Here I sit typing away having completed two marathons total, the second one just today. Most people I know think I’m nuts. I think, after this one, that I must be.
Before I dive into that let me completely disavow posting about running in two marathons this year. I will not be running in Seattle’s Marathon at the end of November. Some crazed individual, with my writing style, hacked my account and wrote that utter nonsense. Let me repeat I did not write that, or if I did I clearly have a second personality locked within my head.
OK, with that out of the way, on to my experience with the Portland Marathon. I could compare it to the Chicago Marathon from last year. Wax on about how Chicago’s course is better laid out. About how Portland had musicians playing at nearly one-to-two mile intervals. About how Chicago seemed better organized. About how Portland has the possibility of being run over by a (probably late) Amtrak train. But I won’t. While they both share the title of “marathon” and cover the same 26.2 mile distance, it would be unfair of me. That is because of what I learned today. Your second marathon, even while pouring down rain, is better than your first. With your first, one is not entirely sure what they’ve gotten themselves into. Trust me, I didn’t. With the second you know what you’ve gotten into and respect it. Without that respect you’re in for trouble.
I started the race today hoping to meet or beat my Chicago time. While I was sick as a dog last year, likely with the beginning of the flu, I was convinced that the hills (mountains for my flatlander friends in Illinois) would easily erase any gains of my non-sick self this year. Taking shelter in the parking garage entrance that happened to be in my start coral, while wind and rain pummeled those waiting in line at the porto-potties, I could have walked away. Clearly the god that was abusing me with wind on my motorcycle trip along the coast was back, and with a vengeance. If it weren’t for the shelter I might have walked away. I simply did not want to be there at that point. However, if I had walked away I would be sorry.
In our coral was the 4:45 pacers. Being close to that last year I figured I’d stick with them, then bolt after the hills if I had the energy. After our coral was let loose like hounds on the moor (well it felt like what I imagine a windy and wet Scotland to feel), I settled in with the 4:45 pacers. They were going too slow — way too slow. I kicked past them and eventually fell in with the 4:30 pacers. Also too slow. I caught the 4:15 pacers somewhere around mile 11 and hung with them. They were running at nearly the same clip I was, so the world was good. However, after a while I started to break away from them. Then came the second big hill, the approach to the St. John’s Bridge and through to 1/2 of the way across the span. That thing’s kicked my butt on my bicycle. I take my time, making sure not to over exert myself, as I slowly work up the hill. Thinking, those pacers must be long behind me I kept plowing on ahead. I begin my slow descent on the far side and past they whiz. I kick it back up to catch ’em, then and only then, do I realize the toll that the St. John’s Bridge had exacted. I bravely fought on for several miles, but in the end could keep up with them. I was feeling kinda down as I approached the final miles. I knew I’d been running better than last year, but I was disappointed by loosing the 4:15 pacers.
Then I realized something amazing, the thought that would keep me going for the remaining miles. The 4:30 pacers hadn’t passed me yet! I might still rock this thing! I pressed on, pushing as hard as I could for those last miles. I was beyond spent as I entered the last 1/4 mile, but pushed harder. Passing others as I approached the finishing chute. I zipped across the finish line and promptly forgot to turn off my stopwatch until sometime later. I don’t clearly remember when. It could be when I was collecting either my cranberry juice or orange juice.
So I’m left to ponder for the next several hours until results are posted if I did complete it closer to 4:15 (remember that I crossed the start line with the 4:45 pacing group), or if I’m closer to the 4:25 that my stopwatch read when I pressed the stop button.
I’ll update the post when I know for sure, but all I do know is that without a doubt in my mind I beat my Chicago time and couldn’t be happier.
UPDATE: Official time is 4:19:37. Woo hoo!
Last, and not least by any means, I need to thank my beautiful wife Angie for putting up with me during the sixteen weeks of training. Being there every inch of the way to support me even outside of the marathon training. Without her wonderful assistance and encouragement I wouldn’t have any story to tell.