Haunted. Whether by jet lag, bad waking dreams, or bad memories, I barely slept last night. I drifted off around 9:30 PM only to wake up frantic that I missed my alarm. Dashing about the admittedly small hotel room, I fumbled for my watch only to realize it was 10:15 PM. I was wide awake, adrenaline pumping, and feeling like it was I suppose 12 hours earlier as that was the time zone I had most recently been in for an extended period.
I don’t quite know what lurks in the periphery that keeps me awake or causes my restless slumber. Anxiety over travel or worry over time coupled with just a litany of usual,usual suspects. But I do know that it’s 3:38 AM and I’m feeling a little underslept and physically wonky. We’ll see what happens with the “warm-up” walk to the start. “Google.ae/maps” says it should be about 4-5 km from the hotel to the start line. I guess I’ll know soon enough.
***
“I should know better.” That’s what I kept thinking today in the streets of a Dubai. In the early morning I had a stomachache come on like an Eli from that song by a Three Dog Night. I assumed it was compounded jet lag, lack of sleep upon arrival, anxiety over looming deadlines, and just general stress over life. I kept thinking it would pass. I ate some granola bars as a pre-race meal and thought that might settle it. It didn’t.
I walked to the start line from my hotel. “I should know better,” I kept thinking, having run enough races that I shouldn’t be so worried when the race organizers play up the traffic and logistics of getting to the start so STRONGLY encourage all runners to get there early.
Here’s some of what I saw of the marauding throngs of runners heeding that advice:
On the plus side, I saved cab fare and got to wander around a bit for a few pre-race photos.
Life slowly came to the start line albeit long after I had gotten there… though to be fair there were at least ten others milling about with me when I got there; at least ten of us heeded the warnings.
The race announcer informed us this had 30,000 runners across the three events –the world’s richest marathon offering a first prize purse of $200,000 set to go off at 6:30 am, a 10k slated to start at 8:30 AM, and a 4K fun run at 11:30 am. Based on the bag check numbers for them marathon, I ballparked our I need at 3000, give or take.
A bigger field then than the one projected for Oman next week.
As time ticked away, my stomach felt ever more sloshy and liquidy. Not a good sign. “I should know better.” On top of that, the scab on my knee had broken open and I was bleeding, the tendon behind the knee also battered and sore. But I had a similar feeling during Star Wars last weekend. I should know better… but there’s a race and I’m at the start line…
And we’re off! For the opening ten miles I’m on record pace and an easy BQ time to boot. Sangere, who works in Qatar but is from Indian, slides in next to me, looking for a running partner and somebody who has a timing watch running. Nice enough guy but he kept crowding me and jostling my bruised elbow and, well, ya know what? No hard feelings. Here’s a blurry, on-the-run selfie with him.
But by mile ten things got ever more… wonky. I wished Sangere good luck and ducked into one of the few portajohns on the course. By race end, I would be aware of the location of each and every one of those things.
I would take water at every other water stop. I should know better… the realization in hindsight is that I was dehydrated BEFORE the race even started and it got progressively worse as the kilometers clicked by. And I kinda knew that instinctively as, well, I’ve run more than a few of these things. But the sloshing innards of my stomach made me hesitant to add more liquid to the rough proverbial seas.
It wound up being one of damned if you do, damned if you don’t options-I needed to drink more water but couldn’t because water was exacerbating the problem. Maybe that’s a catch-22? I should know better – I swear I’ve previously written about the etymology and usage of Catch-22. Maybe I’ll search that out and post a link to it here.
It was a very flat course, save for a double cross out and back on one bridge (bridges usually have that pitched incline if only to aid in rain runoff but more principally afforded tenants front row, center seats for nightly boating pageants, all for a low-, low- management fee.
Knowing my iPhone takes crappy low light pics, I waited for the sun to rise to snap some course shots. It was perfect weather – just slightly chilly in the morning and then growing progressively warmer as the sun got higher and higher in the sky.
On top of that, because I was feeling under the weather, it seemed doubtful I could focus on running AND take my silly photos along the way. Something had to give and that something was my photog skills. It was kind of a boring course… unless you were looking for incongruity running past the… I guess you’d call them strip malls? Or perhaps owner/operator!
For example, “How does one say ‘Fuddruckers’ in Arabic?”
I’m sad to say my pièce de résistance didn’t come out… so here’s a Google Earth shot to convey what I was going for:
That’s the Miraji Islamic Art Centre. It’s a nice building, clearly housing some things of an artistic merit. And if you look at the map, while running past it I found myself imaging what it’s like giving directions to the place. “Oh, the Miraji Islamic Art Cenre? That’s on Jumeira Beach Rd. It’s next to the Hardee’s, across from the Buffalo Wild Wings. If you hit KFC you’ve gone too far.”
But back to the race. I went from a sub-3 hour time at the halfway point to a lingering, demoralizing painful slog in the back half. I should know better. I could tell my knee was playing up. And the stomach was killing me. I could see the PR vanishing into the sands of time. The BQ also fell away. If my half time was close to a sub 3, my final finish time meant the split showed I spent half an hour or so in slowing agony. It wasn’t pretty, and despite pretty ideal weather conditions and a flat course, I just couldn’t pull it off. Emotionally, physically, gastrointestinally, I just struggled through. There was walking, stops along the way, and just general grinding out of kilometers.
As the sun rose higher and higher into the sky, temperatures rose, and my pace slowed. But I crossed the finish just slightly behind where I tertiarily hoped for given the various time goals slipping through my fingers. According to my Garmin, I finished with a 3:30:20. Pretty good all things considered but it felt more like a survival time than a victory time… or maybe I just felt sick. I should know better.
Heading out of the finisher’s chute, I was accosted by various 10K runners asking how they could get a medal. I kept pointing to the HUGE sign right in front of them and explaining what they had to do for their medal. I know I finally snapped at the fifth person in ten feet asking me and pointed at the big blue inflatable standee and said in a loud American voice that I’m NOT proud of deploying, “Oh, your medals? Gosh, it certainly looks like you follow that GIANT sign right there!”
I want to say part of it was I wasn’t feeling great. But I should know better. It may be that I sometimes fit the ugly American stereotype.
Shuffling back to my hotel, I felt dizzy and light headed. I found myself staggering like a runner in Medoc or perhaps someone who wasn’t running but had opted to violate Qu’ran teachings and drink way too much alcohol. Only then did it dawn on me that perhaps I was SERIOUSLY dehydrated. I had been knocking back Coca-Cola Light bottles to try and use the caffeine to get me over the jetlagged time zone differentials. And as a result, I hadn’t been drinking as much H20 as I should’ve been, particularly given I was running in a desert… a Palm Springs/Las Vegas-ian man made oasis desert, but a desert nonetheless. “I should know better,” I kept thinking, albeit by this stage it sounded slurred even within my own head. “I shuld know betta.” I went into the Mall of the Emirates and headed to the food court to try and get something into my stomach. I wound up with a sandwich that I could only stomach to eat half of, opting entirely to skip the fries, and downing the water like a, well, guy who had just staggered out of the desert after running 42 kilometers without drinking enough water.
I WhatsApp’d Reda to apologize and cancel our meet up later in the day. I was bummed to bail on a guided tour with her showing me the Old City, the Gold Souq (Market) and the Old Souqs of Dubai. She said it was much more authentic Middle Eastern and we could stop by the Marina to see the Fountains. But I just didn’t have it in me. I arrogantly said the previous day I can usually run a marathon and after a shower and lunch I can shake it off and go do stuff in the afternoon; I may move a little slower and a bit more gingerly but it’s also better to keep the muscles moving versus letting them seize up by napping. I should know better. I jinxed it. But Reda was typically understanding and supportive… and besides, tomorrow we have our big adventure to the Dubai Miracle Garden and desert trip. I wanted to make sure I was rested and hydrated to enjoy that rather than pushing too hard today.
So I’ve setup a makeshift IV… and by that I mean I just keep downing bottles of water to get things back on track. I already feel better and Reda offered to meet me for dinner if I was up for it. But I suspect I’m still not “with it” and should make it an early night. As Reda reminded me, I’ve got the Muscat Marathon in 6 days.
One last little thing though before I grab another bottle of water… the following happens now and again at US races but I actually see it far more often at International Events. I call this, “My Doctor Says I Need to Exercise More… Fine, I’ll Run Some Stupid Races… But It’ll Be A Cold Day In Hell When I Give Up My Cancer Sticks!”
