For me, this year's Denver Marathon was, glass half-empty, a uniform disaster; glass half-full, an opportunity to add several items to the "lessons learned" list.
Experienced racers will likely note, I suppose, that these are lessons I should have already learned early in the course of a 20-plus-year racing career, but hey, everything old is new again, and if you ask yourselves honestly, I'll bet that every one of you has pulled a jazzer move along those lines in the not-so-distant past.
Lessons learned: Denver Marathon, 2009
1) It is best to get to the starting line more than 5 minutes before your race.
I got to the starting line late, and found that it was impossible to get through the fence to runners in my goal pace group (my goal was just to run a Boston-qualifying 3:40). By worming my way through the throngs, I was able to get in behind the 5-hour marathon pace group, so had to work my way around runners for the first four miles, at which time I decided that it was not pre-race nerves and I actually did really, really have to pee....
2) Take care of business before you get to the starting line.
I lost another 2:30 waiting in line behind just one person at a three-port-o-potty stop (apparently, the 4 a.m. wakeup call prevented a lot of people from getting in that all-important pre-race deuce), but was feeling relaxed and gradually making up about 15 seconds per mile to get back on my goal pace, when I started experiencing stabbing pain in my right knee at mile 7.
3) If continuing to run simulates an attack with an ice pick, it may be best to stop running.
Instead of dropping out, which would have been the sensible thing to do, I stuck it out. By shortening my stride by half, I was able to get the pain in my knee to the point where it just felt like an ice pick was lodged in it, instead of feeling as though someone was palpitating the entire inside of my knee with an ice pick. I kept hoping it would go away, and that I could make up the time, but by mile 13 I had reached the conclusions that: a) it wasn't going away and b) there was no way I was going to be able to achieve my goal time.
4) Pride goeth before a fall (or in this case, before a very, very slow time).
Unfortunately, unlike every other marathon I've done, Denver, as far as I could tell, has no designated medical stops along the way where you can exit gracefully; instead, they had volunteers patrolling the course who you were supposed to flag down. With the pain-clouded remnants of my brain semi-functional at best, by the time I figured out it was a course patroller and not just a spectator riding by on a bike, they were out of range; plus, I was nervous that this would involve calling an ambulance and the associated embarrassment, looks of pity from fellow runners and spectators, and expense.*
5) Intense bursts of pain effectively simulate an acute asthma or panic attack.
So, I sucked it up and kept shuffling one foot in front of the other, and only occasionally had flashes where the pain was so intense it made me hyperventilate, until I could calm myself down enough to be able to breathe through my nose again.
Sample thought process:
Heather: "Thank God! Only 5 more miles to go."
[pause]
[dawning horrified realization]
Heather: "Oh my God, at this pace, that is going to take me almost another HOUR. S***!"
[cue pain- and terror-induced bout of hyperventilation]
The weight of the medallion placed around my salt-crusted neck was heavier than usual this time, and didn't seem to lift completely, even after I'd placed the medal in my warmup bag. Time to reflect, revisit these old
I limp to race another day.
*That "bus" fare tends to be pricey.
