The short, short version? It was … ugly.
By mile 11 I had mentally checked out and was going through the motions – right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot.
By mile 15, my body checked out and my stride became shorter and shorter… then the walking started. My legs felt like live turkeys thrown from the WKRP helicopter. Wet bags of cement, splatting the pavement, the horror… the horror. Oh, the humanity!
I didn’t take many photos. I don’t even really remember much when of what happened. Was it lingering illness? Lack of running the past week? Poor nutritional decisions that left me trying to pull energy from the over abundance of fat cells rather than carbs? A combination? A series of excuses? Perhaps it was just one of those days.
But it was rough out there, man. Supposedly there were 12,000 runners doing the various distances. The split at mile 13 when half marathoners headed to the finish and we headed out for an out and back felt very lonely. I’d be interested in how many full marathoners were registered. A lot of them passed me by as my pace collapsed from a pretty good 7:15 per mile to 9, 10, 11 minutes as the day wore on.
The reviews had warned that it could get hot and there wasn’t a lot of shade on the course. They weren’t kidding… although I’ve been hotter and I’ve had tougher conditions, this one really broke me. And though a pretty flat course, if not pancake then just bubbling Bisquick while cooking. But those small little bumps might as well have required mountaineering gear as I just struggled with a capital “strug.”
I felt nauseous and had trouble breathing here and there… I want to see it was the still-not-defeated congestion but it just as easily could have been the faltering endurance from my week long couch surfing. Nay, surfing implies some sort of exercise, my week long couch moleman existence.
My mind and body kept telling me, “You’re on your own, kid.” At some stage they individually and collective said to me, “Ya know… we got pretty good at NOT-running.”
More than a few bikers and aid stations asked me as I variously shuffled along, limped along, and ambled along to see if I was ok. I was fine-(ish). I was just tired. I particularly was taken aback though when a guy asked me at mile 24 if I could make it. Dude – I could crawl in two more miles. I wasn’t about to quit that close to the finish… although I did consider it as the right foot passed once more in front of the left.
In the end, with walking and stumbling, I clocked an ok time on the big board… but the time on my feet was nigh on terrible.
This isn’t an indictment of the race – the volunteers were great, especially the sponsoring Lincoln National Guard. The course was a bit meh but, no, my problems were my own and not indicative of issues external to me. This was all on me. I finished and just felt… deflated. Defeated. De-not-so-lovely.
It was kinda cool to finish on the 50 yard line, even feeling as I did.
And desperate times call for desperate measures:
My body reacted… poorly to this swill.
***
Postcards from the Midwest:
I hoped Google was wrong; it was not.
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I concur, Roadside America. As “large fiberglass chickens” go, it’s impressive; as for “giant chickens,” it’s underwhelming. Words matter; expectations must be managed.
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In my shared universe, I hope McGruff uses Inspector McGrime as a street informant.
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Look, I’m not a rocket scientist. What size lid am I supposed to use here, people?!
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As a kid when visiting relatives in Omaha, Broncos was a hometown fave… so I try and stop in when I blow through town.
This is a “small fry.” What must a large be like?
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Arriving at the airport to fly out, I felt the oh-so-slow Kevin speed was spot on.
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One score and 6.2 miles ago….