Saturday night I fell asleep quickly and stayed there soundly with the help of the ocean waves.
I woke before my alarm, before even the predawn light, to shuffle around the room as my thoughts rolled through the early morning brain fog.
Prerace thoughts play out in their own tune but follow a similar chord progression, alongside ritualistic activities: Drink a glass of water (Maybe I shouldn't have had that third beer last night). Start chewing on that bagel (How does this have no taste? Maybe because I have no saliva in my mouth). Drink a cup of coffee (Ohhh, yeah. Okay. I'm waking up now. Hello saliva). Visit the restroom. Check: race bib - secure? Gu's - in pockets? Camelbak - not leaking? Garmin - on wrist? Drink another glass of water.
There is a familiar math to it. There is often pacing. In the presence of other runners, there is idle chit-chat of sometimes unfinished sentences.
And there is always the question: how will today go?
That question pops up again and again in those hours before the race, but evaporates as soon as the race starts.
Then a different kind of math begins to unfold. And a different question:
What will I learn today?
----
Driving home last Sunday, in my as-predicted post-race glow, I wrote the following:
Today affirmed several things for me:
I'm not really a fan of beach races. At least, not mid-Atlantic Coast beach races.
I really do have some amazing friends.
I am getting better at finishing races with a sprint. And
have already perfected the art of not puking when done.
You can avoid disappointment by rolling with the punches and
celebrating small victories. And, more importantly, by being happy for someone else in their moment
of victory.
There is no way to look graceful when plunging into a sixty
degree ocean.
-----
When the bullhorn sounded our start, I almost immediately went into flow mode. The miles began clicking past with ease, 3-5 seconds slower per mile than the needed 8:20 minute/mile pace. This was by design, as I fully intended to gain back those lost seconds in the last 5K.
We ran south from the start and through neighborhoods. We glimpsed the dunes and the sound. But all in all, there was not much to look at. The wind was blowing fairly steadily from the west and it briefly crossed my mind that this could present a problem at the bridge.
I said there is math to a race. And a more fastidious runner than me would have scoped out the route more fully and known that miles 8-12 ran almost perfectly straight west, with the bridge peaking at mile 10. That runner would have also checked the weather that morning and saw that a steady 10 MPH wind was blowing from due west. And most certainly have figured that the wind at the bridge would likely double.
That runner would have run much faster in the first eight miles than this runner.
When I turned right onto that stretch, I knew I would have to dig deep and try to ignore the wind as best I could if I wanted to keep chasing the sub-1:50. Lucky for me, the cheer squad was about to find me.
Halfway through mile 8, just as my second Gu's caffeine was kicking in, I heard my name. I turned to the left and grinned. They were hanging out of the car's windows, whooping and cheering. There's beer at the finish one sign said. Run Erin and Marilou run!
They sped ahead to park and dash across the highway with their sign. Like a pack of banshees, they yelled and threw up their hands for a high-5 as I went by.
Their energy rocketed through me as I headed into mile 9 and the climb up the bridge.
-----
The first thing I noticed was that the wind was deafening. The second thing I noticed was that men twice my size were tucking in behind to try and draft off me.
Both troubled me.
As one would guess, running hills requires different technique than flat ground. To distract myself, I focused on this. On trying to keep this mile below a 9:00 pace. I actually quite like hills, usually being able to power up them and then gain some serious momentum on the backside.
When I crested the hill, though, I realized there was going to be no backside. The wind blew ferociously (gusting up to 29 MPH, we later learned), almost ripping the hat from my head and acting as a buffer to gravity. I actually had to work to run downhill.
I entered into mile 11 with a long line of bridge-beaten runners still trudging into the wind ahead of me and glanced at my watch.
The math was not in my favor: I would need to run a 7:30 pace for the last 2.1 miles.
And with another mile into the wind to go, I couldn't see how this was going to happen.
But, I tucked my head and ran.
-----
Coming into the finish, I sprinted hard. 1:50 had already slipped past, but sub-1:52 was still within reach. It would still be a new PR.
My lungs were screaming, my stomach roiling, my toes aching, but I screamed across the finish line and stopped my watch.
1:52:00
I also unfortunately stopped my feet, which almost immediately triggered a gag reflex. The guy who crossed with me, looked at me, startled. Lucky for you, buddy, I don't toss my cookies easily.
I wandered around the finish area in a daze and wondered how David's marathon was going. And hated that the bridge lay before him.
After a half an hour or so, Glenna found me and ushered me back to the car. It was time to go find him.
----
David is a beast of a runner, with a wishbone-shaped scar on one calf and a tattoo of the Road Runner on the other. He regularly pounds out 7 miles on his lunch break and then comes home to bicycle 20. The man doesn't stop. I don't think he knows how to.
David was trying to not only PR this, his second, marathon, but was also trying to do so with a Boston-qualifying time. Which, for his age-group, is a 3:25 marathon. Which, I point out with reverence, requires him to run twice the distance at a significantly faster pace that I had just ran.
And he had to go over the bridge at mile 23.
We sped back across and managed to find him at mile 18. He lit up when he saw his wife, his son, his daughter-in-law, and I. He whooped loudly as we cheered back at him. We sped along, stopped again, music blaring. We took pictures in the sunshine.
The beautiful thing about a cheer squad is the ripple effect. It's contagious. The runners around David all started smiling, too.
As he turned west to tackle the monster, we sped along south to loop back into Manteo. He was tracking strong. If he could beat the bridge, he was going to make it.
----
We parked and they started hustling towards the finish. My toes kept me back a ways and I opted to stay at the final half mile mark and cheer passing runners on to their finish.
When David came into sight, he was loping along bowlegged.
I lied to him: "Looking great! You're almost there!"
"Oh man," he puffed.
"The bridge?"
He looked at me. He didn't have to say.
I kept cheering him as he headed to the final straightaway where I knew his family would get him across the line. And when I found him, the verdict was favorable:
3:24:20
----
An hour later and three of us were standing in the cold sand, facing the balcony we sat on the previous morning.
We held hands in triumph and followed through on the dare that Kate has issued to her husband the day before: if David and Erin both PR, take a dip in the ocean. Not ones to sit idly aside, we runners also joined in, smiling with our endorphin high.
I jumped the gun on the video, sprinting into the ocean, go go go go go ooooeeeeEEEEEE.
The footage shows my hands flapping like the wings from a flightless bird. My whole body tensed from the cold. Me squealing and spinning before I dropped back and ducked below the surface. A winter baptism, the surfacing brought the certainty, brought a teeth-chattering smile.
I can't cross off #19, but I PRed.
-----
Later, after we returned home, to a house full of family to celebrate David's massive victory, I checked out the official results.
1:51:58
My finger paused on the mouse as I scrolled across.
Out of 279 women aged 30-34, I placed....22nd.
So what did I learn this race? Sometimes, the biggest victories come in the details. And the math is always right.
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