Gansett Marathon, Part Two

Just as it was at the New Jersey Marathon four years ago, this double-loop race was a tale of two races. The first loop was incredible - fast, exciting, adrenalized. 

The second loop, in this case the last 10 of the 26.2 miles, quickly became disastrous. 

Rounding past the start line once again, I felt good. I knew I had lost a little time (the clock said 1:52, which meant I was still at a sub-7 pace) but I felt strong. However, it was time to tackle that long incline into the wind along Ocean Road again. And this time it was miles 17 through 20. The more I climbed, the more I could feel the energy draining. 

There were markers every half mile and I began to eagerly await my arrival at each, but it seemed longer and longer between them - Mile 17...17-and-a-half.......18..........18-and-half................where's the 19? How much longer?? 

By the time I hit the 19-mile mark, it was over. I knew my race was ruined. I had hit the wall and all kinds of horrible things started happening. For starters, my stomach began feeling uneasy. By the 20-mile mark, it went from uneasy to queasy, then to downright sickly by mile twenty-one. At the aid stations, I could not even think about taking water or Gatorade for fear of upchucking on the spot. 

Everything else seemed to feel OK. My legs did not hurt and my lungs were breathing well. But the nausea and cramps in my tummy were unbearable. Along the woodsy area in mile 22, I went from a run to a trot to a jog. By the time I gave the thumbs down to the photographer near mile 23, I was down to a pathetic shuffle. 

All the while, I was counting down the approximate amount of minutes until I could puke. That was ALL I was thinking about for almost seven miles. 

"48 more minutes, then I can vomit....half hour, then I can vomit..." Finally, unceremoniously, I shuffled to the finish line, beaten, broken and ready to spew. 

 I crossed the finish line at a dismal 3:13, proceeded to the nearest trees, and yakked up rivers of bright yellow liquid. I guess it was the Gatorade, of which I had too much early in the race, mixed with the energy gels and chews I had been taking. It seemed never-ending. 

When the vomiting finally subsided, the crying began, though just a little. It was not like the sobbing I did on Karen's shoulder at the New Jersey Marathon in 2008 (the only other time I hit the wall). It was more like a wave of emotion finally catching up. 

And then, I was fine. Physically sore and exhausted, but mentally OK. By the time I showered and attended the awards ceremony, I was moving slowly, but in a good headspace. I knew what I had done wrong - over-fueled, started too fast - and I knew how to fix it. This will not be my last marathon and I still refuse to believe I peaked in 2009. 

In December, I will run the Mangrove Marathon in Cape Coral, Fla., and test my mettle once again. And I will remember what one of the race volunteers said to me as I shuffled past him in agony: "You can always come back and fight another day."