Bonk: The feeling of weakness caused in a drop in blood sugar during extended physical activity. Also know as 'the sags', 'the knock' and “hitting the wall'.
Executive Summary
Trained smart, ran dumb, finished in 4:17. Never want to run another 10 kilometres like the ones I ran after the 32K marker in last Sunday’s Wineglass Marathon.
The Full Story
Seriously? It’s okay.
I didn’t achieve my running goal and it was not even close. I was under-trained, made rookie mistakes, and took at least one terrible race-course photo. This week, when people asked how the marathon went, I’ve told them flat out that I was disappointed. They’ve been kind about reminding me to look on the bright side. And I do see all the positives about finishing almost 20 minutes faster than my first marathon with no injuries and an incredibly speedy recovery time.
But here’s something about me. Though I’m not competitive in the traditional sense – I don’t care much about passing other runners – I’m very competitive when it comes to achieving my potential. I hate it when I don’t do my best. And last Sunday was not my best.
It all comes down to starting out too fast. I made that decision even before I lined up with the rest of the 1,400-plus hopefuls on race day. It was quite cool – about 2 degrees C – but sunny, with the promise of a beautiful day ahead. I joined the group around Johnny, the 4-hour pacer. He rallied the people around him, explaining his approach and noting, “I am not banking time – I don’t believe in it. I’ll be running a steady pace throughout the race. My aim is that you will feel great when you cross the finish line and you will all be finishing ahead of me.” I didn’t have his confidence, though. With only one long run under my belt, I felt like I had to run the first half faster than the second half. To top things off, the group of runners around Johnny were grouped in a tight pack and I found it incredibly claustrophobic. So, after about 500 metres, I accelerated and left them behind.
During the first half of the race, I felt incredible. I was logging really fast kilometres. Too fast, I knew. But the course was gentle, the view beautiful and my adrenaline was pumping. I was supposed to be running a 5:42 pace, but I was clocking most kilometres at around 5:30 or faster. I promised myself that at the half-way point, I would slow down and steady out my pace to about 5:45.
As I passed the 21K marker, somewhere around Savona, with an average 5:33 pace, feeling like I was crossing the finish line for a half marathon. And that would have been awesome if, y’know, I actually was running a half. Unfortunately, I still had just over 21 kilometres to go. And my body was kinda done. I ran kilometre 22 at a 6:08 pace. Then kilometre 23 at a 5:53 pace. I managed 5:37 for kilometre 24, but by then, the writing was on the giant 26-mile high wall. I never logged another kilometre at my goal pace after that. At around kilometre 26, the four hour pace group caught up to me. By kilometre 27, they had passed me.
When The Runner I Married and my youngest son met me at the 32 kilometre marker, the first words I said were, “I blew it”. They thought I was nuts because they’d just seen the four-hour group go by. But they didn’t know what I knew – that my legs were done. They did their best to mentally patch me back together and send me on my way.
Then followed the longest 10 kilometres of my life. Since I was now running at a much slower pace, I was being passed all the other, more sensible runners. My only running buddies were the weak and the wounded – and I fit right in. I remember many kind people yelling words of encouragement from the sidelines. At one point, I passed a family gathered on a residential street corner. Among them was an old man, dressed formally and sitting in a lawn chair. He looked straight in the face, nodded his head, gave me a look that said, “just get on with it”, and raised his thumb. I straightened my shoulders and soldiered on.
At kilometre 38, my Garmin quit, likely in disgust. At kilometre 40, the 4:15 pace group passed me looking strong and disciplined. I could not keep up, and actually watched them cross the finish line two minutes ahead of me.
During the last two kilometres, I wanted nothing more than to walk. But I knew that although walking would feel good at that moment, logging one last Runner’s Walk of Shame would feel horrible for weeks to come. With about 200 metres to go, someone yelled, “not much further!” and I wanted to cry, because the distance seemed endless. But it did, finally, end.
Then I was wrapped in a tinfoil blanket and wearing a beautiful finisher’s medal that felt, at that moment, undeserved. While I was stuffing my face with pizza, bagels and what tasted like the world’s most delicious banana, I told The Runner I Married: “I am never, ever doing that again.” Though I really meant it at that moment, he just rolled his eyes.
And he was right. Because within two hours, I was figuring out how to make my next marathon a better experience.
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