could also see Minneapolis from afar at
that point giving me a sense of how far I’d come by foot. I had been told that
the true halfway point was the 20th
mile, so with each passing mile I repeated the word “inconsequential” to
myself.
Finally the 20th mile showed itself, followed by
a nasty hill. That hill claimed many good runners whose pain I felt as I
shuffled by. The next six miles felt like the same moment, over and over. Like
I was stuck in time, going nowhere. The pain wasn’t terrible but I was running
on empty. Somewhere around mile 24 or 25 I began to get lightheaded but “keep
pushing, keep running” I told myself. Sometimes my brain would say, “Hey.
You’re tired. It hurts. Why not just walk a little bit—just a few feet—to
recover?” but I told it to shut up. I was completely oblivious to my
surroundings and other runners. Everything had boiled away and all I was left
with was “keep running.”
Seeing the “Finish” line was like finding an oasis in the
desert after days of dehydration. Emotions tried to kick in but my body didn’t
have enough gas to express them, save a smile. The last .2 miles were joyous—my
body was crazy happy that it would soon stop and my mind was happy for the
achievement. Arms raised I crossed the finish line victoriously, then dazedly
stumbled forward for a medal and some fuel.
27 seconds
After the race (and wandering around for 30 minutes ‘cause
my crew forgot where they parked—thanks guys) I stood in the shower for a while
then crashed on the couch. You can see in the background of the picture that my
gun time was 3:45 and change, so it appeared that I hadn’t bested Bird’s
3:39:45. Didn’t matter, I ran a marathon.
Except that when we looked up the chip time it flashed in big, bold numbers: 3:39:18. 27 seconds
faster--icing on the cake. Bird looked in disbelief for a minute then paid his
dues (and will continue to do so). Of course, if you normalized for temperature,
elevation changes, etc., he probably had the better time but no one cares about
that stuff.
We had run practically the same time, but our races were
very different. Here’s the graph from above, but now with my splits included.
It’s a classic “tortoise and hare” situation. For the first
20! miles Bird ran way faster than I did—½ minute/mile faster for many of those
miles. But in the final six miles while I stayed close to the same pace, Bird
hit the wall enough for me to catch up and pass him just before the finish. My
pace ranged from 8.2-8.6 min/mile, while his ranged from 7.8-9.4. I began the
race in 5,033th place (out of 8,783) and finished in 1729th and at
each checkpoint I had passed more people than had passed me.
I credit my slight victory to the “slowpokes” at the
beginning of the race who wisely forced me to run slower than I wanted. Once I
escaped them, I had already settled into a comfortable and sustainable pace.
But my hat’s off to Dave, who ran a ridiculously fast 3:07 first marathon and
Cody who finished despite some serious pain around mile 15. And of course to
Bird who provided some spice to my race by setting the bar attainably. And to
anyone, ever that’s run a marathon. It’s no easy feet.
J P Schwenk lives in snowy Minneapolis where he pursues a PhD researhing river dynamics beside the mighty Mississippi, which he's run across dozens of times.
