This
fall, when preparing for the Steamtown marathon in Scranton, I confess I got a
little caught up in a numbers game. Sure, I had been trying to go faster for
years, and yes setting a new PB in Corning marathon last fall did inspire me,
but it was not until running 3:11:55 on a cold, rainy and windy day in Boston
that I started to believe I could break 3:10. Then I saw on the Marathon
Canada website that my Boston time was the second fastest in my age group for
the year, and that the fastest time was 3:09:55, which is when I started
envisioning (read: imagining in an obsessive fashion) running even five seconds
faster than that time in order to move into first place.
The upside of having a goal is that it gives me a dot on the
horizon to run towards; on the tough runs with Tanya, when I was sure I
couldn’t hit the paces that Tim had given me (having once even emailed him to
ask if he hadn’t perhaps given me Tanya’s pace times by mistake), I thought of
that 3:09:50 goal, and it propelled me up the hills and along those windy stretches. The
downside of having a goal is that with it come the possibility and the fear of
failure. The mind is a mighty instrument, and it can propel one to great
heights or great depths with equal speed; it can concoct visions of striding through
the finish line victorious, but also of blowing up mid race and having to walk,
watching the minutes tick away, and seeing the clock at the finish
line confirm the passage of time.
My training throughout the summer had been full of hill running
in Cape Breton, and I was feeling confident until I ran a half marathon race in
Wellesley, on a humid, windy day at the end of September, where I had a
disastrous run, battling the wind, overheating, and coming in at 1:36, which
translated into a much slower pace than I hoped to run the entire marathon
in. My good friend Kelly was only seconds behind me, and she went into
damage control right away, reminding me of the conditions and of the miles I
had already run that week. My coach later suggested that a bad race was
inevitable every few races, and that it was a good indicator that I needed to
taper heavily (cut back my mileage) leading up to the marathon.
For the next few days, I pushed aside all negative thoughts
about the half marathon, and then one morning, I started a speed workout and
felt a tweak in my lower back that I thought would loosen as I warmed up. It
did not. I ran three repeats of a kilometer each, and with each repeat my
left hip felt tighter and a little sorer. And then the rain began in
earnest, and I headed for home—seven kilometers away--in the rain, with my left
foot almost flopping due to decreased range of motion. I went into worst-case
scenario mode with the ease of a seasoned veteran: I pictured myself mid race,
limping desolately along the road, unable to run any further because of my hip.
Once I was home, I rushed to make physio and massage appointments, and I spent
the next week stretching and fussing. On my last physio appointment, days
before the race, I was calmed by my physiotherapist, Brenda, a goddess of
sorts, who said very sagely, you will be fine. She had worked out the
problems with my locked hip, and the inflammation had subsided. I can't tell
you how many times I replayed her simple refrain over in my mind: you will be
fine.
Driving down to Scranton, I was excited and worried in equal
measures. Yes, I believed I could go under 3:10, but how much under, and
what if something went wrong? Overhead, the skies were dark and brooding,
muting the fall colours on the surrounding hills, but the closer I got to
Scranton, the more excited I became.
On Sunday at five in the morning, I took the bus from downtown
Scranton to the high school in Forest City and warmed up for the race, trying
to stay settled and not get caught up in the antics or frenetic energy of
others. It was a perfect morning: crisp, cool, and sunny, with little
wind. When the gun went off, I surged with a big crowd down the first
hill; the crowds forced me to begin slowly, but after that I began to make my
way up through the mass of runners. In the early kilometers I fretted
about every little sensation in my hip, fearing it would mark my demise, and
then after a while, I thought for goodness sake just run. Stop worrying
about time; stop looking at your watch; just enjoy the morning. And I
did. I looked at my watch only every few kilometers, and I was pleased to see
that I was ahead of pace. I was careful on the long down hills, and once the
route turned onto a rail trail that was newly paved, I enjoyed every step of
the sunlit trail with the fall colours on either side of me. I believe those
were the prettiest miles I have ever raced. At the halfway mark, I was at
1:33:05, more than a minute faster than my goal split. I said to the young
man I was running with, whose goal was also sub 3:10, that I thought we
should aim for 3:08 high instead. Though he dropped back a
little later in the race, I saw that he finished in 3:09, well under his goal.
The final 10 km can be tough, incredibly tough, but I was feeling
strong, even when I had to face the last hills. I was still passing
people, and I moved up from 20th woman to 17th woman,
before one woman battled back and passed me in the final kilometer. She
would no doubt have run much faster that day but for a clear injury. At the end
we embraced each other, for her strong finish had inspired me, while she said I
had motivated her saying, let's go now, when I went by. Small words to be sure,
but sometimes they are enough.
It is hard to describe the feeling of crossing the finish line
and seeing the clock at 3:08:25. I knew I had surpassed my goal, but I
didn't know by what margin. It is a wonderful thing to be able to
surprise yourself, especially at this age. All too often I find myself
painfully predictable in my behaviour: I can be irritable, uptight, impatient
and judgemental. How lovely, then, to act in a way I had never dreamed
possible.
As many of you know, I learned I had beaten the existing record
for women in Ontario 50—54, so I applied to have the record updated only to
learn that my time did not count due to the fact that the Steamtown marathon
course has too much downhill and is considered an “aided” run. At first I was a
little downcast, but then I reminded myself that I didn’t even know about the
record before I raced. Ultimately I am glad, really, that they did not
accept my time, because it has since been surpassed by a runner from Toronto,
Anne Byrne, who at the age of 50 ran her first marathon in Philly in a time
of 3:06. Wow. I have since looked at her times at shorter
distances, and she is considerably faster than I am as are many, many women my
age, which I remind Phyll of when she tells people I am the fastest woman in
Canada. It’s not that I don’t appreciate her vote of confidence; it’s just that
I have been surrounded by talented runners long enough to know where I stand in
the grand scheme of running.
I really appreciated the newspaper articles and my fifteen
minutes of fame, and then the buzz died down and for a time I felt a little
flat. Then I started running again and experienced the usual aches and pains,
and I fussed that it meant my fast days were over, so I committed to stretching
and some yoga every day. Each week, now, I am running a little more and trying to
worry a little less. This might be my toughest goal yet; is it too much irony
to try my hardest at not worrying?
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