Running Anniversary Retrospective - My First Half-Marathon

WARNING - I may share a bit more information than some of you might want to read. So PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

I woke up at 4:30 am on April 29th, 2006 to get a car down to 5th Ave. and 90th St., where I would pick up a bus at 5:30 am to take me to the start line in Queens. I don't think I had slept any more than 3 hours the night before. I was a bit nervous. Besides the 10 mile race I participated in in January, I had only done two long training runs. A 10 miler in Fort De Soto Park near Tampa, FL when I went down for Spring training mid-March and for a 2 hour run in Northern Manhattan two weeks prior to the race. I wasn't feeling so great that morning, it was difficult to eat my pre-race meal of a whole-wheat bagel and peanut butter with gatorade to wash it down.

The sun came up during the ride to College Point, Queens, which made that chilly morning very bright. We arrived an hour before the start so I wandered around the park a bit. I ran into a familiar face - a gentleman who was the elevator operator in the building I was interning at on 5th Ave. To that date, he was a friendly face I said hi to in the morning - but now, our relationship would be taken to a new level. Here we both were, early on a quiet Saturday morning before the majority of the city was up, ready to tackle 13.1 miles because we wanted to - because it's in our blood. He had run this race before and informed me it was somewhat hilly so to take it easy. At 50 years old he had run several marathons but was now sticking with the half-marathon distance.

I was standing in the bag check area in a sliver of sunlight, trying to keep warm, when a gentlemen from New Jersey who was also standing in the general vicinity started a conversation wtih me. I confessed it was my first half-marathon and he did his best to calm my nerves. It was about 15 minutes to the start of the race, so I decided to take off my warm up gear, check my bag, and wait in line for the port-a-potty. I still wasn't feeling so great - I thought it was just nerves. When I got into a port-a-potty, I discovered why I wasn't feeling so great. I began to menstrate. "Wonderful", I thought to myself. My first day of menstration every month was always the worst with heavy flows and cramping - sometimes accompanied by fever and fatigue. So not only was I not prepared (meaning no tampons on me out in the middle of the park), but I also had to run 13.1 miles with this problem. Not much I could do about it - just had to work with it.

So I headed to the start line - about 3,000 people showed up for the race - and no spectators. It was an eerily quiet, chilly, and bright Saturday morning. I lined up between the 9 and 10 minute milers. My goal was to finish the half in 2 hours 5 minutes - which translates to a 9:30MM pace. I reigned in my nerves once we passed over the starting mat to not start out to fast - had to conserve energy. I reached the 1 mile marker and looked at my watch - 10 minutes even. So I was on a good pace. I was feeling ok during the first few miles. I ran between 9:15 - 10:00 MM depending on the hills, and enjoyed the scenery. As I approached mile 5, I had planned on taking a gel. I had practiced taking gels during my long run two weeks prior to this race, and it seemed to go ok. So I ran up next to the water station, didn't stop, and washed down the gel while running. I wanted to run the entire 13.1 miles - not even a second to stop for water. Almost immediately after washing down the gel, my stomach started to rumble. Then, pressure in my abdomen. Uh huh - could this be? diarrhea? Yup - I had the runs, literally. I had to go. But I couldn't stop. I had to keep going - I had a goal.

So I carried on, squeezing my butt cheeks on occassion when I felt the urge to go. It only came in waves. So when I didn't feel my cramps or my urge to go to the bathroom, I was doing ok. Never let my pace up - around mile 10, it looked like I was still on pace to finish in 2:05.

Runners always talk about hitting "the wall". They normally talk about this in reference to a marathon - but for a beginner like me, it could happen in a half-marathon. It had never happened to me before - until I hit mile 12, that final mile. Then, I was just dragging along - shuffling my feet. I wanted to stop. I had no energy. I had to go to the bathroom. I wanted to vomit. My heart monitor had chaffed the area in the center of my breast bone - nothing hurt more than fabric rubbing against raw skin. Thoughts were creeping in my head - how in the world could I do this two times in a row to finish a marathon? Maybe distance running wasn't for me.

With all this running through my head as I was shuffling along, I turned a corner, and all of the sudden, there were people. The entire race there were no spectators, until these last few hundred meters. Some of them were faster runners who had already finished the race. Others were those who had finally woken up and decided to check out the race. It's what I needed to start picking up the pace. Always finish strong, no matter what. Once I saw the finish line, I sprinted with all my might the last hundred meters. Breathing heavy, I heard a person yell "Yay! way to finish strong!". I crossed the finish line and looked at my watch. 2:06:19. Only 1:19 off of my goal - with diarrhea and my period. Not bad at all, I was quite pleased with myself. Off course, I was shaking like crazy - I had to find an available bathroom quickly.

I felt weak during the bus and subway ride home and was in and out of sleep the remainder of the day. But the sense of accomplishment I felt was well worth the pain and suffering. It showed me I could do it - I could get through it. So what did I do to celebrate this accomplishment? The next day I logged on to register for the Philadephia Marathon in November. What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment I suppose.