“This is the first time I’ve gone into a marathon feeling good since Mississippi,” I told Gloria as I stood at the starting line of the Mad Marathon.
Indeed, my hamstring was in pain in Louisiana and my calf
was roughed up in Kentucky. But on this
beautiful, cool morning in the mountains of Vermont, I felt great, if a little
bit nervous about the giant hills ahead of me.
But there was no pressure here. I
was standing on Main Street that morning for two reasons – to run a Vermont
marathon in under four hours and to see the beautiful views that the website
promised.
It was obvious that most of the other runners had a similar
attitude. Along the course, people were
chatting and taking photos of the scenic vistas, delivered as advertised. Runners encouraged each other up the
seemingly endless hills and - with the exception of the winner, Dylan Thayer,
and runner up, Christopher Free, who completed the course in the mind-boggling,
super-human times of 2:48:52 and 2:55:29 – they did not seem to be there to
race competitively. Certainly, no one
was there to get a personal record.
The first two miles was through town and over a quaint
covered bridge crossing the Mad River and north along Joslin Hill Road, already
doing some uphill work with a climb of a few hundred feet in altitude. We turned onto North Road and proceeded on
relatively flatter terrain and across another covered bridge to a quick
out-and-back on Meadow Road and then back onto North Road to the northernmost
point in the race for a turnaround. These
provided us the opportunity to give well-wishes to those in front of us and
behind us in the pack; and at this super-friendly marathon, several runners did
exactly that. Since I was taking it more
slowly than usual, I made sure to greet and encourage every runner that I
passed (or passed me). These little
turnarounds also provided the opportunity to count runners and see where I was
placed (not that it mattered…but it did…a little). Counting the blue bibs coming back at me
(half-marathoners wore yellow), I determined that I was in 27th
place in these early miles, and my pace was at around 8:00 per mile, right on
target.
The next several miles took us south on North Road, past
where we turned from Joslin Hill Road, and south on Common Road and East Warren
Road toward something the race officials referred to as “the dip”, which was a
sharp downhill followed by a sharp uphill (each about 200 feet in elevation), before
continuing the long 900-foot ascent that started around mile seven and finally
peaked at around mile 16. I managed to
tackle the dip at a reasonable pace of around 9:00 per mile, and as the long
ascent wore on, the difficulty was eased by the gorgeous views of the mountains
and ski slopes as well as a happy fellow named Cary who recognized me from the
Hatfield & McCoy Marathon last month. While I tried to maintain a somewhat
even (though slow) pace of running, his tactic was to run the short downhills
and walk the steep uphills. This had the effect of us constantly leap-frogging
each other during several miles, giving us a chance to chat a bit about the
craziness of what we were doing (and remark on how wonderfully tolerant our
wives were throughout it all).
The elevation finally leveled off a bit as we turned off of
East Warren Road and made a rectangle along Roxbury Mountain, Senor, Fuller
Hill and Plunkton roads before heading back north on East Warren into the last
few miles of the race. After all that
uphill climbing, that four-mile section should have felt good; but instead, I
felt fatigued on its gently rolling terrain. I was logging miles in the low-8s
at that point, and I accepted this to be completely fine. I think had even gotten myself as far as 25th
place at one point, so everyone else must have slowed down, too.
What goes up must come down, so when I was finally on East
Warren, with a net downhill for the final seven miles of the race, I decided it
would be OK to pick up the pace again, since the hard work was over. This worked out well for miles 20 through 22,
hitting my first sub-8-minute miles since the first half of the race and what
might have been my fastest mile all day.
But I had forgotten one thing – the return of the dip.
Somehow, it had slipped my mind that on the return trip
toward town, I would have to tackle the dip again. The steep uphill even looked more daunting this time.
No matter how slowly I took the ascent (upper 9s) it felt like too much
work. By the time I crested the hill, I
was officially ready for the race to be over.
Adding anxiety to my fatigue, a few runners were coming back toward me,
saying we were all going the wrong way.
I have learned from my past experiences to keep a copy of the map and
turn-by-turn directions in my pocket, so I stopped for a moment, checked my
notes, determined that we were on the right track, and pressed on.
I knew everything was OK, but I felt uneasy, so hitting the
mile 23 marker was a bit of relief.
Still, some damage had been done – the energy drain of the climb out of
the dip and the nervous feeling of possibly being off course sent my stomach
into a tailspin. I tend to carry stress
and anxiety in my tummy, and it was being pushed to the brink as I made the
turn onto Joslin Hill Road for the final 5K of the course. As it has in so many previous races (but not
since Youngstown last year), my stomach knotted up tightly, signing the death
warrant for this race. All I could do
for the last three miles was survive.
Mile 24 took more than 10 minutes. “So what,” I thought. “People run entire marathons at a slower
pace. I just need to run two more miles
in the next half hour.”
The pain grew so great, it felt like there were evil hands
inside my belly wringing out my stomach like a wet washcloth – gripping and
twisting, tighter and tighter. I could
not take it anymore, so I walked for about a minute, and the pain
subsided. But as soon as I tried to run
again, it came right back. I suppose I
could have walked to the finish and still come in under four hours (barely),
but that is just not me.
So I pushed on. It
did not matter how slowly, as long as I was running, because running a marathon
means running a marathon. OK, I was probably shuffling more than
running at that point, but it was still slightly faster than walking. I was also grunting and groaning from the
intense pain; so much so, that a volunteer near the covered bridge at Mile 25
asked if I needed help. I told him it
was stomach problem and that I would make it.
Finally on Main Street, with several runners passing me, I
was relieved that it was almost over - 23 amazing, beautiful, challenging but fun miles, followed by three awful, painful, gut-wrenching ones.
The last mile probably took about 12 minutes (and seemed like an eternity),
but every step brought me closer to the end, and when I made the last turn and
saw the finish line (and Gloria, who immediately recognized that I was
suffering), I stretched my arms out, tried to straighten up my posture, and
entered the chute in the grassy area, surrounded by various flags on each side,
and an archway that resembled a barn.
Once I crossed (at 3:43:14, second out of 17 in the males 40-44 group) I immediately hit the ground, doubled over and
kneeling, trying to catch my breath, thinking I may lose composure and start
outright weeping. Gloria helped me up
and we made our way to a picnic table where I rested for a few minutes. Once my stomach and breath normalized, the
fatigue in my legs kicked in as we slowly walked to Gloria’s car. Within a half hour, we were back at the hotel
and I was showering, and at noon, we checked out and hit the road. I would have loved to stick around the
beautiful towns of Waitsfield and Warren, but we had a seven-hour drive ahead
of us.
Once we got home, we met with our friends and went out to an
all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. Still
wearing my huge medal and baby-stepping to the buffet, I was asked by a
20-something kid if the medal was from a marathon and where. I told him I had just run a marathon in
northern Vermont.
“You ran a marathon in Vermont this morning?” he asked.
“Yeah. I know, crazy,
right?”
Not just crazy. Mad.
