Central Park Marathon

Want to know what I did on Saturday?

Nothing.

Well, almost nothing. After a quick three-mile last-minute tuneup run in the chilly rain (at a 6:53 pace, thank you), I did my usual crunches and dumbell exercises, then I took a hot bubble bath, soaking in it for almost 45 minutes. I sat on the couch and watched movies.  I ate my own home-cooked pasta dinner. 

This was probably the only time that I could do my pre-marathon rituals in my own home, sleeping in my own bed, eating my usual pre-long-run cereal in the morning after a so-so night's sleep (better than most marathons, but not the deep sleep for which I was hoping). Because my marathons are destination races (even the NJ Marathon required a hotel the night before), yesterday's Central Park Marathon in New York City was essentially my hometown marathon.

So after my cereal and a few trips to the bathroom, I was in the car and heading to Manhattan. Within a half-hour, I was parking my car on W. 68th Street, practically across the street from the entrance at Central Park West where the finish line would be. I picked up my race shirt, checked my bag, hit the bathroom one more time (a triple-poop morning usually makes for a great race), and headed to the starting line.  No hassles, no worries, just focusing on the 26.2 miles at hand.  This is why I like small marathons.

Placing myself at the front of the pack at the starting line near the E. 72nd Street transverse, I felt a great deal of confidence come over me. As I embarked on the first of five counter-clockwise loops through Central Park, with a long, steady hill leading up toward the 102nd Street transverse where we turned inward toward the west side, I thought about how confident I was at the beginning of the previous two races. And those did not turn out well.

I convinced myself that it was no matter because I did everything right this time - I did not overeat on Saturday, I had my breakast a full two hours before the race, and I did not take the Advil that I now believe was the culprit in December.

The goal, then, was to run the race for which I trained - a 7:01 pace with as 3:03:00 finish. 

At first, I was running too fast.  I checked my stopwatch every mile, and with each mile I saw more and more of a cushion. By the fifth mile I was up by about 30 seconds.  That doesn't seem like a lot, I know, but it translates to six seconds per mile faster than my goal pace.  You do not sustain that kind of increase for 26 miles, so I pulled back.

On the second of the roughly five-mile loops, I bounded up the east-side uphills at a swift and effortless pace, but took a relaxed approach to the west side downhills.  By the time I hit the finish area for a second time, I was exactly on target.

Up the big hill again, I passed several people.  Hill training paying off.  I was feeling great, but not quite invincible.  The stomach problems in Delaware began in the 13th mile; in Narragansett, the seventeenth.  If I was to persevere, I still needed to keep myself in check. Yet despite taking the downhill at an extremely relaxed pace, I was still right on pace for my goal.

Though I had to work at it the fourth time, I still surprised myself on the hill. As much as I hate doing hill training, I know it kept working its magic yesterday. But I had pulled back too much on the flats and gentle inclines and declines, losing a few seconds through the 14th, 15th, and 16th miles, so by the time I got to the 102nd Street transverse again, around Mile 17, I was behind by closer to a minute.

Still, I felt fantastic. Rather than push it, I reset my goal.  Instead of trying to make up time, I decided to try not to lose any more time.  So I kept shooting for 7:01 miles. 

At first, it worked, but once I hit Mile 20 and heading uphill again, there was no way for that to happen.  I am still proud of myself for pushing up that hill for the last time and ending up with a 7:15 for that mile, but I was set back by more than a minute by then.  No PR would be had, I was sure of it.  But a second-best was in the cards.  Just had to stanch the flow of the seconds that kept bleeding away, mile after mile.

At the fifth cross of the finish area, in Mile 24, before a short loop that cut through the 72nd Street transverse, I saw my parents, and that gave me the boost I needed to defy the fatigue that was now setting into my leg muscles.

Pushing into overdrive, heedless of the pain consuming my legs, I surged.  Mile 26 was partially uphill.  No matter.  Push.  Push.  Push.

I hit the finish line, to the cheering of my parents, at 3:06:28.  My third best marathon ever - just behind Missoula by 13 seconds, and behind Kansas by a minute and 47 seconds.

My confidence is restored.  I feel like a real marathon runner again.  Who knew that I could have such an amazing marathon experience so close to home.  This is my return to form.  I am back.