(This is shortly before the tears really started to flow. Not a PR, but marathon #12 is in the books.)
With each marathon I learn something new, about running, about racing, about life, about a community, about myself. Most of the time these lessons have a distinct parallel to everyday life, something that will transfer to my non-running world, hopefully something that will help someone else down the road. You know what I learned in running the inaugural Youngstown Marathon? Emotion is neither friend nor foe, but there are times when it will assert itself and demand to be heard.
A few days before race day, my friend Doug invited me to go for a run, one I anticipated would be an easy three or four miles. When we met at the predetermined place, he asked, "How far do you want to go? Around the lake?" This would be a familiar route but would add five miles to my anticipated total. "Of course I do!" And off we went, maintaining a faster-than-expected pace from beginning to end. This run was important, though, because until then, I didn't have a race plan. In fact, if things had gone according to plan in Nashville (see "Run the Mile You're In") I was going to run Youngstown at an easier pace with my friends. So after reflecting on that run with Doug I determined I was going to tackle the agony of Mill Creek Park and, ideally, post a new PR.
I had confessed to Mrs. RB, though, that while the hills would be challenging (please look at the elevation), my biggest concern would be holding my emotions at bay until crossing the finish line.
Race day comes, and I don my fresh running gear: a Rescue Mission Running Club shirt, super-fly running shorts, and new compression socks. Plenty of orange in honor of my late nephew's love for the Clemson Tigers. Posing for pictures, sharing hugs, mostly smiling, celebrating our hometown marathon. But all I could think about was pushing through the first two miles, setting a decent pace, and getting into the next section of the course.
In previous marathons I'd learned the importance of pace discipline, that exerting myself too much early would be exponentially awful later in the race. "You can't bank time in a marathon," I told myself while approaching Ford Nature Center. And it was just like the cartoons, with an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. "But you could be the first, RB. Go be the first!"
When we travel for races, there are always fellow runners who seem to know everyone along the course, sharing high fives with volunteers, spectators, and other runners. After cruising through downtown and being encouraged by the one and only Dunner, crossing the Mr. Peanut bridge for the second time, and posing for a picture for the BTF water table, I realized I was one of those people!
I started doing math around mile fifteen. "If I average X minutes/mile the rest of the way, I'll PR." But mile sixteen was looming. In fact, that's where the first wave of emotion hit hard, and I started crying.
Let me add here, in case you've missed it in previous posts, that I cry after finishing every marathon. I reflect on the accomplishment, the training, the sacrifice, where I was headed because running and I found each other. And I weep with gratitude. Mile sixteen's tears, however, were different. Primarily induced by grief mixed with adrenaline and pride (for others, the good kind), but I had a long way to go, so I did my best to stifle them.
Without going into the agonizing details (I'll happily recount them for you in person), I spent every couple of miles fighting back tears, arguing with my foot to stop hurting, screaming back at my screaming hamstrings, cursing (under my breath) people telling me I was "almost there," and generally just wanting to be done. And that "X" from the previous math equation was shrinking quickly.
With about a half mile or so to go, I lost it, weeping uncontrollably, snot bubbles and all. At least I had tears to cry, not just salt shooting out of my tear ducts. And then I heard more of my friends on the course, urging me on. I couldn't look at them, but in that moment I remembered Pete Sampras breaking down in the quarterfinals of the Australian Open. I was determined to leave everything on the course, to shed the emotional weight of the previous five weeks.
I don't remember much of that last push, but I don't think I looked at any of the spectators. I simply took my medal and bottle of water (Thanks, Adam!) and found the nearest tree I could lean against. And I wept.
(Long-time readers know how much I love Rescue Mission of the Mahoning Valley. I couldn't be prouder or more honored to be associated with this group of incredible people. You can see in the picture below volunteers and 5k finishers. And one guy even placed third in his age group...which made me cry and laugh simultaneously.)
