Storm the Eastern Shore, Part II

It was 7-ish or 7:30-ish or something when we headed out on our mountain bikes for a quick 25-mile ride, all on roads. The race director made it clear that the bike sections could be ridden on road bikes but we were mandated to use mountain bikes. Our tires were changed out from quite knobbies to just a little bit knobbies so we could zoom along as much as possible.

We put ourselves into a pace line and felt like we were flying after the slow hours in the boat. In just over 1.5 hours we covered more ground than in the first 10 hours of the race. That's a bit crazy.

One checkpoint was a bit hard to find -- we had to write down what year the giant  court house that clearly was RIGHT IN FRONT OF OUR FACE moved to its current location. No indication anywhere -- we rode in circles around the building, smooshed our faces up against the front door to see if the date we were looking for was inside, looked for cornerstones ... nothing. Finally we found it on a tiny plaque on the side of the road (it was moved in 1677, in case you were wondering), 10 minutes wasted.

We continued on... and zoomed right past the turnoff to the transition to orienteering. So did just about every other team. Bike lights ahead, bike lights behind as we all rode back and forth looking for the proper turnoff. A friendly solo racer who ended up coming in second overall took the time to stop and show us that the road we needed wasn't actually on our map and pointed us in the right direction. Fortunately, we weren't too far out of the way and pulled into a muddy little patch of grass in the middle of nowhere that would serve as our transition to a 14-point orienteering course.

We had to get 8 points in order not to be short-coursed so that's what we did. In hindsight we could have gotten at least three or four more but, as the course maps were handed out section by section, we didn't know what was ahead of us  and decided to go just for the 8 points.

After throwing on our trail runners we were off. B.J. took the navigational lead and we soon found ourselves scraping through chest-high thorn bushes in the dark. Thorn bushes that hid sharp rocks and giant damn turkeys. Do you want to know how trippy it is to find yourself face to face with a wild turkey at 2 a.m. after 17 hours of racing?

Here's how trippy: Very. Very damn trippy.

Fortunately, we stumbled upon the first two or three points easily and thought we were well on our way to snagging our 8 points.

Then, a swamp tried to eat me. I am not making this up.

We were searching for a point along an reentrant. In case you are new to these parts, reentrants are not my friends. As we slogged along through swamp that reeked, the muck sucked at our ankles and threatened to take off our shoes. The point was visible just over and up the side of the swamp, though, so we continued on our route and punched the point. Hooray!

But all was not well. We headed a bit east through the swamp. And then I started sinking. Sinking fast. The boys were a few yards ahead as the Swamp Thing tried to pull me under. Within a few seconds I was in the putrid, rotting, thick mess up to my hips.

I was stuck. Impossibly stuck. And sinking.

What to do? I know! Freak the F out!

I started screaming and shrieking and flailing around. Oddly, this behavior did not get me unstuck. But it did get Bill and B.J. to turn around and come stare at me.

"Get me out! Get me ouuuut! GET ME OOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTTT!," I demanded while waving my hands in the air like I just didn't care. Too bad Bill didn't have the camera out for this.

So they did. First they tried to have me lean over and yank my arms. I got more stuck. Then they had me try to lay on my side and unstick myself. Not happening. Finally, they managed to stand far enough away that they didn't sink and they each grabbed me under an arm and yanked straight up.

Free at last! My shoes managed to stay on too so I guess I can't complain too much. We got a few more points (including one that was within the ruins of a house that made me feel like we were living The Blair Witch Project ... sort of awesome and sort of scary) and soon were up to six. We headed back to transition to take a bearing -- the points looked easy on the map and both seemed to be a straight shot on the far side of a soybean field.

But, no. More swamp, more stickers, more rocks and more swamp. We moseyed along with a few other teams and were starting to get a bit concerned that we were lost when we found one point and then, after more time being stabbed by thorn bushes, the other, neatly tucked within a sticker bush, hidden behind a tree. Ouch.

We headed back to transition, put on clean socks and  were off on our bikes again. I didn't wear a watch for this race, hoping to avoid the phenomenon of feeling awake, then looking at my watch, seeing that it is 3:30 in the morning and then suddenly feeling achingly tired, so I am not sure what time it was -- sometime between sunset and sunrise.

Ahead of us was about 25 miles on the bike to the next orienteering section. We found ourselves in some sort of apple orchard/sheep farm/swamp where race volunteers handed us a hand-sketched map with 8 points on it, with no clear markings delineating where we were in the map. Four points were mandatory, four were optional.

I sat in the grass while Bill and B.J. tried to figure out exactly where we were located on the map. This took a bit, so I stuffed my face with more chicken nuggets and a cheeseburger and waited for the fun to begin again ...

To The Finish, Part Two

I hit the 14-mile mark and, as I usually do at this point in marathons, realized that I still had a lot of running ahead of me. I also realized that I was still cold, it was still windy and my knees and hips randomly hurt. My pace slowed significantly but I knew I could still meet my goal time. My brain felt stronger than my body and I kept reminding myself that I would get where I was going as long as I kept moving. I have no idea what my pace was and I hadn’t looked at my watch in miles but I was sure I was slowing. People started passing me in droves but this was also the point where people started walking.

And then there it was. The Queensboro Bridge. I wanted to cry before I actually stepped foot on it. A mile and a half across the East River. Mr. or Mrs. Bridge Designer, why did you build this thing with a mile of uphill followed by 800 meters of narrow, steep, left-leaning downhill? The climb went on forever. People were staggering all over the place, stopping, falling over, sitting down. I’ve never seen anything like it in any race I have ever done. Added excitement came from drunk people swinging from the beams of the bridge. Odd times. I kept running, being passed by as many people as I was passing.

Finally, finally, we bottlenecked down a tight left exit ramp and plopped out onto First Avenue.

Um, CRAZY TIME!

Crowds were at least four deep along the entire 3.5 miles on First Ave. Handing out bananas, beer and brownies, dressed in nothing, dressed like Spongebob, dressed like GreenMan. A zillion kids wanting high-fives, a zillion adults jumping and yelling. Even though I felt like crap I yelled and laughed out loud a lot along this stretch. A giant, miles-long party.

The First Avenue insanity carried me through until mile 19.5, home of another damn bridge. I can’t remember what it was called or what it looked like, only that it was steep and I sort of hated it from the core of my being. A dude racing in a handcycle bike with zero legs and one arm was rocking it, though. The uphill. The uphill with one arm. You go, BAMF. The only other awesome thing along this not-so-fun part was a dude filling up little cups with Franzia and yelling at us in Spanish to drink his wine. At least I think that's what he was saying.

The damn bridge dumped us into the Bronx. How do I know we were in the Bronx? A large dude with a megaphone screaming “Welcome to the Bronx, bitches!” over and over again made it clear. That had to be more tiring than actually running the race. He was dancing all around, yelling and yelling, with YMCA playing in the background. A happy church choir tossed some motivation my way and on and on I went. Practically, I knew the finish was only getting closer. Physically, I knew I was going to be thrilled to stop running the second I crossed the finish.

At about mile 21 there was this, stolen from the interwebs:


The video doesn’t quite do the drummers justice – in person it was much more fun and much more motivating.

The next few miles are notable by how terrible felt. My feet hurt. Maybe this seems like an obvious thing to say about miles 22 through 24 of a marathon but it felt like the bottom of my feet were being hit with hammers. Awesome!

Just before we turned into Central Park the crowds were so thick that runners were basically relegated to a two-by-two shuffle. Words cannot express how thankful I was to these humans (especially to the woman with the sign that read "Keep Going! Keep Going! (that's what she said)) as it gave me no option but to slow my shuffling self down even more.

Once we hit the park I started to believe that at some point in my life I would, in fact, cross the finish line. We winded around and around, up and down, left, right, one more mile, zig, zag. Uh, where the hell were they hiding the finish line? Burkina Faso?

Finally, finally, I turned right and hit the 26-mile marker. I heard people screaming (it was Kate, Bill and Steve, although I was too tired to pick up my head and look around so I didn’t see them), some terrible song was playing, and then, tadaa, the finish. One of the more thrilling finishes of my life. I have never seen more teetering/falling over/crying/snot/happiness/emotion at a finish line, ever. I was sort of happy with myself. My body hadn't held up well but my brain sucked it up and got me there. I wasn't really close to a PR but I beat my Boston time by 9 minutes on a course that I thought was much harder.**



Bill and Co. were apparently yelling and yelling ...

 

...but I was so tired that ...






... a t-rex could have been marching around ...

... and I wouldn't have noticed.

I like this picture because I am sort of actually
running to the finish.

Got my medal, got my hot potato blanket, and then got moving. I had to walk past 57 of 63 UPS trucks parked single-file through Central Park before getting my stuff. I’d mentally prepared for this hike almost as much as the race, though, so I tried not to be too sad. Plus, I got to see this: A woman got her bag and then promptly leaned over a fence and barfed on bags not yet claimed. Terrible.

Found my stuff, threw on my snuggly clothes (although I had a case of marathon brain and am pretty sure I stood in Central Park half-naked for a bit as a result) and then realized I had about 3 miles to walk to meet up with the crew for lunch. I wanted to weep but it was clear that getting a cab would be impossible. I pretended I was just out for a stroll. And then … Bill! Kate! Steve! Plus a David Byrne book someone was giving away! Wings! A cheeseburger! Success!

The end.

Me, my hat and my free David B. book

The first thing Bill asked? "What's with that book?"

Kate navigated us to the Land of Giant Cheeseburgers. And I geeked
out and wore my medal until we got back to her house.

Marathon days are meat days!

** After being reunited with my cell phone, the first thing I said to Bill was this --> (edited for the sake of my mom) “This (femaleparentintercoursing) race makes Boston look like a (intercoursing) 5k.” Because it did. Well, maybe not a 5k, but New York was so much more difficult. At least for me.



Half the Fun Is Getting There

Marathons seem straightforward. Register. Train. Go to start line. Run for 26.2 miles. Cross finish line. Eat cheeseburgers and drink beer. Repeat as necessary.

Except some races confuse me.

In 10 days I, along with 44,999 strangers, am running the New York City Marathon. Next Sunday I will get up at 2:30 in the morning. My friend Kate, a car, a train, another train, a bus, a ferry, a shuttle and a half-mile walk will, in theory, get me to the start line by 9:40. More than 7 hours after the alarm goes off I will head up and over the Verrazano Bridge and weave my way through NYC. At least that is the plan.

Unfortunately, I can't figure the damn race out, despite reading the 66-page book delivered last week via USPS titled The ING New York City Marathon 2010 Official Handbook I'm In ING New York City Marathon cover to cover. Twice. I still have no idea what I am supposed to do.

Hopefully New York will continue to make me smile like it
 did the time I visited the potato famine memorial. I thought
 I was on a regular boring hill until I realized I was actually
 on a memorial dedicated to famine and then I felt like a jerk.

An entire page of The ING New York City Marathon 2010 Official Handbook I'm In ING New York City Marathon is dedicated to decoding what the hell your race number means. If you have a green background, you run across the green start line. There are three waves starting at 30-minute increments. At the designated time, you go to your corresponding wave and color and then line up in corrals according to the first two numbers of your race number. For the first 8 miles of the race, you run along one of three different routes designated by your bib color. At mile 8 everyone piles on top of each other as the three different colored routes merge.

At some point before you get to the start line there are bagels, juice and church or synagogue in addition to drum circles and AA meetings.

 There is to be no peeing on the Verrazano Bridge. This rule takes up almost an entire page of the book. The New York Road Runners et al. (2010) state that:



"There will be more than 1,700 portable toilets in Fort Wadsworth. Portable toilets will also be available before moving onto the bridge. Please refrain from urinating on the bridge – it is extremely unpleasant and dangerous (electrical equipment is housed on the bridge) to you and fellow runners. NYRR reserves the right to disqualify anyone who does not use a portable toilet (p. 37)."

NYRR, if I get zapped to death because some bobo urinates on a wire I want my $191 back. I am, unfortunately, at increased risk for zappage because I think my bib color (green) starts on the lower level of the bridge and for the past several years the upper level runners have passed the time waiting for the gun to go off by whizzing off the side of the bridge onto the runners below. Scary times.

I will be the one running with an umbrella.

Dodging runner urine will be worth it though, as something magical awaits at the finish because "each finisher will receive a food/fluid bag containing Poland Spring® Brand 100% Natural Spring Water, G Series™ Gatorade Recover 03, a Gatorade G Series™ Pro Endurance Formula powder stick, Emerald Nuts, PowerBar Recovery bars®, a NY apple®™€£©∞ and pretzels.” (p.45).

I guess the pretzels are generic.

Ok. I am done making fun of the ING New York City Marathon 2010 now. I am actually looking forward to it, a lot. My goal is to finish and enjoy every mile. Simple. People I’ve spoken with who have run both New York and Boston said the crowds at New York put Boston’s to shame, something that will blow my mind a bit if it’s actually true and something that is making me even more excited to run.

I’ve put in the time and the effort training and feel ready to go, aside from the fact that I don’t really know how to get to the start line, what to do when I get there, what way to run, what the weather will be, where the course goes, where to put my stuff, how to get my stuff back when I finish or where my post-race cheeseburger will be.