Sunday after the race was just plain fatigue. Monday was emotional let-down. The prior six months of training had been just plain joyful. My life was joyful for many reasons. The time and freedom to spend training as much as my body could stand was one of those reasons. When the countdown timer to race start showed one week, I gradually got more excited as each day passed. On Thursday, when I finally looked at the course route, the scale of the goal I'd set for myself started to sink in. "Wow, that is a long way, isn't it" as I scanned the map that seemed to cover Chicago from north to south in its entirety.
Friday: "It is a very long way but I can't wait."
Saturday: Normal Saturday doing stuff but terribly enthusiastic abou the following day.
Sunday: Up at 5:00 a.m., too excited to sleep another wink so I got to the race starting line very early...but I wasn't the first by far!
My usual joke of "when do they let us put down the starting blocks?" was well-received by yet another group of by-standers, all runners, unknown to me. But, they seemed to enjoy the chuckle of it so why not?
Running watch on. Footpod transmitter on. More power than my first computer and only about half the price. I am a techno-geek. Heart monitor dutifully counting the beats. Shuffle to the starting line and Go!
Miles 1 through 7 were nothing. It was still cool and chatting with Jason was fun. At mile 8 Jason and I drifted apart. I had picked up the pace a little and lost him in the crowd. Hoping he does okay but my body seemed to want to go a little faster.
Mile 13.2. One tenth of a mile farther than I'd ever gone before, whether in training or a race. I'm tired already and running through my mind is..."I have 7 miles to go before I still have 6 left to finish". Do the math.
By mile 15 the refrain in my head was "How does one finish a marathon"? At this point it was still a little cerebral since I was pretty sure I could get it done but every mile was getting tougher.
Somewhere around mile 16 or 17 I saw my family and called out to them "This is tough!" Then it dawned on me, in my now increasingly delirious state, that I still had 9 miles left to go! Except for the 10 half marathons I'd completed, I'd only gone 9 miles a few times in the past 8 years. Each one had been a so-called "LSD", long, slow day, in the course of a lighter week of running. Each 8 or 9 miler had been enough at the time. I still had 9 to go after completing 17.
By 19 it was just one more half mile at a time. "How does one finish a marathon"? "When will my legs give out? They must, eventually. Will it happen before mile marker 26.2"?
At mile 21 or 22, I don't remember which, it got deadly serious. My legs wanted to stop but there was no way I was going to stop unless my body failed. As I told my son, "this race is going to end only one way...with my body crossing the finish line, dead or alive. Do your remember the olympian who pulled a hamstring? His dad ran onto the track and helped his son limp to the finish. You will do that for me if I need it, right?" "Of course, Dad!"