Modesto Marathon Recap: No Really, It's Okay.

About a month ago, I raced the Modesto Marathon. It was my first marathon in over a year and I was itching to run. I was excited partly because I enjoy the slow torture of running over 26 miles, but also because it was going to be a first of sorts. Prior to this marathon, I had completed five marathons. I had never set a time goal before, as my only intentions thus far were to simply finish, preferably alive, and without vomiting or otherwise soiling myself. So far, I was five for five. (Woot!) But for Modesto? Well, Modesto I wanted to race. And I didn’t just want to race, I wanted a PR (Personal Record) that doubled as a BQ (Boston Qualify). I had scored myself a pretty respectable half marathon time in January (1:38:03) that set me up nicely for, what I thought would be, a solid marathon. So, for marathon number six, I was going to race it. And if you’re well trained, how much different could racing a marathon be than running a marathon?  Spoiler alert! A lot. That’s how much. A whole freaking lot.

Running a marathon and racing a marathon are two totally different things. Regardless of effort on race day, you’re still covering over 26 miles. Which, even still, blows my mind. But, to race that distance? Holy crap. That’s like saying, “Please kick me in the teeth over and over again for a few hours. No, really. Go for it. Just totally kick the shit out of me. And really make it hurt, okay? Let’s see how much I can take. Then when I’m really hurting, when I’m begging for mercy, I want you to set me on fire. Yes, I said ‘fire’. And when I’m really ablaze, try putting out the fire with gasoline. And if that doesn’t work, try smothering it by rolling me around in shards of broken glass. Oh, man! So much fun!”

The marathon gets a lot of hype, presumably for two reasons. First, for many it’s hard to understand why anyone would want run for 26.2 miles. Because, also, before the 26.2 mile race comes the 3-6 months of training that precedes it. And two, unless you’ve run a marathon, you really can’t see how it’s much different than any other kind of race. Really, just how is it different? Well, in the immortal genius of Hal Higdon, marathon champion and coach, “The difference between the mile and the marathon is the difference between burning your fingers with a match and being slowly roasted over hot coals.” Yep. That sounds about right.

So, we’ve established that on a good day the marathon is like being burned alive. And to race a marathon is like being burned alive, on purpose, begging for more, and paying hundreds of dollars to do it.  Sounds like my idea of a good time. Let’s review how that went for me, mkay?

Not well. It went really, really not well.

I’ll spare you some of the gory details, but suffice it to say that there was a lot of vomit and a lot of misery. With about 8 miles still to go, I wanted to pull over and beg for the DNF (Did Not Finish) at every aide station. For every Bike Marschall that rode past me and asked if I was okay or if I needed help, I wanted to confirm that, yes, I was in need of A LOT of help. But, I wouldn’t let myself. I wasn’t injured. I still had several hours to complete the race; in theory, I could walk the entire rest of the way and still finish before the race was over. I would finish, dang it.

Despite the dark and miserable place that I found myself, I kept reminding myself that no matter how miserable I felt, I was still moving. I was alive and able. I could think of so many people who kill for this opportunity. So, like hell was I going to take that for granted. I also thought about my daughter. I wanted her to see what hard work looked like. I wanted her to see that her mom doesn’t give up just because things get a little tough. I needed her to see that even when your plans get totally derailed and you feel so disappointed, and you want to cry and give up, that is the time when you work harder. And so, I kept going. I may not have liked the outcome, but like hell was I going to let it stop me.

So, I trudged along oscillating between walking (no puke) to running (puke). Finally, at mile 25.5, I forced myself into a run and would not allow myself to stop until I crossed that finish line. By the time I could see the finish line, I could feel the vomit at my molars and I using sheer will power to keep it down. As I pushed it in, I could hear the announcer calling my name. And just before I crossed the finish line, I stopped. Dead in my tracks, I stopped. Then, slowly, I walked across the finish line with my hand covering my mouth and just praying this was as bad as it was going to get. People started to swarm me and I motioned for them to stay away and give me some pace. We were in a very delicate situation and if I could have just a little space, it might, MIGHT, end well.

Well, it didn’t be cause someone yelled, “Oh my God! She’s gonna puke! Get her a bag!”

Sorry, friends. No action shots. But we all know what's coming.

And just like that, the power of suggestion released the kraken from the depths of my gut and it was the pie eating contest scene from Stand By Me all over again. I vomited all over my shoes and finish line, and all in the accompaniment of a few hundred people. Then, I went ahead and filled up a plastic bag, too. I was so, so sick. I had a screaming, pounding headache. I was exhausted. I was so disappointed.  I was 17 minutes over my time goal, which is basically an eternity for a marathon. The months and months of hard training that went into this race were for not. And so, covered in a mix of sweat and vomit, I made my way out of the finisher’s area.

Apparently, when you vomit with the commitment that I did, they like you to swing by the medical tent for a little visit. A very nice man told me to come inside, lie down on a cot, and enjoy a nice, warm Gatorade with salt. And naturally, the only open cot among the walking dead was situated right between what appeared to be two sub-three marathon champion-type immortals who, I’m sure, set new records with both their super fast times and their ridiculously chiseled abs. And here I am, just barely screeching under a 4-hour marathon but vomiting like I broke the world record. And chiseled? Not even. I’m more…sanded to a nice, round finish. I must admit that I didn’t even feel like I earned my spot in the medic tent. Just prop me up behind the dumpsters, turn on the hose for me to drink out of, and let’s call it good. That’s how I was feeling.

Tricia <3

But, I drank my salt and Gatorade (so yuck, by the way), and then my thoughts started to firm up and I started to see clearly again. My sweet husband, Marc, and daughter, Lily, were sitting on one side of me, and on my other side, my dear friend, Tricia. And guess what? They were super proud of me and had nothing but love. They felt the loss of my BQ and told me that I ran like a champ anyway. And the way that they said it leads me to believe that they actually meant it, too; they weren’t just being nice. Then Marc said to me, “Hold on. There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

Then, all of the sudden, I look up and in walks my other dear friend, Grace. Unbeknownst to me, she had been planning for a while to come and watch me finish. She drove over three hours to watch me vomit and totally miss my mark. But guess what again? You know what she did? She rushed over, sat down beside me, gave me a huge hug, kissed my cheek and said, “I am so proud of you.”

Grace & Company bringing street cred to Modesto.
Or, as Grace calls it, "Thug Life".

And then there was my coach. She understands my drive on an entirely different level than most because, well, she lives it, too. She works me hard, she encourages me, keeps me focused, and when needed, she snaps the proverbial leash when I get too frisky and need to mellow things out. One of the many things that I love about her is that she’s always straight with me. When I need to chill out, which is often, she reminds me to breathe. When I’m feeling insignificant, she reminds me of the progress I’ve made. When I’m feeling unsure, she reminds me of all the workouts I’ve nailed. And when I totally bonk in a marathon, she reminds me that it was just one day, that I’ll get them next time, that it wasn’t for lack of fitness or trying, and (most importantly), that she’s super proud of me. Funny how hearing that never gets old, no matter how old you are.

So, all I can say is, WOW. I bonked hard at this race. I totally crashed. And I am literally surrounded by so much love and support. These people are truly proud of me. And just like that, it was okay. I was okay. Sure, I was and still am very disappointed in how I ran Modesto. I would have loved a BQ. But, you know what? Let’s review for a moment. I got to run a marathon, which I freaking love to do. I finished without getting injured. I have the strength and vitality to run again and again and again. I was surrounded by nothing but total love and support. So, really? Maybe it wasn’t the day I had hoped for. But to say it was a bad day is entirely inaccurate. It was a pretty freaking great day when you really look at it all.

For the rest of that day, everyone exercised the same slow and deliberate movements that one should do around unpredictable, rabid animals. I am not typically known for my muted reactions to important events, so I can see how my even keel threw them off. Are you okay? Are you sure? No, really…are you okay? And the answer is always, yes. Yes, I’m okay. You can have a disappointing day and a day that’s also good. I’m not going to lie and say that I didn’t cry in the shower afterwards, or that I didn’t buy myself a new, fancy purse to soften the blow of a missed opportunity, because c’mon, people. It's not like I’m not dead on the inside. But, overall, I was feeling awfully lucky.

The next morning, I awoke early, around 5am. The first thought that came to my mind was not about how sore my legs felt, or how badly my race had gone. But instead I thought about how many training days I had left before my next attempt at the BQ. What could I improve? What could I do differently next time? When can I get started? For some, maybe the defeat of the day before would have deterred from future attempts. But for me, it’s only heightened the crazy and increased my focus. I am more determined and motivated than ever. I look at posts and blogs about the Boston Marathon the same way in which a starving lion watches an unsuspecting gazelle. I’m hungry.

So, presumably, there are a few things that went wrong at Modesto, and a few things that I know I can improve upon. First, the vomit party was likely a result of Hyponatremia, which is basically a really difficult word to spell and a fancy way to say that my sodium levels were too low. Between the excessive drinking on an unseasonably warm day and the excessive sweating from running for almost four hours, this caused an electrolyte imbalance of epic proportions, thus resulting in the fatigue, the vomit, and the headache. A pretty easy fix, I’ll start training with salt tablets and keep an eye on fluid intake.

Secondly, and not necessarily a deficit, but instead an area to sharpen up, I’m focusing on more strengthening and speed. My coach drafted some new speed workouts that would surely kill me, then she backed it off just a smidge and said, “This will work nicely!” as well as incorporating greater race pace mileage into long run days. She knows I’m crazy and up for the challenge. Plus, I trust her inherently, so if she told me to gargle with raw sewage, I’d totally do it if she said it would make me a better, faster, stronger runner. 

As for strengthening, you all remember Grace? She was my friend who surprised me at Modesto? Well, like my coach, she knows my crazy and is nothing but loving and supportive. She’s also wickedly strong, uber smart, and has a high tolerance for the kind of energy that I bring to this relationship. A few times a week, Grace and I get together and work on strengthening of hips, core, and upper body. She writes detailed plans and we work it out. At first, I was worried that the differences in our ability levels would phase this out fairly quickly, as Grace is able to do twice as much in half the time. For real. While Grace is lifting 15-pound barbells, I’m rocking two-and-a-half pound wrist weights that, I’m fairly certain, are actually Maxi pads that she just spray painted orange and grey so that I wouldn’t feel so bad. But, Grace is super awesome and she’s found ways to draft plans that meet both our strengthening needs. She encourages me and makes me feel like a champ, even if her seven-year-old daughter and I have the same weight-lifting tolerance. She’s helping me get stronger, which in turn helps me get faster. But even more than that, I so look forward to our workouts because we have fun, and because she inspires me in so many more ways that she even knows, and because it reminds me that even if I never BQ or even PR, this is what it’s all about. It’s about becoming strong, healthy, happy, best versions of us.

In just under a month, assuming I can remain healthy and uninjured, I’ll be making another attempt at a BQ. Already, I feel differently about this race. I went through a pretty hellish experience at Modesto and survived it, so I know I can endure a lot. Plus, I’ve got a different perspective. Sure, I’ve got some nerves when I think about the race, but I’m more excited and enthusiastic than I am nervous. I get another opportunity to do what I love, to do what so many would love to be able to do but can’t, and to see just what I’m made of. That’s thrilling, my friends! How often do we get to really do that? As cliché as it sounds, that really is a gift. I’ve got a ton of people in my corner, all of whom will applaud me no matter what the outcome, and the only one I’m racing against is myself. It’s a win-win with tater tots at the end.

So, that’s my recap. Lessons learned are:

1. Marathons are hard.
2. Vomiting is no fun.
3. Warm Gatorade with salt is gross.
4. I have a little bit of crazy inside of me.
5. The only difference between a bad day and a good day is perspective (most of the time).
6. My friends, family, and coach are super awesome and help harness the crazy into good.
7. I’m super lucky.
8. Yes, even with the bad, this is fun and I have no intention of ever stopping.

Until next time, my friends! Keep on, keeping on!