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I’m half awake, standing on the Metro platform dressed in a black garbage bag.  It’s roughly 32 degrees outside and I’m trying to store all the radiant heat I can.  A dozen of us pack into the train the moment the doors open, eliminating all personal space but providing additional heat.  We all ride one stop and then exit to a zoo of other runners trying to find friends and soak up one more minute of underground heat.  The escalators leading out of the station are all broken.  Sorry for the convenience.  A stair workout – exactly what I needed immediately before running a marathon.

I was the most under-dressed person I saw the entire morning as I shivered my way around the Pentagon to the bathrooms and finally to the start corral.  I was adamant that my 2″ inseam short shorts, a singlet, gloves and arm warmers were all that were necessary.  I met up with my Matt, John, and Christine without any problems, and so we huddled for more warmth and waited for the start.  There were skydivers landing on a patch of grass on the opposite side of the corral.  V-22 Ospreys flew overhead.

My toes were numb and my knees turned purple, but waiting with others and watching the sunrise made the time pass faster.  As the gun went off, runners everywhere started peeling off the extra layers of clothes they’d brought to stay warm and threw them to the side.  As we lurched and walked forward to the start line, I scoured the side of the road for something easy to pull on and grabbed a zippered hoodie and a nice ski hat.  The things people throw away! (That I would then throw away after 20 minutes anyway. Though I did save the hat by passing it off to my mom after I was no longer freezing.)

Matt and I decided to run together, and I was more chatty than usual while running as we took things easy and just enjoyed the run.  The road was definitely less cramped than at the Chicago marathon, even though the course did get narrow at several points.  The course has a two main hills in the first 8 miles, after which point it levels out and is flat like Chicago for the final 18 miles.  Because of this, the fact that I’d only just finally recovered from my last marathon, and that Matt and I were taking the race casually, I was guessing my overall time would be about 15 minutes slower than Chicago.  After running a few 10:30 min miles from the start, even that estimated time seemed optimistic.

But after climbing the two hills with relative ease – I was fearing they’d take more out of my legs – and finally warming up and actually being one of the most appropriately dressed runners, our pace naturally quickened.  Not purposefully, we just ran the speed that our bodies allowed, because faster or slower would be wrong.  We always ran the right speed.

We passed through Georgetown without difficulty, passed the Kennedy Center by the river, and went right around the Lincoln Memorial turning towards the loneliness of Haynes Point.  I handed off my gloves to Ellie because I thought I was getting too warm, which of course meant that my hands started getting cold and I had to run another 4 miles before I could get them back.

The spectators thinned out and there was only the sound of runners breathing, shoes on pavement.  Everyone was less chatty than at the beginning as we approached and passed the halfway mark.  I was a little surprised at the ease with which Matt and I made up time and reached the 13.1 mile mark well under my made up goal of 2:10.  Before the race, and reflecting back on running Chicago, I figured it wasn’t going to be much use trying to go slow in the first half to even- or negative-split the marathon.  Since we never really trained for the race, it was going to hurt just as much in the final 6 miles no matter how fast we reached the halfway point.

Contrasting to the Chicago Marathon, there were a lot fewer people spectating along the course, but whereas Chicago was almost completely barren between miles 14 and 18, the Marine Corps Marathon had people at the right time as we ran down the Mall from miles 16 to 20.  It was a very welcome boost.

I was a little wary with how good I was feeling after 17 miles, and anxious not to jinx things.  In Chicago I was already deep in my pain cave, but the cooler temperatures in DC kept me fresher, and although my legs were starting to feel fatigued and I couldn’t accelerate or change pace much, I could keep moving at my own tempo – the tempo where stopping and standing still would seem like more work than continuing to turn my legs over.

At mile 20, we hit the bridge to cross back over the Potomac.  The combination of no spectators, nothing to look at, an extra-wide road, and the grade of the road (for drainage), erected a huge wall in front of me.  Just as Matt and I started doing math in our heads to see what our possible finish time could be and what pace we could/couldn’t finish in, I reached the point where my body started slowing down and there was nothing I could do to pick up the pace.

It was over a mile before we saw more spectators in Crystal City, and though I was pleasantly surprised by the number of people lining the roads at that point, I wasn’t very responsive.  They were handing out donut-holes which I took and then nearly choked on, and a few people were handing out beer in Dixie cups, so even though I was partially delirious, I took some and washed the donut-hole down with some lukewarm Natty Light.

Sometimes, drinking beer isn’t always the best idea.

I had to slow even more to allow my stomach to re-settle itself, but the finish line was getting closer and closer.  The spectators disappeared again as we passed the Pentagon and reached the final mile.  I checked my watch and quickly realized that although I wouldn’t be breaking my marathon PR, it was definitely possible to beat my time from 3 weeks prior in Chicago.  We were holding a remarkably even pace throughout the whole race.  I picked up the pace in the last mile, because at that point my body could take an extra serving of pain knowing that the end was literally within sight.  We charged up the final short hill to the finish, passing dozens of people in the final few hundred yards, and ended up crossing the finish over a full minute faster than my time from Chicago.

The day before, we were watching it snow in October in DC.  Three days before, I was at the proton therapy center in Illinois, getting a 4D CT scan of my insides (3D + over time to track my breathing) and receiving 5 tiny tattoos to mark how my body aligned with the machine.  I glanced at the animation of my lungs breathing on the computer screen as I walked out, still a little astonished at how much space all the scar tissue from my tumor takes up in my chest.  It didn’t look any smaller (and may not ever be much smaller) than it was 2 months ago, and at that point I really wasn’t sure if my body would hold up and I’d finish the Marine Corps Marathon at all.  But I knew I’d start, because a DNF is better than a DNS, and if I couldn’t finish, at least I’d have some fun in the beginning.  And instead, I exceeded my own expectations, and a week later, I’ve already recovered faster than I expected.

I’m due to finally start radiation therapy a week from Monday, but I don’t expect to have that slow me down either.

I figured I should probably give a recap of the Chicago Marathon while it’s still roughly fresh in my memory and before I ran my next one (which will be on Sunday).

I woke up plenty early the morning of the marathon, with enough time for my usual pre-race oatmeal/honey/peanut butter breakfast, and since I was staying at the Hyatt downtown, only had a few blocks to walk to the start in Grant Park.  Worried about arriving too late and encountering endless lines for port-a-potties and congested start corrals, I arrived way too early instead, and found a spot on the street and sat down and waited – at least an hour before the gun went off – as more and more runners started funneling in and building the energy.

I’d been sitting in the corral for so long that by the time the race actually started, I already had to go to the bathroom again, but I didn’t feel like peeing into a Gatorade bottle near a fence like some people, so I started moving with the school of fish that was the race and kept a keen eye out for a port-a-potty.  Problem was, that would be longer than I anticipated.

The first several miles of running were congested, but not in a frustrating way, it was simply an awesome group-thing to be in.  Almost immediately, I was a little worried about the temperature, though.  It was about 70 degrees at the start, and the sun had barely risen.  I’d be fine if it never got any warmer.  After getting warmed up from running, I could tell it was going to be a long and hot day out on the streets.  Less than ideal conditions.

Throughout the entire race, I enjoyed reading the signs spectators had made.  My favorite was “Don’t poop your pants”.  Very important advice.  Probably the second most important goal of the day aside from finishing the marathon.  “Hurry up and finish so we can drink” left me a little confused, because, like, you don’t need to wait for me to finish to start drinking.  Drink away!  A few girls had posters with their phone numbers on them, but there’s no way I could ever remember 10 digits in my late race deliriousness.

The first 5 miles went by without me seeing a single port-a-potty.  Things were getting desperate.  And then we took a turn out of generic city blocks and into Lincoln Park, and I saw a few guys taking a leak next to the first tree they saw.  I bolted across the road and down a small hill and joined them, taking a piss like a racehorse, with my back to the race and a nice view of an empty park stretching out to the lake.  The first port-a-potties on the course were only about a half mile farther down the road, but let’s just say that there were some well watered plants in the park that morning, and I’m glad I didn’t wait.

The rest of the first half of the marathon I did what I could to stay comfortable and enjoy the people lining the streets.  The north loop on the course had people on pretty much every block, which was much more preferable to the later miles that had a few deserted stretches.

I reached the halfway point holding a steady pace, but it also meant that I was now in uncharted territory, as my longest run of the year prior to the marathon was all of 13.1 miles at the SavageMan triathlon.  The course gradually got hotter and sunnier and visible signs of pain started to show up an fellow runners’ faces.  I saw one woman vomit around mile 15.  And I slowly started to slip into my pain cave.

I have no recollection of miles 17-20.  Seriously, none.  All I know is that I was hurting.  One gigantic blur.

The last 6 miles were a constant battle to stay hydrated under the fierce sun, and the toughest mental exercise in just keeping forward motion.  Reaching mile 20 and knowing you still have another hour of pain (if you can keep your pace) is disheartening, to say the least.  I spent a lot of time cursing myself for ever being dumb enough to run a marathon, and even more for knowing that I signed up to do it again just 3 short weeks later.  What was I thinking?  Why didn’t anyone stop me?  Every hundred yards my legs told me to rest and just walk for a block or two.  Or just through the aid stations.  But I wouldn’t let my brain listen, and continued to run, jog, shuffle, scoot along while I stared only at the asphalt directly in front of me, blocking everything else out.

The crowds gradually grew towards the end, which provided a tremendous lift, and the block party going on at mile 25 is probably what saved me from wanting to walk for the last time.

I finished with a time on the faster end of what I was guessing I could do, given my (lack of) preparation, and immediately after crossing the line I was already waddling my best towards the beer truck and then the massage tent.  I shuffled back to my hotel room to peel off my less-bloody-than-I-feared socks and shower off the salt all my sweating had left behind.

I tried to get back to the finish line/charity village as fast as I could to see my sister and cousins, but my legs could only propel me forward at one speed by that point, so I didn’t see any of them actually finish, but none of them were cursing at me for giving them the idea to run the marathon in the first place, so all was good.  I think I’ve had just enough time to recover to do it all again.  DC, here I come.

I’m often asked what I think about as I run. Usually the people who ask this have never run long distances themselves. I always ponder the question. What exactly do I think about when I’m running? I don’t have a clue.

–Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

I’ve had a lot of people give me incredulous looks over the past week when they find out I just completed a Half Ironman.  Like it was some Herculean feat that not only I shouldn’t be able to do, but that no one should ever willingly choose to do either.  I don’t know what others thought my chances of finishing were, but I never had any doubt I’d complete the entire triathlon.  I may have made deflecting comments in weeks prior about just quitting after the bike if I was too tired, but my training prep leading up to the event left me feeling 100% confident.

A 1.2 mile swim?  Puh-lease.  Granted I only found the time/energy to hit the pool three times in training, one ended with a coach stopping me on my way to the locker room to tell me what a beautiful stroke I had (like I don’t know), and the other included a solid set where after 600m of freestyle I finally found my groove and immediately declared myself ready.  A 55.7 mile bike?  I’ve had enough rides of greater distance than that this summer operating on less lung power.  I am as comfortable on my saddle as I am on my living room couch.  True, the hills would be a challenge, but I’ve been to hell and back on the bike before, and if there’s anything I know, it’s that I can survive.  And a 13.1 mile run?  My longest run of the summer was only 9 miles, but if had to walk, no worries.  A pain of a half marathon is minuscule and over in the blink of an eye compared to the pain of chemotherapy.  Bring it on.

SWIM

I slid into my wetsuit, and we waded into the water near the front of the 2nd wave for the in-water start.  As if I had any excuse to quit, there was a guy at the start floating behind me with no legs competing.  Just a flipper attached to one of his nubs.  Only a few minutes later, we all put our faces in the water and started spinning arms and kicking legs.  Maybe it was the fact that I wasn’t doing all I could to be at the head of the pack like in most of my triathlon swims, but it was very uncrowded.  I hardly bumped into anyone or had to swim over top of others.  I decided to stay within myself and take the swim easy – no sense in burning so much energy so early in the day for such little gain.  Before the first turn, I had already passed a few people from the wave that started 7 minutes ahead of us.

The swim course was one of the easiest open water swims to sight I’ve raced in, and on the back stretch, I finally settled into a groove where I didn’t feel like I was forcing my arms forward against their will with each stroke.  I drafted at the hip of other swimmers when I could, and, well, just kept on keeping on until the home stretch.  As I was nearing the beach, I noticed one other swimmer with a different color cap (meaning he started in the wave behind me) pass me, but by my calculations, only getting passed by one or two swimmers was a pretty good start to the day.  I exited the water in a little over 31 minutes, which is right what I predicted, and only a few minutes slower than my best time.

BIKE

And so began the heart and soul of the SavageMan.  My relatively quick transition saw me start the bike before Matt and Abe, even though they both swam faster than me, but I also bundled up less than them.  It was a cool and cloudy morning, and with a long descent to start the bike course (and still being wet from the swim), I threw on a vest, arm warmers, and gloves to ward off the cold.  Familiarize yourself with the profile:

Climbing Toothpick near the start, I immediately ran out of gears.  Looks like I wasn’t going to be setting any records.  It was time to stay within myself and just make sure I didn’t redline.  The few rolling miles before the descent were windy and cold.  We’d been instructed by the race directors about the numerous “dangerous, technical descents” on the course, but a fellow racer we met when setting up our in the transition area in the morning told us that aside from the first tight turn on the first descent, they weren’t that dangerous.

This was good knowledge to have.  And it was correct.  After a tight turn to start the downhill, I crouched down, took my fingers off the brakes, and sank like a stone.  I still didn’t know the course, so I wasn’t going at my limit, but I still passed more than a handful of racers more scared/cautious than me.

And then the real test began.  You ride through a couple of intersections in Westernport near the river, then take a 90 degree left turn, cross a timing mat, and if you’re foolish enough to look up at the road ahead, curse loudly to yourself.  This pictures from the top of the Westernport Wall can not accurately depict the steepness of the climb itself, nor the fact that the lower three-quarters of the climb is seriously steep itself.
That top section in the photo, partially hidden by the tree and paved with concrete instead of asphalt, is the steepest section, maxing out at 31%.  There’s no chance to carry any momentum into the base of it.  The shouting crowds and repeating loop of the Rocky soundtrack and concurrent surge in adrenaline weren’t enough to get me to the top without hopping off my bike and walking.

But after finishing that climb, the road only continues to tick upwards.  The Big Savage climb is timed (starting the clock at the base of the Westernport Wall), and it took me over 45 minutes to reach the top.  45 minutes of finding all sorts of different climbing styles.  Out of the saddle.  Paperboying.  Woodpeckering.  Hand in the hoods.  Hands on the middle of my handlebar.  The couple short downhill sections of the climb only meant that the other sections had to be that much steeper to make up for the lost elevation.  I tried to remember to eat calories as much as I could, but it took me nearly 30 minutes to eat a single Clif bar.  Any bite larger than a nibble rendered too much food in my mouth to both chew and breathe at the same time.

Though I will say, when I remembered enough to steer my head away from the road in front of me, there was some truly scenic countryside to gaze at and enjoy.

The descent off of Big Savage was my favorite part of the entire day.  After enough time to warm up (and shed the vest and arm warmers at the bag drop), I settled into my tuck and bombed it.  Sweeping turns through the forest required only a light feathering of the brakes, and all concentration turned toward carving up the road whizzing by me.  My biggest concern was finding the right line around the slower racers.  I’m told I caught a few of them off guard when my speed and closeness surprised them, but I never felt unsafe.

But on descent we shift from awareness to is, evaluating only the line itself, not how things could go wrong.

Near the bottom of the descent, I passed a few racers in full aero gear who were obviously not great descenders.  As the next Cat 4 climb started, one passed me again and remarked about how effortless I made it look.  Made my day.

I hadn’t memorized the course map or profile, so after Big Savage, I only knew what lay ahead of me based on how far I could see up the road.  There were more climbs, steep as all the others, and now only short descents off of them.  And then came Killer Miller.

Though at it’s steepest, the Westernport Wall is worse, Killer Miller is nearly just as steep in sustained sections, and much, much longer.  There were spectators on this section of the course as well, but honestly, I can’t remember what any of them looked like.  When my eyeballs weren’t examining the inside of my own skull, they were intently focused on the square meter of asphalt just beyond my front tire.  I turned myself inside out, used the entire width of the road, and finally found myself in the flow state.

The remainder of the ride was mostly an exercise in trying to remain in the zone despite whatever was going on around me, and then easing back a little to prepare for the run.

RUN

Through most of the bike, my feet were pretty cold.  I opted not to wear shoe covers, and I purposely over-tightened my shoes for most of the ride to make climbing a little more efficient, so the first mile of the run was simply an exercise in getting warm blood to my feet and feeling them out again.  After a short trip to the port-a-potty to relieve some liquids, I still struggled to find my rhythm.  I walked the uphill sections of the run, and waddled through the flats.  It’s not that my legs were coming unhinged, but my gut was still not cooperating.

I ticked through the miles and held a relatively pedestrian pace of 11 minutes/mile through the first half of the two loop course.  I don’t have a clue what I was actually thinking about.

Around mile 8, I stopped for another bathroom break – this time a little more lengthy -and finally, I could run.  I switched to a half cup of Coke at every aid station, and quickly found new life.  I was starting to catch and pass other runners for the first time, and my legs still weren’t tired.  By not redlining while trying to set a PR, I held a comfortable pace the entire day.  I negative split the run at a pace that didn’t exhaust me, and even after finishing, I felt like I could’ve continued on for hours more.  My legs didn’t hurt.  I’m not sure how else to explain it.  You either understand, or you don’t.

I’m still waiting for photos from others and from the race photographers, as I’m especially anxious to share some of the other parts of the course with everyone, and trigger my own memories of other sections on the course, so if they’re uploaded in a timely manner, I’ll update with some of the better ones.

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.