I rarely get caught up in racing splits. I like to take every race one mile at a time and base my overall expectations for my performance on the conditions. Also, I have never cried at the end of a race. The Boulder Half Marathon changed everything, for the worse.
Waking up at 4:00 am is never easy, but I was excited to start my day of solitude. I desperately wanted to achieve a simple and very attainable goal of running a sub-two hour half marathon. I didn't want to go out too fast, just maintain a comfortable 9:00 pace, and coast to the finish with some energy left in the tank to take with me to my tutoring job at 3:00 that afternoon. According to the race website, this wouldn't be a problem at all because the course was "flat and fast."
I ate my typical race breakfast consisting of pinhead oats, slow-cooked overnight with cranberries, a glass of orange juice, and To Life White Tea. In the car, I snacked on a Cliff Bar and about 15 minutes before the race I tossed back one packet of Gu with caffiene. My husband gave me a good luck charm on my foot the night before and I checked to make sure it was still there before lacing up my Brooks.
I arrived in Boulder at 6:00 am, earlier than the racing director suggested, and already there was a line for parking that was over a mile long. We parked on a field with grass tickling the undercarriage and divots throughout. I am grateful I brought my husbands Subaru because getting out of there would have been tricky. In pitch-black darkness, I made my way to the packet pick-up tent where I received my bib, shirt, hat, poster, and timing chip.
The full length marathon distance runners started at 7:00 am and I had a good hour to wait until the gun, so I walked to the beach and sat down to watch the sunrise. I couldn't believe how few people joined me for one of the most spectacular sunrises I have ever seen. There were thousands of people enjoying the pre-race festivities and yet, I found myself in solitude on the Boulder Reservoir.
Because the parking situation only continued to worsen throughout the morning and packet pick-up was not well organized, the half marathon started 25 minutes later than originally scheduled. The air was cold and I shivered uncontrollably waiting to hop in line.
Well over a thousand runners arrived for the half marathon. The race directors did not encourage people to line up by projected pace, nor did they set up waves for the myriad of abilities. When the gun fired, 1,336 runners funnelled through a 10 foot wide course for well over a half mile. It took over 3 minutes to travel less than 1/10th of a mile after crossing the starting line. We were completely boxed in, literally tripping over each other, taking elbows to the sides, and jokeying for position on the edges. People who intended on walking the entire 13.1 miles somehow began at the front of the starting line leaving runners in the rear. Minutes into the race my goal pace was lost.
So upset by the loss of time, I let my frustrations take over. While I heard a sensible voice tell me to slow down, I was mad. I wanted to run away from all of those people that stood in the way of my projected finish. My official time on that first mile was 9:07. Subtract 3 minutes of lost time walking, and I put down a 6:07 mile. Of course elite runners compete at this speed for 13.1 and even 26.2 races, but I am not an elite runner. I can run 8:30 for a 10k, but I cannot maintain a 6:00 pace for more than a mile or two.
Once I broke free from my fellow competitor's elbows, I glanced at my Garmin, which now registered 3 miles. I felt a large cramp forming on my right side and I figured once I found my stride it would diminish. By mile 6, my entire right side was engulfed in flames. Mile by mile, my side stitch worsened and by mile 9, my entire stomach was so burdened by a constant cramp, I wasn't sure I wanted to finish the race. I maintained between an 8:30 and 9:30 pace and focused solely on the fact that I would have a cold water bottle recharging my energy in just a few short miles.
By the time I reached 10 miles on a course that was anything but flat, I looked at my watch and realized, even with the difficult start, I still had a chance of finishing under two hours if I could just keep my stomach together a little longer. However, those last 2 miles were completely uphill and every time I tried to charge forward, I slowed. I listened intently to music, pictured Ethan and Owen cheering me on, and repeated a simple, primal mantra, "Water, food. Water, food. Water, food." I rounded the final corner, took in the finish line and my body only wanted to sit in the cool grass that surrounded the gates. I mustered only enough energy to pathetically trot accross the finish line at 2:01:56. Defeated, I struggled to rip off my timing chip and clumsily meandered to the water troughs where I expected to lift my spirits with a cold bottle of water.
The troughs were empty. Empty. I let out an audible moan, stumbled to the next one, my tunnel vision worsening and again, empty. My backpack was empty at mile 10 and I was truly frantic. My stomach cramps were so painful and I knew I desperately needed water to ease the pain. "Where is the water?" I howled. A lady pointed to the table about 50 yards from the finish line containing 20 coolers of Gatorade. My eyes flooded with tears and for the first time, I cried after a race. Twenty coolers split between over 2,000 runners would never suffice.
Runners were expected to use biodegradable cups the size of a shot glass to refresh themselves after 13.1 or 26.2 miles. We waited in lines after satiating ourselves from each small gulp. Fill your cup, drink, go back to the end of the line and start again. I was not the only bereaved participant. We were given 1/3 of a bagel, a tiny cup of cream cheese, a half of a slimy banana, 1/4 of an orange, and shot glass amounts of liquid. Multiple people groaned about the food, water, long lines, and general miscalculations by the race directors. Most of the food and Gatorade ran out before the full marathon finishers even crossed the finish line.
The Boulder Marathon was so focused on being green, they forgot basic racing essentials. Runners need water. Runners need food. They need to refuel themselves after a race. I don't care if the contest is 1 mile, or 250 miles, not providing participants with ample water is unacceptable and dangerous. Fuel stations along the course ran out of supplies as well. Men and women alike fumbled along the empty tables throughout the last few miles of the course as they were denied basic necessities. A green race could have been contested with biodegradable supplies and recyclable plastic water bottles.
After my 3 gulps of water and a small snack, I sat on top of the hill where I started my morning and let my legs recover. I watched the finishers trot across the finish line, waiting for my runner's high to bring me out of this slump. Even after the most difficult duathon, I get a high. It never came and all I had was remorse. Wanting real food and water, I jumped into my car and headed to Boulder after fighting for 45 minutes to get out of the parking lot.
I ordered a sandwich and a bottle of water at Breadworks. While the cashiere held his tight grip on my water bottle I fought an incredible urge violently to pry it from his fingers. Once I paid, I ripped open the top and guzzled over half of it in seconds. Within minutes, my cramps were gone.
What I love about racing is the way I connect with myself, especially when it hurts. How I react to the pain shows my real spirit. Those last few miles, I knew my boys weren't going to make it to cheer me through the finish, but I pretended they'd be there. The thought of their smiles and shrill screams encouraged me not to quit. When I wanted most to sit down, I dreamed of my kids. They are my cherished motivation. Next time, I won't let my irritations take over at the start of a long race. It is crucial to pace myself and stick to the plan, even if racing conditions adjust my goal. Finally, I will forever start to carry multiple bottles of water in my car. Stashed away, just in case.
