Fortitude for First Descents Marathon

With the cancellation of the Mangrove Marathon in Cape Coral, Fla., I was bit lost with my race plans until I stumbled upon the website for a Dec. 1 marathon in Delaware.

It made perfect sense - only one week before the date I was supposed to run Mangrove and in a state where I have never done a marathon.

Showing up the night before to pick up my packet, it was very much as small an affair as I had expected. The event was at Cape Henlopen State Park. Packet pickup, pasta dinner, and starting line were at a youth campground building. I ate a hearty amount of pasta and pizza, drank a few cups of apple juice and, with Karen there with me, headed to the hotel.

In the morning, I had the usual jitters, but felt great. The course was four times around a 6.6-mile loop. That made me a little nervous. They said the course was clearly marked with arrows and, if you saw cones, you needed to turn.

All was well for the first two or three miles. We ran off the road and onto trails in the park. I was pacing myself nicely, listening to the same Phish show I used for my previous marathon because it was three hours and three minutes - my goal time.

Then I came to a set of cones, but it did not look like there was anywhere to turn. There was woods all around me. The trail seemed to only go straight, except for a short extension to the right that let to a park bench. Could the cones merely have signified that I should not run toward the park bench?

So I continued on the path. You have to understand - at a seven-minute pace, you have only mere seconds to figure things out when you come upon them. I made my best guess and moved on...
...and found myself at the beach.

Cursing everything from the ground to the sky, I doubled back, and noticed this time that the cones led to a very narrow, woodsy path...and that they were being rearranged to better point the way.

My race was shot already. I lost as much as many as two or three minutes. What to do for the next 23 miles?

I sprinted for a while hoping to make up the lost time, but by the sixth mile, I realized that was probably not a good tactic. I needed to save energy for later in the race. Angry and dejected at the end of the first loop, I saw Karen there and, instead of happy acknowledging how happy I was to see her, I simply said, "It's fucked. I blew a turn. I'm two minutes behind."

So I kept it moderate for the second loop, figuring that if I did goal pace (or slightly slower since I did that sprint), I could still get a decent time, maybe 3:06, and lop off the two minutes or so for my own records. I even considered going back the next day and re-running the blown turn to see just how long it took. At the end of the second loop, I was happy again, and when I saw Karen, I told her so.

But the third loop brought the same tragic gastric problems that plagued my previous marathon. I could not believe it - how could this happen again?? All I ate for breakfast was a Clif Bar! What the hell???

It started in Mile 15 with an uneasy feeling in my tummy. I had not even taken more than a few sips of Gatorade but I knew I would not be able to have any more of it. By Mile 18, I knew I was in big trouble. The memory of the agony I went through in April came flooding back. At the end of the third loop, I told Karen things were bad, really bad, with my stomach, but I was going to finish anyway.

I really could have, and perhaps should have, dropped out right there. But I came to Delaware to complete a marathon, after getting the Florida rug pulled out from under me. I would crawl if I had to.

And I almost had to. For the first time ever, I walked part of a race. What a disappointing, almost shameful, feeling. Walking. Some people walk in races and that is fine for them. Not for me. I am a RUNNER. Moreso, I am a RACER.

I thought about how Ryan Hall dropped out of the Olympic Marathon this year and that made me feel a little better mentally. Pro racers are better off dropping out. They can not afford to risk serious injury because it is their job.

Me, I have to risk it. I came a long way. I trained hard for 17 weeks. I needed to hit the finish line no matter what. Otherwise, what was it all for?

The tightness in my stomach was almost unbearable. At times, I almost cried, but mostly, I wanted to vomit. It felt as if someone reached inside my gut and started squeeeeezing my stomach. Not my abs, my actual stomach.

I ran a little. Walked a little. Ran a little more. Walked a little more.

Women passed me. Older dudes passed me. An older woman passed me. Other walker/runners passed me. A woman with a racing stroller passed me.

The last three miles seemed like an eternity. They practically were. The entire last loop took about an hour and a half. Pathetic.

And then, with only about a half mile to go, I puked.

Vomit gushed out of my mouth and nose. I wiped it away with my hands as it dripped from my beard. I felt like I was covered in it. I trotted toward the finish line, feeling a bit lighter, but beaten, and wholly mortified at the thought of Karen seeing me like that.

She was wonderful, cheering me in as if I had run the best race of my life. I had to hold back tears. I thanked her for her kindness and told her to definitely NOT hug me.

I sat for a while in the bunker-like building, waiting for some kind of normalcy in my tummy that never came. We left without cheering in other runners, eating post-race food, or staying for the awards. No joy in Pukeville.

At the hotel, I soaked in an ice bath for a while and then took a nap. An anti-climactic end to 17 weeks of hard work.