Once you cross the starting line, your job is simple. Keep running. Easy enough at first, damn near impossible when your body and mind fight back.
The Chicago Marathon was my third, but I made a rookie mistake. I went out too fast, ignoring the conditions and disrespecting the distance. Miles 1-2 were reasonable, 3-5 around 9:00 or less, 6 was exactly 9:09. Wow. I'm exactly on target for a 4-hour finish. That first hour was some kind of magic, a massive but comfortable pack of athletes weaving through downtown and the tawny near north side past huge crowds on a shady, 64 degree early morning. The next hour took us to Lakeview and Lincoln Park with its immense family and friend support. Then back towards the Loop, past a boisterous Moody Bible College contingent and angelic strangers passing out salt-soaked sponges. Miles 7-13 flew by, each around 10:00. With the wind whipping my brine soaked legs as I returned to the Loop and towards the halfway mark, I felt high. Not exactly a runner's high, more like the drug induced, let's knock off a bank to sustain our habit high. The course turned west, soaring across the river, past a veritable stadium of good karma echoing off high rises.
Halfway there in 2:04, my best half-marathon ever. The second half was hell. Saying I hit the wall is an understatement. The wall hit me.
When downtown becomes Greektown, you start to lose shade. A few blocks later, you lose building cover and any kind of lake cooling effect. Temps soar very quickly and my tired but happy body, spoiled by nearly non-stop shade, suddenly had to fight the heat. My quads seized up at Mile 14.5; stretching, Gatorade and Powergel relieved nothing. I reverted to a cautious blend of walking and jogging. My splits rose above 12 mins, 14 mins, 15 mins. When I reached Little Italy (Mile 17-18), I felt spent and contemplated dropping out. I knew what was coming but didn't expect that much pain, that soon. My 30K split was a respectable 3:11, suggesting a 4:30 finish. But the 4:30 pace group finally passed me near Mile 20, through an otherwise amazing stretch of El Barrio Pilsen. The Archer Ave diagonal at Mile 21 was worse than expected.
Negotiations between mind and body were at a standstill. Everyone else can do it! Nice and easy, that's it... nope, not happening. Chinatown, amazing Chinatown perked me up for a couple minutes. My friends Katie and Jill came down to watch, I told them "I'm dying, but I'm going to finish!" South of Chinatown is a lonely stretch by the Dan Ryan Expressway with a giant video screen broadcasting your pain to thousands. The IIT campus provides blessed shade for 3 or 4 blocks, then Bronzeville passes in a heartbeat.
Finally, we turn north on Michigan Avenue, past LaSalle High School's enthusiastic aid station. More bananas, more Gatorade, more ice for my head. Two miles to go, the holy rollers guiding us home, a blues band singing "You're Almost There." Downtown grows and grows and grows. Mile 25: I'm going to do it, I'm going to run, however slowly, to the finish. And I do, turning in a 10:41 split, followed by a 2:25 in the final 385 yards up and down the Roosevelt Road hill (easier than you'd expect when free food, wet towels, and all the R&R I need are so close. No engine to rev, just an autopilot pulling me past the finish.
I did it. I pulled my hobbling frame past the gate in 5:00:24. Not pretty. I couldn't even beat the 4:55 I ran in Pittsburgh in record heat, humidity and hallucination. I battled horrible heat (80+ degrees by noon) here with a spare arsenal, stubbornly refusing to scale back my ambitions.
Back in June, on Week 1, I visualized gliding through a perfectly cool October morning in around 4 hours. My training runs were on target, I was breathing deeper, recovering faster, eating healthier. I refused to believe the forecast for my third marathon would be anything like Marine Corps (mid 70s) and Pittsburgh (high 80s). Accuweather, The Weather Channel and Tom Skilling predicted highs in the 80s, a sucker punch that screams "SLOW DOWN!!!!" 30 degrees above perfection should equal 30 minutes slower.
If I started at 10 mins/mile, I'd have reached the half at 2:11. That's only 7 minutes later. Does the shade situation change much in 7 minutes? Would the crowds suddenly disappear in 7 minutes? Of course not. I'd have felt stronger. If I'd slowed to 11 min. miles the rest of the way, that's a respectable-for-Indian-Summer 4:36. With 12 min. miles, that's 4:50, still a PR.
Life's not fair. My three marathons have been survival tests. 12 years of planning, training and attempting marathons, I'm still stuck in 5 hour territory.
Now for the good news. Regardless of what today's Tribune says, I'm a better runner now than at any time in my adult life. On any day but yesterday, I leave my 22 year-old self in the dust. Fatal pacing error aside, I hydrated properly, kept ice under my cap, kept my sanity, and stayed as upbeat as possible. Credit where due to the race organizers who put 20 well-stocked, efficient aid stations to good use. This morning after was relatively pleasant, but damn if I had to live 3 flights up.
I will run again. Someday conditions will break my way. (Bridge to Nowhere Marathon perhaps?) I will run smart and feel victory rather than relief at the 27th Mile. Maybe you'll be there to watch it. I'll definitely be there to report it.
