Here's the second part...about the actual race. I told you it was long!
Marathon Weekend, Part II
Thursday, Oct 9 2008
Sunday morning was cold and wet. I woke up at 4:30 to the sounds of Bob Dylan (Blood on the Tracks), and enjoyed a lovely breakfast of an organic meal-replacement bar, a bit of dried fruit, a few almonds, and coffee. I also got busy hydrating. Sound appetizing? Try doing it when your stomach is hopping about your insides. I've taught myself to just make eating a chore when preparing for a long-run, but I have never really had to confront my nerves quite like this. Race Day just ain't the same. I slogged through the task of getting fueled up, and then did myself a favor. I turned off the music for a moment, sat down on the edge of my bed, and closed my eyes.
I thought of the evening at REI when I listened to a young woman speak about how she is fighting to overcome leukemia, and how I was so moved that I signed up for Team in Training on the spot. I thought of Marcus in the hospital. I thought of our dad, who passed away 14 years ago. I thought of all the people I met the day before, and all their stories. I thought of my friends, and all the encouragement I received from them over the past five months. I thought of the amazing people I'd met in Team in Training, and the friendships we created. I thought of the women I've loved (and lost) the past few years, and how each had unexpectedly reached out to me recently. I thought of Marcus on his motorcycle. I thought of us riding our motorcycles together. I focused on all the faces in my mind and surrounded myself with all of them, and imagined that I was a giant, and they were riding on my shoulders. They supported me to this point, and now it was my turn to validate their belief in me. In other words, it was time to carry all of these beautiful people for the next 26.2 miles. Sometimes I'm corny, but visualization is a very useful tool.
The race started at 7:00, and it wasn't even light yet when the starting shot cracked the morning like brittle wood. Given that my goal was to finish the marathon in 4 hours and 15 minutes or better, I opted to start in the back of that heat. My reasoning was that I'd stick with the main group for the first part of the race, and if I felt strong later on, I'd move to maybe catch up with the 4-hour heat. Strategy in place, I slowly squirmed toward the starting line, holding back just a bit in hopes that the crowd would spread out a bit. And then I was there. I turned on my Nike iPod thingy (it tells you how fast you're running), was greeted by Flogging Molly, and took my first step. Then I was running.
The first part of the race took me through the streets of downtown Portland. I passed retail shops, financial institutions, restaurants, and more than a few "all nude revues". About a mile in, I was just finding a stride and suddenly there were Kelly B, Josie, and Nadine. They saw me, and fucking SCREAMED my name: "Go Matthew S! Go! We LOVE YOU!" Then I was past them, my name still ringing in my ears. They were really loud. Tokyo Police Club played the background music.
During these first three or four miles, I was totally jacked up, and staying calm was a challenge. The Nike iPod thingy informed me that my pace was exceeding 8-minute miles, which was WAY too fast. I took a breath, slowed down, and started flirting with the crowd. In case you aren't aware, Portland is a great town and the people are much friendlier than in Seattle. They were quite receptive to flirting as it turns out, and for the little bit of energy I spent winking, high-fiving, making dance moves, shouting "Go Team!", I received ten times as much in return. After the first hour I had run just under seven miles and I felt remarkably strong. The Nike iPod thingy informed me that I was maintaining a brisk pace of 8 minutes, 44 seconds per mile. Michael Franti and Spearhead enthusiastically endorsed my efforts.
Second leg: the industrial district. Okay, for all of Portland's beauty, I'm surprised race organizers opted to send us through this area. It's ugly, and making matters worse is that it began to flat-out piss rain. In buckets. A little rain is a lovely thing in a marathon, but this was the foot soaking deluge that washes away all the body glidea very grim situation. Even so, throngs of complete strangers, upon seeing my personalized Team in Training jersey, cheered me on as if we were family. "Go Team! Go Matthew!" Still feeling strong, I did a bit o' dancing, flirted with gangs of cheerleaders (there were many), and still somehow managed to stay loose.
One of the funny things about the ugliest section of the race course is that you get to run through it twice. At mile 9, there is an abrupt switchback and runners find themselves retracing their steps. The nice thing about this is that you get to see all the people behind you. Another thing I saw just ahead of me caught me by surprisethe 4 hour pace setter. This is a guy who carries a sign that says "4:00" on it, and if you want to finish the race in 4 hours, all you need to do is follow him. The streets were clogged with hundreds of people who had precisely this goal, and I gave a lot of thought to joining them. And then I saw Mary, a woman I had met the day before. Her grandson is Little Isaac, who is battling leukemia right now. He's four. As we approached each other, I called out, "Go Isaac!!!" Her face was glowing when she responded "Go Marcus!!!"
I decided to fuck the 4-hour group and stepped it up a notch. This move was whole-heartedly celebrated by the Cure, and seeing as it was Sunday, I sang along with them about being in love (I know, the song says FRIDAY, but work with me). Just as we finished, we hit mile 11, and there were Nadine, Josie, and Kelly B again. They hadn't shouted themselves hoarse yet, so I gave them a double "What! What?!" with a shimmy. It's easy to do when Lyrics Born is at the party.
It kept raining past 13.1 miles and into the third leg. Due to the rain, my faithful iPod struggled mightily, but I knew something was going seriously haywire when it refused to play anything but ABBA. I swear to all that is holy, I'm not making this up. Now don't get me wrong, ABBA has put out at least three of the greatest pop songs of all timeand you can sure the hell dance to it...which is why they have a space in my heart. They took me all the way up a loooong hill and to about mid-span of the St. John's bridge. And then, as was so very appropriate, my trusty iPod became an xPod to the mournful lyrics of "The Winner Takes it All". Again, I can't make this stuff up.
Losing the music was a serious blow. Up to that point, it was a source of inspiration and energy, and now I was very much alone, it seemed. Passing into mile 18, my body really began to hurt. My feet were soaked and sore, I was doing every mental exercise I could to coax away the cramping in my calves and glutes. My lower back began to throb, and I was concerned about keeping a steady pace without the help of the Nike thingy. Then an old "friend" returned to pay me a visit.
You see, for as long as I can remember, I've had an imaginary Drill Sergeant. I've used him to get me through difficult situations, but it comes at a bit of a cost. I'm learning that "Move it, you fucking queer! I'm gonna buy you a dress if you don't step it up! Your mama can run faster than you, and that's with my dick in her ass!" is pretty destructive. Yes, it can certainly motivate me, but I never really liked it, and I recognize that it can do more damage than good. And why the hell did I ever listen to a rotten fucker like that guy, anyways? I'll tell you why: he's a part of methe part that loves to remind me that I can never really measure up; that I have to prove myself to be considered valid, not to mention loveable.
Well guess what? All my friends and loves were sitting on my shoulders, remember? If I've learned anything over the past few years, it is that I am loved because I'm loveable, pure and simple. Doing great deeds, such as running a marathon, aren't necessary and if I'd stopped right there nobody would have abandoned me or thought anything less of me. Not losing stride, I turned to face that nasty fucker and said "Stand down, soldierand get the fuck out of here". Rather stunned, he disappeared with a wimper and I felt as if I'd already won something. Mile 19only 7.2 more to go.
It was during this last leg of the race that I experienced real pain, and yet my heart was full and I managed to maintain good form and an 8:40 pace. At mile 20, one of my coaches, Jen, appeared out of nowhere by my side. "Matt, you look greatwant a salt pill?" I accepted. At mile 22.5, another coach, Megan, was there with not only salt pills and electrolyte tablets (two, please) but candy corn. These were a wonderful alternative to the 5 packs of Gu (goo that replaces calories and nutrients) that I had consumed so far. "Matt, you look so strong, we're doing some fucking beers tonight! Oh, and if you want to beat 4 hours, you can slow down. You're flying!" I gave her my best Papa Smurf (while running) and said "fuck slow"! I'm pretty sure I had candy corn dripping from my chin.
Mile 24 was getting close, and there were the good folks from Widmer Brewery, handing out beer. Several of the runners said "no" and acted offended, but me? Puhleeze! A cute girl looked at me questioningly, and I responded with "You naughty minx! Gimme two". Please understand, they were really smallthe beers, I mean. Another burpy quarter mile, and I was past Mile 24 and crossing the Broadway Bridge. As I crossed the span, there was yet another lovely sitea gaggle of Portland State cheerleaders AND my own personal glee club. Inspired by the racket raised by my posse, one of the cheerleaders, an adorable Asian girl, ran out to give a high five. Her trajectory wasn't quite right, and we ended up in a spinning, wet (it was raining, sicko) embrace. Okay, I did yell "gimme some sugar, baby girl!" but the moment was over quickly, even if it was well-received by everyone watching. Okay, so maybe I had an epiphany five miles back, but that sure the hell doesn't mean I have to give up my flare for the dramatic, does it? I think not.
As I left the shortest love affair of my life behind me, Josie jumped in and said, "alright, perv, I'm gonna get you to the finish line". She ran with me for the next mile and a half. "You're doing great, Mattyeasily better than 9-minute miles. You're gonna beat 4 hours, you fucking badass. Don't slow down, sexy, or I'll get my boyfriend to kick your ass! If you pull this off, maybe I'll tell that little cheerleader that you're really only 29!" My response was "Josie, this really fucking hurts", but I kept moving. She had to let me go with about a half mile left, but I'm grateful for her taking my mind off all the alarms my body was sounding. And then, just 50 yards after she peeled away, there were Jessica and Julie...screaming for me! Are you catching a theme here? I may have been the one doing the physical work, but I had TONS of support along the way, and that made all the difference.
I turned a corner, and there was downtown again. I could feel the finish line pulling at me and I felt more alive than I think I ever had before. I was sprinting by the time I hit Salmon Avenue, and damned near wiped out when I careened around the corner to 3rd Street. Then I saw itthe finish line. Arms high, I raised my voice as I crossed the line. I wish I had said something like "Marcus!", but instead I just said "Wheeeeooooowwww", or something like that.
What else is there to say? The next hour consisted of searching for, and finding, Marcus; thwarting Scientologists disguised as post-race masseuses (the fuckers); celebrating with Erik, Steve, Diana, Robin, more Josie, Phil; waiting for Melissa (my sister) to get her slow ass off the course; crying with her over Marcus; ice baths and beer. Later on there was singing and dancingand more beer.
Oh yeah, my final time was 3 hours, 52 minutes, and 52 seconds. Given this was my first marathon, I'd say I kicked that race's ass. If you get nothing else from this WAY too long missive, please understand that for all my cocky posturing, I am humbled by Marcus' courage and the love of my friends. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you all.
Marathon Weekend, Part II
Thursday, Oct 9 2008
Sunday morning was cold and wet. I woke up at 4:30 to the sounds of Bob Dylan (Blood on the Tracks), and enjoyed a lovely breakfast of an organic meal-replacement bar, a bit of dried fruit, a few almonds, and coffee. I also got busy hydrating. Sound appetizing? Try doing it when your stomach is hopping about your insides. I've taught myself to just make eating a chore when preparing for a long-run, but I have never really had to confront my nerves quite like this. Race Day just ain't the same. I slogged through the task of getting fueled up, and then did myself a favor. I turned off the music for a moment, sat down on the edge of my bed, and closed my eyes.
I thought of the evening at REI when I listened to a young woman speak about how she is fighting to overcome leukemia, and how I was so moved that I signed up for Team in Training on the spot. I thought of Marcus in the hospital. I thought of our dad, who passed away 14 years ago. I thought of all the people I met the day before, and all their stories. I thought of my friends, and all the encouragement I received from them over the past five months. I thought of the amazing people I'd met in Team in Training, and the friendships we created. I thought of the women I've loved (and lost) the past few years, and how each had unexpectedly reached out to me recently. I thought of Marcus on his motorcycle. I thought of us riding our motorcycles together. I focused on all the faces in my mind and surrounded myself with all of them, and imagined that I was a giant, and they were riding on my shoulders. They supported me to this point, and now it was my turn to validate their belief in me. In other words, it was time to carry all of these beautiful people for the next 26.2 miles. Sometimes I'm corny, but visualization is a very useful tool.
The race started at 7:00, and it wasn't even light yet when the starting shot cracked the morning like brittle wood. Given that my goal was to finish the marathon in 4 hours and 15 minutes or better, I opted to start in the back of that heat. My reasoning was that I'd stick with the main group for the first part of the race, and if I felt strong later on, I'd move to maybe catch up with the 4-hour heat. Strategy in place, I slowly squirmed toward the starting line, holding back just a bit in hopes that the crowd would spread out a bit. And then I was there. I turned on my Nike iPod thingy (it tells you how fast you're running), was greeted by Flogging Molly, and took my first step. Then I was running.
The first part of the race took me through the streets of downtown Portland. I passed retail shops, financial institutions, restaurants, and more than a few "all nude revues". About a mile in, I was just finding a stride and suddenly there were Kelly B, Josie, and Nadine. They saw me, and fucking SCREAMED my name: "Go Matthew S! Go! We LOVE YOU!" Then I was past them, my name still ringing in my ears. They were really loud. Tokyo Police Club played the background music.
During these first three or four miles, I was totally jacked up, and staying calm was a challenge. The Nike iPod thingy informed me that my pace was exceeding 8-minute miles, which was WAY too fast. I took a breath, slowed down, and started flirting with the crowd. In case you aren't aware, Portland is a great town and the people are much friendlier than in Seattle. They were quite receptive to flirting as it turns out, and for the little bit of energy I spent winking, high-fiving, making dance moves, shouting "Go Team!", I received ten times as much in return. After the first hour I had run just under seven miles and I felt remarkably strong. The Nike iPod thingy informed me that I was maintaining a brisk pace of 8 minutes, 44 seconds per mile. Michael Franti and Spearhead enthusiastically endorsed my efforts.
Second leg: the industrial district. Okay, for all of Portland's beauty, I'm surprised race organizers opted to send us through this area. It's ugly, and making matters worse is that it began to flat-out piss rain. In buckets. A little rain is a lovely thing in a marathon, but this was the foot soaking deluge that washes away all the body glidea very grim situation. Even so, throngs of complete strangers, upon seeing my personalized Team in Training jersey, cheered me on as if we were family. "Go Team! Go Matthew!" Still feeling strong, I did a bit o' dancing, flirted with gangs of cheerleaders (there were many), and still somehow managed to stay loose.
One of the funny things about the ugliest section of the race course is that you get to run through it twice. At mile 9, there is an abrupt switchback and runners find themselves retracing their steps. The nice thing about this is that you get to see all the people behind you. Another thing I saw just ahead of me caught me by surprisethe 4 hour pace setter. This is a guy who carries a sign that says "4:00" on it, and if you want to finish the race in 4 hours, all you need to do is follow him. The streets were clogged with hundreds of people who had precisely this goal, and I gave a lot of thought to joining them. And then I saw Mary, a woman I had met the day before. Her grandson is Little Isaac, who is battling leukemia right now. He's four. As we approached each other, I called out, "Go Isaac!!!" Her face was glowing when she responded "Go Marcus!!!"
I decided to fuck the 4-hour group and stepped it up a notch. This move was whole-heartedly celebrated by the Cure, and seeing as it was Sunday, I sang along with them about being in love (I know, the song says FRIDAY, but work with me). Just as we finished, we hit mile 11, and there were Nadine, Josie, and Kelly B again. They hadn't shouted themselves hoarse yet, so I gave them a double "What! What?!" with a shimmy. It's easy to do when Lyrics Born is at the party.
It kept raining past 13.1 miles and into the third leg. Due to the rain, my faithful iPod struggled mightily, but I knew something was going seriously haywire when it refused to play anything but ABBA. I swear to all that is holy, I'm not making this up. Now don't get me wrong, ABBA has put out at least three of the greatest pop songs of all timeand you can sure the hell dance to it...which is why they have a space in my heart. They took me all the way up a loooong hill and to about mid-span of the St. John's bridge. And then, as was so very appropriate, my trusty iPod became an xPod to the mournful lyrics of "The Winner Takes it All". Again, I can't make this stuff up.
Losing the music was a serious blow. Up to that point, it was a source of inspiration and energy, and now I was very much alone, it seemed. Passing into mile 18, my body really began to hurt. My feet were soaked and sore, I was doing every mental exercise I could to coax away the cramping in my calves and glutes. My lower back began to throb, and I was concerned about keeping a steady pace without the help of the Nike thingy. Then an old "friend" returned to pay me a visit.
You see, for as long as I can remember, I've had an imaginary Drill Sergeant. I've used him to get me through difficult situations, but it comes at a bit of a cost. I'm learning that "Move it, you fucking queer! I'm gonna buy you a dress if you don't step it up! Your mama can run faster than you, and that's with my dick in her ass!" is pretty destructive. Yes, it can certainly motivate me, but I never really liked it, and I recognize that it can do more damage than good. And why the hell did I ever listen to a rotten fucker like that guy, anyways? I'll tell you why: he's a part of methe part that loves to remind me that I can never really measure up; that I have to prove myself to be considered valid, not to mention loveable.
Well guess what? All my friends and loves were sitting on my shoulders, remember? If I've learned anything over the past few years, it is that I am loved because I'm loveable, pure and simple. Doing great deeds, such as running a marathon, aren't necessary and if I'd stopped right there nobody would have abandoned me or thought anything less of me. Not losing stride, I turned to face that nasty fucker and said "Stand down, soldierand get the fuck out of here". Rather stunned, he disappeared with a wimper and I felt as if I'd already won something. Mile 19only 7.2 more to go.
It was during this last leg of the race that I experienced real pain, and yet my heart was full and I managed to maintain good form and an 8:40 pace. At mile 20, one of my coaches, Jen, appeared out of nowhere by my side. "Matt, you look greatwant a salt pill?" I accepted. At mile 22.5, another coach, Megan, was there with not only salt pills and electrolyte tablets (two, please) but candy corn. These were a wonderful alternative to the 5 packs of Gu (goo that replaces calories and nutrients) that I had consumed so far. "Matt, you look so strong, we're doing some fucking beers tonight! Oh, and if you want to beat 4 hours, you can slow down. You're flying!" I gave her my best Papa Smurf (while running) and said "fuck slow"! I'm pretty sure I had candy corn dripping from my chin.
Mile 24 was getting close, and there were the good folks from Widmer Brewery, handing out beer. Several of the runners said "no" and acted offended, but me? Puhleeze! A cute girl looked at me questioningly, and I responded with "You naughty minx! Gimme two". Please understand, they were really smallthe beers, I mean. Another burpy quarter mile, and I was past Mile 24 and crossing the Broadway Bridge. As I crossed the span, there was yet another lovely sitea gaggle of Portland State cheerleaders AND my own personal glee club. Inspired by the racket raised by my posse, one of the cheerleaders, an adorable Asian girl, ran out to give a high five. Her trajectory wasn't quite right, and we ended up in a spinning, wet (it was raining, sicko) embrace. Okay, I did yell "gimme some sugar, baby girl!" but the moment was over quickly, even if it was well-received by everyone watching. Okay, so maybe I had an epiphany five miles back, but that sure the hell doesn't mean I have to give up my flare for the dramatic, does it? I think not.
As I left the shortest love affair of my life behind me, Josie jumped in and said, "alright, perv, I'm gonna get you to the finish line". She ran with me for the next mile and a half. "You're doing great, Mattyeasily better than 9-minute miles. You're gonna beat 4 hours, you fucking badass. Don't slow down, sexy, or I'll get my boyfriend to kick your ass! If you pull this off, maybe I'll tell that little cheerleader that you're really only 29!" My response was "Josie, this really fucking hurts", but I kept moving. She had to let me go with about a half mile left, but I'm grateful for her taking my mind off all the alarms my body was sounding. And then, just 50 yards after she peeled away, there were Jessica and Julie...screaming for me! Are you catching a theme here? I may have been the one doing the physical work, but I had TONS of support along the way, and that made all the difference.
I turned a corner, and there was downtown again. I could feel the finish line pulling at me and I felt more alive than I think I ever had before. I was sprinting by the time I hit Salmon Avenue, and damned near wiped out when I careened around the corner to 3rd Street. Then I saw itthe finish line. Arms high, I raised my voice as I crossed the line. I wish I had said something like "Marcus!", but instead I just said "Wheeeeooooowwww", or something like that.
What else is there to say? The next hour consisted of searching for, and finding, Marcus; thwarting Scientologists disguised as post-race masseuses (the fuckers); celebrating with Erik, Steve, Diana, Robin, more Josie, Phil; waiting for Melissa (my sister) to get her slow ass off the course; crying with her over Marcus; ice baths and beer. Later on there was singing and dancingand more beer.
Oh yeah, my final time was 3 hours, 52 minutes, and 52 seconds. Given this was my first marathon, I'd say I kicked that race's ass. If you get nothing else from this WAY too long missive, please understand that for all my cocky posturing, I am humbled by Marcus' courage and the love of my friends. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you all.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
kraven:
Thank you for all the info you left regaurding my cell phone blog. I love when people actaully leave feedback and information I was not aware of or knew previously. So I appriciate you taking the time to leave all that. How is your Monday morning going? Hopefully good.
agy:
Thanks for the sweet comment on my set. I'm glad you enjoyed it! 