Marathon Muy Caliente

My husband, Ed, and I started running marathons again two years ago after a 12-year hiatus. I actually promised myself in 1995 when I ran the one before the break that it would be my last. After that race, I was in such pain that it took months to recover. I explained to numerous inquiries about my limp that I had been ignorant enough to do a marathon, twice. However due to many factors—a knee strap, stupidity, masochism, and a desire to relive that marathon high—two years ago, we got back in the game and ran the Dallas White Rock Marathon . Since that time, we have done the New York City Marathon, the Oklahoma City Marathon and last weekend, the San Antonio Marathon. We thought the OKC Marathon, billed as the Run to Remember for the victims of the 1995 bombing, was horrible—with 30 mph head winds and 70 degree temperatures, but that was nothing compared to the 94% humidity and 80 degree temperatures in San Antonio. I’ve discovered that the challenge in running marathons is that the decision is made and the money paid three months before the run. And I’m definitely too cheap to drop out because of a little bad weather

It was a quick trip because I had to save what vacation days I had left for the Christmas holidays. We departed Dallas on Saturday morning, November 14, 2009 at about 9:00 a.m. We have a relatively new Prius and haven’t quite figured out the navigation system, so we didn’t understand why PETA (our personal trip advisor) kept trying to deter us from the interstate and direct us to the 8-hour back-roads route instead. We finally realized why she was being so obstinate (we told her no freeways); and once we changed that setting, she didn’t bug us as much.

We are always apprehensive about an upcoming race and so try to eat right and limit our activity the day before—absolutely no running and a limited amount of walking and alcohol. But once we arrived at our destination, the Red Roof Inn, we were obligated to hike the mile to the Expo at the Alamo Dome to pick up our packets and get our freebies. It was definitely hot which made us extra nervous about our chances for good weather the following day.

The Expo was similar to most—get your number, get your shirt, get your goody bag—and then spend a fortune on Marathon gear. The prices were mostly outrageous although there was a selection of warm, cuddly jackets that were only $42. Luckily I wasn’t looking great that day, and the jacket I tried on didn’t do much for me, so I saved myself some money. We bought a nice poster for $20 that we will frame and put with the others on the Wall of Fame in our recreation room.

At the Expo, we spent a good portion of our time looking for the MGD 64 booth. Runners were required to present their photo ID in order to get a bracelet that allowed them a free beer at the finish line. This was to insure no beer was served to minors. After drinking Shiner Bock, MGD 64 tastes like piss-water; and I don’t see why anyone would be worried about a few calories after running that far, but it was the only choice available. I figured even piss-water would hit-the-spot after 26.2 miles.

We were told at the Expo that most San Antonio restaurants near downtown had sold-out for the evening. That’s what 32,000 people will do to a city. We had elected not to participate in the $15/each pasta dinner in San Antonio because in OKC the servings were small—kid-meal size—and we were afraid of a repeat of that. So we made a reservation at a pizza restaurant (the closest we could get to pasta) ten miles from downtown. It turned out to be a lucky choice even though we had to drive; and, once again, PETA came in handy. When we arrived at our destination, a place not very appetizingly-called “Dough”, there was a line a mile long out the door. We sailed in with our reservation and were seated almost immediately—at the Chef’s Table, no less—where we could watch with fascination, the pizzas being prepared and cooked in a wood-burning oven. The pizza was to-die-for and the apple crisp topped with vanilla bean ice cream literally out-of-this-world. Satiated, we turned out the lights at 8:30 p.m.

We were up well before dawn and checked out of the hotel by 5:00 a.m. Bad omen—before we left the hotel, a runner in the lobby stepped outside and remarked that the sweatshirts we were wearing would not be necessary. A t-shirt was plenty—serious problem. We also had had a serious problem with the shuttle in OKC and wouldn’t have made it to the start line had it not been for the kindness of strangers from Ft. Worth. As the start line was 2.5 miles from our hotel, we wanted to make sure we didn’t have to walk that before running the 26.2. We needn’t have worried. When we got to the shuttle stop, there were busses and runners lined up for miles. The runners, in conga-line style, started, stopped and snaked around numerous times before being deposited at the door of the bus. After nearly an hour, we were safely on our way to our destination and our destiny.

Once at the start line and in the corral which positioned us according to projected finish time, we waited for the Star-Spangled Banner and the sound of the gun, and waited, and waited, and waited. The start was a “wave start” to spread out the field so once the gun sounded, we still had another 35 minutes until we were actually off. There are inherent problems with the wave start. In addition to having to wait forever to start, you never know how you’re doing because the clocks on the course start before you do. To make matters worse, when you’re finished, your time looks much worse than it actually was; and that time is captured in your victory photo as you cross the finish line. It makes me wonder why anyone would buy one of those pictures and why they even bother to take them.

Finally we were running and it felt exhilarating. There were few spectators for the first mile or so; but after that, they hung out in droves in some areas while other areas were relatively dead. Because it was a Rock-N-Roll Marathon, bands blared and stomped at least every mile and the music lifted my spirits and put a spring in my step. At mile 2.25, we passed the Alamo; at mile 6.5, San Pedro Park and mile 9, the King William District. Ed and I had been running together from the beginning. A couple times he had told me to slow down, and believe me, I tried; but I felt too good. I finally left Ed during mile 10 right before the half marathon split off. At that time I was confident and going strong.

I felt absolutely marvelous and that I could run forever. As I ran, I was calculating my finish time in my head based on the 11-minute pace I was running. If I kept it up, I would achieve my goal of a 4:45 marathon. I was writing this story in my head projecting my elation and surprise at how wonderful I felt and how wonderful I did—NOT! How often have I told the kids, “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” This was a classic case of that.

I continued to feel good and click off the miles. Mile 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17—still felt good. I kept to my pace although it was starting to heat up. When the run began, it was in the high 60’s or low 70’s. By mile 18, the temperature was approaching 80. The sun had burned through the clouds and began to beat down mercilessly. I lost a minute during mile 18 and another one during 19. After that, I hit the wall hard! It was brutal and devastating. I walked and ran the last 7 and finished in 5:09. I did manage to run the entire last mile although it took every ounce of my remaining strength. As I crossed the finish line, I felt elation at having finished and also elation at being able to stop! I sat on the curb with my feet in a puddle waiting for Ed. He finished in 5:32. He was right—we should have gone slower in the beginning!

After drinking a bottle of water and washing off with an ice-cold washcloth (wisely given at the finish line instead of the usual insulating heat sheets), we got our picture taken with our medals. We meandered to the beer tent and I downed that piss-water in record time. We picked up bananas and energy bars, but what we were aching for was real food. Wasting no time, we hobbled the mile back to the hotel, picked up our suitcases from the lobby and walked to the car. When I took off my shoes to change into sandals, I guessed I would lose the big toenail on my right foot and the second toenail on my left. But hey, like one of the signs on the course said, “Toenails are overrated!”

The week before, I had called the YMCA closest to downtown to make sure we could use their facilities after the race. Most folks were hanging out in San Antonio another night to recover and celebrate. There was a concert planned with Grand Funk Railroad and Los Lonely Boys, admission free with race number; but because I had no vacation time left, we had to head home. We found the YMCA easily, thanks to PETA; but didn’t like what we heard. The showers were closed? How could that be? The front-desk attendant on duty didn’t have the authority to unlock them and the manager was incommunicado. What to do?

In an act of desperation, we chose our only option—wash in the sinks. I was lucky no one came in during my “shower” as I stood buck naked in a pool of soapy water. I washed my hair in the sink before realizing I didn’t have a towel. I dried off with paper towels which came out slowly and in small sections from the motion-sensitive dispenser. When I was finished, I actually felt clean, although a tad bit soapy. A still would have preferred a hot shower!

The drive home was uneventful. We stopped at Cracker Barrel for dinner almost immediately. That helped a lot. By the time we ate, I was famished. Everything tasted so unbelievably delicious. After dinner and back in the car, our conversation turned to the Dallas White Rock Marathon. It was four weeks away—we decided to look at a long-range weather forecast and see how we felt after running the 8-mile Dallas Turkey Trot. We would run another marathon—probably sooner rather than later.