Archive for March, 2016
Umstead trail marathon disaster report
This is, ostensibly, a running blog but clearly I have curated it lately. Or really, I’ve razed the fucking thing to the ground. This blog started back when I thought I was someone worth reading about. I have since learned that self importance is bullshit. Ego is bullshit. That most of what I do is bullshit that only a handful of people care about and I am no great shakes. That is quite alright with me.
So what is the point of this? Well I ran a marathon this past Saturday and it was the worst marathon I’ve ever run and a bunch of people have asked me about it so I’m writing this so that I can point them here instead of talking about it. And also I’m writing this because aside from my therapist and my journal I have no outlet for this sort of shit.
I ran Umstead because Kim and Jason Page are wonderful, kind, generous human beings and allowed me to. Much like most times I’ve run the Umstead marathon, which happens to be my favorite race on earth, I was gifted an entry by the kindness of Bull City Running Company. I have been training for the Umstead 100 mile run and so my marathon legs are… lacking. However, I certainly possess the ability to cover 26.2 miles and have more than a few times in the past few months and thus felt good going into Saturday. What a fool!
It did not go so well. I showed up ready to run. I have had a solid stretch of training that I will not bore anyone with but suffice it to say I have been running, both long and hard (obligatory that’s what she said) for the last few months. So 9 am Saturday rolled around and I was on the front line next to superwoman, err, Lorraine, and as we got the start command, I ran. The first few miles were completely uneventful. We went up the same way we will at the 100 miler, we turned, we went onto the Company Mill single track. I held back because I felt ok and I didn’t want to hurt myself. Jay was there and we were chatting like it was just some regular old Saturday morning long run.
So far so good. But then I came upon mile twelve-ish. Right around the first time I came upon the wonderful paradise aid station, my quads decided they had had enough of the day. Somewhere on Graylyn I remember Ronnie telling me he saw a hitch in my giddyup. This was not inaccurate. There was a hitch in my giddyup. And it just got worse. By the halfway point my quads started cramping like a mofo. And it just got worse from there. At times, I was crumpled up on the side of the trail, beating on my vastus medialus like it had done something seriously offensive to me. It cramped like it had not cramped in years, since the first time I attempted to run 50k in DC. It cramped like it did on the side of the George Washington Parkway in 2009, total lock up.
Anyway, the important stuff is that I “ran” ok for about 12-13 miles, and even at 16 miles, I was still on pace for a 3:30 finish. And then the wheels came off and everything went to shit. I first noticed a cramp-y feeling near the paradise aid station on the way out. I don’t know specifically what mile that was but it was earlier than it should be in a marathon. I grabbed a lei to help me remember that things should be fun but it didn’t help; nothing was fun. I walked the uphills not because I was tired but because if I attempted to run them, my quads seized up and would not relent. Hell, the flats and downhills were bad enough. Everything sucked and I just wanted to be done. And eventually, I was. Three hours and fifty-four minutes after I started I ran through the finish line. By several minutes, a personal worst.
Blah, blah, blah something about building character or something noble. Guys, here’s a secret, there is NOTHING remotely character-building about this run. I did not learn a goddamn thing about myself from suffering for almost four hours. Sure, I had to dig deep into my well of suck it up to not say fuck it and be done but to be honest, the way the course is set up, it would have been pretty inconvenient to quit early, so part of the reason I finished was just that it made sense… my car was at the finish so I was going to have to go there anyway. There is absolutely nothing impressive or noteworthy about this and I feel kind of silly even spending this many words writing about it. Ultimately, I ran a race and I finished and it was one of the worst race performances I’ve ever had and, hey, what do you know, life goes on.
And that’s the thing of it… life has a way of putting things in perspective. I can handle the marathon going poorly because there is plenty in my life right now that this race pales in comparison too. Running is nice, I like it, I do it, I will continue to do it, and I have some big-ish goals even. But it’s not an all encompassing thing to me, it does not define me, it is not where I derive my self-worth from. I have enough outside of running to stress the fuck out about; last week I got to have a nice, longer-than-expected jog in the woods.
Mark, out.
Ultrahobbyjogger 