After my first marathon in October, I would like to keep my feet on the street and off of the couch. The best motivation I can think of is to sign up for another marathon. I find the Redding Marathon, scheduled to be held in three months in Redding California, a small city five hours south of Bend
Training is different this time. Gone is the kindly instruction of Bend-Fit, the encouragement of coaches, and the camaraderie of a group dedicated to getting across the finish line. This will be a solo operation. I read somewhere that all one needs to finish a marathon are two runs of thirty minutes during the week, and then one long run on the weekend. I like the sound of this training program. No predawn runs on icy trails! I map out a ten week training grid in my notebook, scheduling half hour lunchtime treadmill sessions a few days during the week, with the long run on Saturdays. I set the pace on the treadmill a little high at eight minute miles, pushing a heart rate of around one hundred sixty bpm. The fact that I have no idea what my heart rate should be does not dissuade me from throwing the term 'bpm' around. I look forward to the slower Saturday pace and running through the countryside with my dog Summer. The long slow distance runs are supposed to get me trained for being on my feet, and those feet moving, for four hours, which is my hoped for finish time.
Thus I faithfully train during the months of November and December, becoming faster and fitter. By mid-January I am ready - strong, healthy, confident, ready to rock and roll.
Checking the weather forecast Thursday before the race, I see there is ninety percent chance of rain and the temperature will be in the forties. Bummer. I never run in the rain and I don't like getting wet. I like the conditions to be cool, dry and sunny, preferably with someone gently fanning me.
Thursday night I toss and turn, wrestling with visions of being drenched by cold rain. Wet and miserable shuffling along a trail of tears. What if I drop out? How embarrassing! But the alternative of running in cold rain, in shoes full of squishy water that leak out with every footfall, and clothes weighing me down like wet laundry is not at all appealing.
Friday I am tired and have a headache. I stagger through work with a black cloud raining doubts. I pray for strength and confidence that night, go to bed and sleep soundly for ten hours straight. Saturday morning I am rejuvenated. Rosanna and the kids hop into the mini-van and we set out for Redding.
Upon our arrival in Redding, we locate the Fleet Feet store for the packet pickup. The store is in a little strip mall off the freeway and it is a little disappointing. I expected a crowd of runners banding together in a festive atmosphere, like it was at the expo in Portland. Rather than a party, the store has one table with two volunteers, one of whom gives me a flat hello and a bag that is ripped on the bottom. Inside the bag I find a crudely drawn course map, two cliff bars and my race tag. Gee, I think, in Portland the bag had a lot more stuff in it. How many people are signed up for this anyway?
We check in to the Oxford Hotel, one of the sponsors of the marathon. The desk clerk gives us two free vouchers for drinks, and I speculate that later tonight there will be a bunch of runners loading up on free pasta and beer. I expect a party to break out somewhere soon. When we visit the bar that night, Rosanna and I find one solitary husband mulling over a glass of cabernet. He says his wife is in their hotel room, resting up for the race. Several other guests come in and exchange their vouchers for bottled water. Rosanna jokes with one of these hotel guests, weighing an imaginary beer in one hand and water in the other, indicating what her preference would be.
"We're runners", the guest sniffs. "My husband is resting up for a marathon tomorrow."
"I'm a runner too!" I blurt out. But then I wonder if that is true. Maybe this marathon is for serious runners, all of whom are now resting in their rooms, oxygen machines whirring and spouses hydrating them with pure spring water. And here I sit hydrating with beer, trading bar talk! I quickly beat a retreat out the lounge and back to the room.
Another night of fitful sleep. A hotel guest Alanna and Isaac nickname 'BigFoot' paces the floor above, creaking the ceiling overhead. The wind whips the rain outside in the San Joaquin Valley. Alanna mumbles something in her sleep about Dad and oranges. The clock creeps towards the 5:30 wake-up call.
Shambling downstairs, I load up on yogurt and coffee in the banquet room, and read in the paper that the race is on and the chance of rain is now 100%. The paper also says that one hundred ninety runners are signed up and, with a rhetorical chuckle, wonders how many knuckleheads will actually show up. Before my courage further dissolves, I hurry upstairs and ask Rosanna to drive me to the Sundial Bridge.
There are five buses idling when we arrive at Sundial Bridge, all ready to bring us to the starting line at the top of Shasta Dam. Grabbing one of the few remaining seats, I find myself next to Chris from Shoreline Washington, in his last year of high school. He has never run a marathon before, but is aiming for a three hour finish. Across the aisle is Agustin from Chico, also in his first marathon and also aiming for three hours. I tell them I think I am on the wrong bus.
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| Ready to Go! |
It is raining at the start line, so most of us stay on the bus until the last possible minute. With some loud encouragement from the driver, we reluctantly disembark and mill around the start line, which is the Shasta Dam Vista Point. The web site has a snapshot with a glorious view of the dam, with Mt. Shasta looming in the background. I peer out into a sea of gray fog. I see a man stand up on chair and mouth words that no one around me can hear. He proceeds to wave a little orange flag above his head and sounds a blast from an air horn. We are off!
The first three miles are a steep downhill. I try to run around the puddles for the first mile, but soon stop. I can't keep my feet dry by playing hopscotch for twenty six miles! My air-cooled Sauconys are built to cool your feet in the heat not keep them dry in the wet. I fall in line with Bret from Belmont, another first-timer who is training for an Iron Man. After mile-marker three (MM 3) the trail flattens out into packed gravel. The environment seems oriental, with mist rising on the hills and dripping water on the vegetation. The river is on my left, and on my right are pine trees and small cascading waterfalls that flow off the hills and onto the trail. There is a pleasant cooling silence in the air. The rain is a steady drizzle that the wind at times whips into my face. I envision a furnace inside me blazing away, into which I cast my doubts, fears, resentment and anger, out of which comes the pure spiritual essence of man. An internal voice eggs me on, saying 'Let's Cut Loose And Let These Horses Run!'. I don't follow this sentiment though as this is a long run and I do not want to deplete my gas tank. I remember 'the wall' at my first marathon.
I feel good at MM 9 - wet and warm, running strong and steady. My feet are squishing in my shoes and a blister from a wet rubbing sock is forming somewhere on my left foot. My nipples hurt and I need more Vaseline to stop the irritation. At MM 12 there is serious uphill for two miles. Not many runners are talking now, most are stoically digging into the run. I keep my eye on the three in front of me: purple girl, yellow man and hitch-striding guy. I want to keep them in sight.
At MM15 the plan is to meet Rosanna and the kids, who have dry clothes and shoes. Cresting the hill I look for our blue mini-van in the parking lot but it is nowhere to be seen. I awkwardly use my cell phone to call and find they are still at the starting point, getting directions. Damn! I was looking forward to dry footwear. The blister on my little toe has signed a long-term lease and is not moving anytime soon. 'Suck it up, my friend', I think to myself. 'Time to adapt.' Rosanna and I decide to meet at the next rest stop, where ever that may be, and I head back onto the now-paved asphalt trail. I keep thinking I have nine miles to the finish, but somehow this seems wrong. I can't quite put my finger on it though. After some deep thinking I realize that nine plus fifteen equals twenty four, not twenty six, and I actually have eleven miles to go.
The next rest stop is at MM 17; still no wife. Apparently this is BLM land and not open to the public. Damn again! Now I'm irritated with everything. I ask the volunteers just exactly where people CAN meet up on the trail. 'Diesel Horse Bridge', they say. I call Rosanna and curtly ask her to PLEASE try to make it to the bridge.
Shortly after MM 17 a ribbon of a pedestrian bridge spans the river, with fast runners moving across it. After passing the bridge I see MM 22, and now realize this is the part of the course that is a loop. It is a mind game too, as the section I am on needs to be done twice. These fast runners now passing me are on the second loop and on the home stretch.
Shortly after MM 18 I see Rosanna, Alanna and Isaac. How wonderful to see them! They represent hope and love and, not least of all, dry clothes. It feels great to put on dry socks and Vaseline. After five minutes I'm off again, back over Diesel Horse Bridge to do the loop. My time right now is 2:50, with only eight miles to go!
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| Needing a pit stop |
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| Kids waiting for Dad |
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| Ready to hit the road again |
Crossing the bridge I feel my hamstrings tighten up. All the elasticity is rapidly evacuating. Evidently my leg muscles have decided that they've done enough and it is quitting time. To make things even more enjoyable, this section is hilly. Little hills to the normal man, but they are like the Alps to me. My legs feel like wet sandbags and I find myself walking up these tiny baby hills. There is absolutely no one around, no pedestrians, runners or spectators. Where's purple girl and yellow man, the cheering crowds and the Taiko Drums? I finally arrive at the end of the loop, at the ribbon bridge, and I shuffle my way across, past the solitary gatekeeper and MM 22. My tank is empty and I am done forth. How could this have happened, in such a brief time span? Behind me comes raincoat man, trailing along a dejected female runner. We exchange glances and he says I can draft off of them. I pull in behind her and we make it up to the second crossing of Diesel Horse bridge.
Across the bridge I pass MM 24 and think just two more miles. Two miles! How easy is that, a little girl in a tutu could waltz through that no problem. Ahead of me I see hitch-striding guy, who is alternating walking and running. At MM 25 I see the top of sundial bridge. Almost home! But there is one last cruel mind game - before we can cross the bridge we need to do a half mile loop around the botanical gardens. As if we would enjoy some botany right now. The pain in my legs is unbearable. Finally I get back to the bridge and see the finish line. Hallelujah! It is finally over...
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My Time is 4:40, 93rd place out of the 165 who finished.
Hitch-Striding Guy - 4:40. Chris from Shoreline - 2:59. Agustin from Chico - 4:12. Bret from Belmont - 4:59
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| Finally done |
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