The long long Nashville race report: If the heat don’t kill ya, the lump in your throat will

In the weeks leading up to this marathon it became pretty clear to me that if I wanted to complete it, I was going to have to find a new definition of “normal” running for myself. It would now include walking. No longer would it include fast downhills. I had to accept it. Somehow, I did accept it and though I knew that was smartest at the time, I am not sure I really had any idea how much it would help me during the race, and not just physically.

It’s been ten days since the race now, so my memory may not be what it was, but nonetheless, having done a few of these before, I know there are some details about those days that you just don’t forget.

The day before the race went nothing like I’d thought. I was out more and moving more than I would have liked, and then the group I was with decided to drive the course, which was not something I felt necessary (I know people like doing this, and feel it helps them, but I could honestly care less. I like seeing it on race day, so sue me) but nonetheless we drove it.  At least I was sitting down.

Dinner on race night also happened later than I’d hoped, as did bedtime.  I looked at the bright side: having dinner later prevented me from being hungry at 10:00 p.m. due to a 4:00 p.m. meal.  See that optimism?

Race morning, 4:30 a.m. wake up. I was feeling ready. A little part of me just kept quietly shouting (if that’s even possible) that it was time to “get this thing over with!” That helped.  I got dressed, did all the pre-race necessary things, and we left the hotel about 6:00 for the 15-20 minute drive into Nashville.

The race started at 7:30 and we arrived about 6:30 to the corral area which left a good amount of time for port-a-potty stops, drinking some water, and chilling out.  It was about 68 degrees at that time.

At 7:30 I was in my corral and being that there were 14 corrals ahead of me, my race started closer to 7:55. I didn’t mind this at all as I like to be up a while before I run. I’m a morning person. I don’t like to talk or argue or be bothered, mind you, but I do like being up.

I crossed the start line and by mile 1, I was sweating.  I knew it was going to be a hot day. This course is FULL of hills, rolling, beautiful, soon-to-be-killer hills, and it wastes no time initiating you.  On the third or fourth downhill, my left knee started talking to me. I was scared.

Miles 2-5 were pretty. There was city scenery, more rolling hills, and then the course wraps into the Belmont area. My word, I could look at front porches all. day. long. And this area did not disappoint.  The trees folded over the streets providing shade, the water stations were stocked, and the bands were playing good music. I felt good.

At mile 6 I walked a bit to take my first gel and right around that time my running partner needed a bathroom break.  She was pretty fast, and I just walked up a side street and back down to keep moving. I am a good running partner, don’t you think? Miles 1-10 were also dedicated to individuals in my family, so I was too distracted to be bothered by a small bathroom break. I was too busy focusing my energy on that person, and how they’ve likely rolled their eyes at my running in the past.  I love my family.

Miles 7-10 still felt easy for me, and I was shocked. I hadn’t planned to run without walking for those first 10 miles, but if it came easy to me, I was just going to get the thing over with.  At the beginning of mile 11 a huge hill loomed and I decided to take my first walk break.  I passed a bank clock around mile 12-13 (I think) that said 84 degrees.  It was around 10:00 a.m.

During mile 12, the half marathoners split from the full.  At that point I was a) very hot, b) getting tired, but c) still fine. I was .009% tempted to cut to the half, but I think everyone has a tinge of that, right?  You think, for just a moment, how much easier your day could be.  You gaze over, see all those people so much closer to done, and you wonder.  And then you keep going, because you know what you’re there to do.

Some of these middle miles were dedicated to close friends of mine, new friends, life-long friends, and some other causes I felt warranted a mile.  I have to say, there’s nothing that will help you ignore a little ITB pain like thinking of your oldest childhood friend and of how you can both still laugh at the same things you have been since the 5th grade. Or those friends that make the great drinks. Or those ones that let you text message them just to whine. Those friends are great. Or, you know, those blogging friends.  They’re pretty awesome, too.

I continued with strong run/walk intervals through mile 18, stopping a bit longer for another gel break, and water.  This is the first race I’ve ever done wherein I felt the need to not only drink water but douse myself in it.  In fact, somewhere around mile 15 I walked directly into a sprinkler with no regard for who was around.  It was pointing into the street, but even if it had been in someone’s garden, I would have seen it as being there for me.

I took every opportunity to run through sprinklers, which is more fun looking back than it seemed at the time. At that time, it seemed like it was purely for survival.  Now, it seems kind of nostalgic and fun.  I’ve never given birth, but I have to wonder if that pain so many women say they “forget” after child birth isn’t very similar to that of a marathon. I cannot think of a reason I’d do more except that somehow the joys outweigh the pain, and then looking back, somehow even the pain looks good.

I don’t remember much about mile 19 except that it ended with a very steep downhill section of about 30 yards.  Maybe not even that, and maybe that wasn’t even mile 19? I’ll never know.  All I do know is that from about 10 yards before, I could see this hill and noticed people walking down backwards. I TOTALLY COPIED THEM.  And thank God I did, because when I turned around to walk forward again, on the last bit of steep hill, my legs nearly gave out.  Lesson learned: watch those ahead of you and copy them. It’s against everything you’ve ever been taught, and yet will not steer you wrong at mile 19 of a very slow marathon. Promise.

In mile 20, I was also reminded that I committed the biggest, worst possible runner’s sin: I tried something new on race day.  Moreover, I tried new clothes on race day. MOREOVER, I tried a running skirt!  I know, I know. This seems so stupid. I know this, I’ve made the mistake only once before, but I did it anyway. I was scared of being too hot, and I was scared of looking too fat. I know, the logic astounds you.  But actually, it worked out fine.  I used body glide, and I was fine.  Someone was watching out for me, I’m certain.  I’d also pinned my mile dedication list to the skirt, which is only hilarious when I tell you that I pinned it upside down—a laminated piece of paper no larger than a business card—and every time I needed to read what was assigned to the next mile, I had to lift my skirt. It was like my mile marker salute. I’m sure the crowd appreciated it.

Mile 21 was dedicated to a group of running friends of mine, many of which without I’d probably have quit running a long time ago.  They remind me that all running is good, all races are worth it, and that friends will get you through.  They remind me to take risks, to gamble, hence the 21.  This was also where I started really feeling my left IT band, which was a nice addition to the pain my right IT band had been feeling for a couple miles before then.  Balance.  Yeah, I really needed my friends at that point.

Mile 22 was hard.  I was mostly walking by that point, though I was having a good time with the people around me.  There was a guy whose name was Jeremy that I’d been leap-frogging with since mile 15 or so.  Apparently he was the person I’d completely cutoff while stepping in front of a sprinkler with no regard for those around me.  Who knew? “HOTMUSTHAVEWATERMUSTBECOOLERHOTHOTHOTDYINGWATERPLEASE,” would have been what I said had I any ability to form words at all and had I known someone was actually there.

And no, I was not astute enough to ask Jeremy his name, nor did he tell me, because it was on his shirt.  Note to men: put your name on your shirt at races. Don’t make a girl work for it, because I promise you she is too damned tired to care. And she’ll steal your water.

Mile 22 was also dedicated to a friend of mine who’s been battling pancreatic cancer for nearly a year now.  This was really hard for me to think about, because I feel like my friend has gotten such a raw deal.  His cancer wasn’t detected early, his doctors weren’t initially diligent, and his family has been so overwhelmed. It is so unfair and it makes me angry, completely and irrationally angry. I wanted to be strong in mile 22, because in my mind if I was being strong during that mile, that would give Tom more strength.  And Tom needs strength right now. Please, please if you remember nothing else about this report, remember the importance of early detection. If something is wrong do not stop until you get answers.

In making my mile dedication list, I stopped at mile 23.  It’s always been one of those numbers for me, being that I was born on the 23rd, and when I see it somewhere like on a clock or in any sequence, I pause.  This 23 was dedicated to turning 30.  I was hurting, it was hot, I was not aware of a whole lot going on around me, but somewhere in those minutes of mile 23 I remember thinking that 30 is going to be great.  And then I took some more water, walked by a woman singing a Kathy Mattea song all by herself on the stage with just a guitar, and I tried to keep going.  I don’t remember much else about that. But yeah, yay for 30!

By the time mile 24 hit, I was quite certain I’d never been more hot in my life.  My legs felt heavy, there was no shade to be found, and my IT bands, knees, and calves seemed to articulately feel every bump or hint of camber in the road. Mile 24 was dedicated to another friend of mine, Lynn.  It’s a little unusual calling people friends you’ve only met once, but sometimes life brings us to people and we’re certain that knowing these people, whether it be for moments or forever, has a purpose.

I met Lynn in December of last year on my last-minute, need-sanity-now island trip. Lynn and her husband, Ben, are friends of another friend of mine, and we all shared a lunch. That was it, just lunch. But they made an impression on me, as kind people often do, and I knew I was thankful to know them.  Lynn was diagnosed with breast cancer in February, and since then has been on the very scary, challenging roller coaster that a diagnosis like that brings. Two weeks after her diagnosis, though, Lynn ran a road race called 8 Tuff Miles held annually on St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands. And came in 7th in her age group. Basically, she kicked ass. And then she returned home post-race to show more courage than I could ever dream of having.

As I looked at my list, and saw the name on mile 24, my throat closed a little.  I breathed deep, turned back, saw my new-found friend Jeremy trotting up beside me, I gulped hard and said “I need to run this part.”  So I did, so we did.  The great thing about strangers is that you never know how they’ll come through for you, even when they have no idea they are doing it.  Mile 24 had a few of those, and I’ll never forget it.

By mile 25, I needed to stop for water again. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t dragging at this point, but somehow it seemed okay.  The last two miles in a marathon can seem like the longest miles of your life, but they can also seem totally doable.  Somehow, though your body wants to rebel, your mind remains logical somewhere deep inside and you know you can finish.

Through mile 26, people were lining the course, screaming, shouting, and it was pretty great.  I believe only 4% of my brain was actually listening to them, but that 4% was appreciative.  There was only .2 left in the race, and my leap-frogging buddy spoke up one last time.  ‘Well, I guess it’s time to finish this,” he said. And off we went.

I crossed the finish line around five and a half hours, and with the delayed start, I had no idea what my real finish time was. I didn’t care.  Someone handed me a bottle of water, someone else put a medal around my neck, and then someone handed my a sponge soaked in ice water (I wanted to kiss her, but I restrained myself).  “At least you’re smiling,” she said, and indeed I was.  Somewhere between delirium and satisfaction there is happiness, that’s for sure.

I bumped into Jeremy one last time and we hugged it out, because friends you find on a course seem to skip those initial awkward stages of friendship and go right for the hugging.

“Thanks so much, Jeremy. I couldn’t have done it without you,” were all the words I could come up with.

“Have a blessed life, Lesley,” was what he said back.

Still panting I muttered “done.”  In more ways than one.