Marathon Training

I like to consider myself an avid runner.  It is one of my favorite activities on a day in day out basis.  It is a quick and easy way to burn off some steam or get some exercise.  You do not need a gym or any special equipment, outside of a pair of halfway decent shoes.   And, I find it therapeutic.  I have never done a marathon, and I do not run any crazy distances.  But, I run several times a week, which keeps me sane and decently in shape. 

Last year I decided to run a half marathon.  Not a problem.  It was in January in California, and I had plenty of time to train for it.  I ran all summer at my normal rate and pace, and just figured I would pick it up in the fall and winter.  It was not long until it got cold outside, and I was relegated to running on a treadmill.  It turns out I am a fair-weather runner, and I get board running on a treadmill.  I went so far as to purchase a new pair of running shoes, hoping it would give me the added boost of wearing something new to keep me interested.  I should have listened to my father when he told me that the joy of owning something new quickly fades.  I soon found myself extremely board, and quit running.  Completely. 

Part of my problem is that I still think of myself as a young athlete who can pretty much accomplish anything.  I figured, hey, I am 38 years old.  I can run 5 miles without getting hurt.  I can just add another 8.1 to that and be fine.  I had never run 8.1 miles, so I don’t know what I was thinking when I thought I could just add it on. 

The weekend of the race arrived, and I found myself completely unprepared.  Outside of my nightly ice-cream maraton diet, I had not trained.  I found myself drawn to the lovely siren’s wail of In-N-Out Burger upon my arrival, so had gorged more than once at that fine establishment.  Hollywood has done me a disservice by telling me that it is always sunny and warm in California, even in January.  It is not.  And, I don’t really have any running clothes, per se.  My shorts are more of a basketball cut athletic short than anything else, and all my t-shirts are cotton. 

I went out the day before and bought some athletic long johns that I am sure have a much cooler name now than long johns.  I also bought some light weight gloves and a warm hat.

Then, I got up at the crack of dawn, and proceeded towards the starting line.  I would like to think that I at least looked like I knew what I was doing, but my long basketball shorts and stupid looking long johns and the fact that nothing I had on matched probably took some of the intimidation factor away from my fellow competitors. 

Finally, they fired the gun, and I was off.  I knew enough to pace myself, so I assumed a nice pace and off I went.  I noticed that my legs started hurting around mile 4.  By mile 8, I was in a decent amount of pain, and by mile 12, I was hobbling.  Old women and idiots wearing costumes with capes were passing me. 

I had the good sense to know that if I stopped there was absolutely no way I was going to get that train started again.  I was in a tremendous amount of pain.  Everything hurt.  My legs were cramping in every way possible as I limped the last .1 mile across the finish line.  Then, to top it off, some joker thought it would be funny to run power cables across the finish line under one of those rubber runners that has a ramp on both sides of it.  It is only a half inch high, if that.  But, it was enough to trip me up and almost prevent me from crossing the finish line.  I managed to limp across before I came to a complete halt.  A race organizer ordered me to move on so I would not be in the way of people finishing after me, but I couldn’t.  I just had no gas left in the tank and I was pooped.  I finally managed to start moving again, albeit slowly, away from the pileup I was causing.

Then, to make my agony complete, we had to hurry to our rented Crown Victoria (sweet ride I know) and get to the airport to fly back to Atlanta.  That was a long and painful walk, only to be folded into an airplane seat for the next 4 hours.  Suffice it to say, the next 7 days, were not my most comfortable.