Off Course I Love to Run!
Big asterisk on today's #portlandmarathon. Real big.
I was flying for the first 8 miles. Running under my goal pace, feeling great, I decided I probably needed to slow down and take it a little easier for a few miles to prevent burnout. Heading up Barbur Blvd., I was a couple minutes behind the next closest runner. As I plotted my tangents up what looked like a grueling hill, I noticed that cars were entering the course and there were no cones on the lane divider to keep them away from runners. After passing an entrance, and being passed WAY too close by a few cars, I was thinking, "Man, the race organizers are going to get an earful about this. Not safe." But I continued trudging up the hill to keep the guy in front of me, and hopefully the pack in front of him, in sight.
Then, from behind me, I heard the growl of one of the little utility trucks I'd seen the race volunteers driving around the course. Then a voice. "Sir!" I looked behind me and saw the driver of the truck jogging to catch me. "Can you get over to the side please?" I did. As he approached, he said, "So, you're off the course. There was an unmarked turn back there. I'm really sorry and we'll refund your entry, but you need to stay on this side and run back down the hill until you see the course again to get back on."
"Are you kidding me?" I said. "There's another guy just up ahead." And I turned and ran down the hill. Passing through a tunnel, I yelled, "FUCK!". 10 seconds later, I heard, "FUCK!" echoing off the walls of the tunnel. The guy who had been ahead of me and was now behind me, also getting his anger out. After some light Frogger, I found the course, and cut through a grassy median to get back on it, ignoring the suspicious looks of the runners passing by—runners who had been several minutes behind me when I went the wrong way.
A couple minutes later, my "FUCK!" buddy caught up with me and we started laying down anger-fueled 6:10 miles. It was nice to have company in my misery, but I had a bad feeling my race goals were out the window. According to our watches, we were almost 2 miles ahead of schedule and several minutes off pace. At the halfway point, after running faster than I ever have in a marathon, it was unlikely I'd be able to maintain a pace that would allow me to catch up to where I'd been.
At mile 15, I passed my parents' house (Mary, Bob), where they were cheering like maniacs. I stopped for a second and briefly recapped the situation. Then I ran down to the porta-potties and took the pee that I had been planning to hold because I wasn't going to let a pee ruin another PR (different story).
The next several miles were still fast. I passed the 3:05 pace group and had the 3:00 group in sight, but it became clear as my legs started to tire that I wasn't going to catch them. My goal had been to break 2:50 and now a sub-3:00 time wasn't even likely. It was over.
But, I'm not a DNF kind of person, so I wasn't just going to quit. I knew I didn't have the emotional reserves to try to keep racing the clock—nothing but misery and disappointment down that road. For a while nothing seemed likely to salvage my race. But then it hit me. I was wearing a GPS watch that would tell me when I had run 26.2 miles. I would keep racing until I hit marathon distance, stop my watch, and wait for my friend David so we could finish the race together—something we never get to do because we run at different paces.
When my watch said 26.2, I was still 2 miles from the finish. Moving time: 2:47:50. I'd unofficially smashed my goal and my PR. I started walking, ran into another old running friend, David, who was handing out water at an aid station, and eventually David caught up. The sun broke through the clouds and we ran as a team to the finish.
With an official time of 3:11:something, I didn't have a Boston qualifying time, and didn't place in the top of my age group, both of which would have happened if not for the snafu. Then something happened that I will never forget and which I will attempt to pay forward in one way or another in my running community. Another friend, Clint, had been just behind me when I went off course. Just as HE was about to go off course, that same race official diverted him and some other runners in the right direction (and proceeded to put down the road barriers that should have been there). They all tried to call me back, but I was too far out to hear or understand. In the beer garden after the race, we were all rehashing the story when Clint, who had officially finished first in our age group, offered me his award patch, a little velcro badge that wraps around the ribbon of your finishers medal. "You were faster than me today," he said. "You would have won this." At first, I was nonplussed and embarrassed and felt very much like that award belonged to the person whose name was at the top of the official results. Taking it would be wrong. But he insisted. And in a few awkward seconds, it occurred to me that what was happening was an act of altruistic sportsmanship—one athlete recognizing the unfair misfortune in his sport and doing the only thing he could to make it slightly more right. I took the badge and told him I would have both of our names embroidered on it, which I will do. It was the most touching gesture in sports to which I've ever been party. You're a hero, Clint.
So, I smoked my marathon and I beat my goal. It's not on the books, but I know I can do it. The course was beautiful and the race well organized (except for, you know, that tiny matter of the course not being properly marked in that one spot). I got to finish the race with my best buddy and I was the recipient of a pretty astounding act of goodwill. I ran with Kermit for a while and got to hug Toto in all his shirtless glory before the race. Runcast power user Bill and I were reunited in the party zone. Some other best friends, Heather and family, who I haven't seen in ages, showed up at the finish to help celebrate and we all went to lunch together. All in all, a great marathon morning.
But if I could take it all back to have that 2:47:50 on record, I would. That shit stings.
I was flying for the first 8 miles. Running under my goal pace, feeling great, I decided I probably needed to slow down and take it a little easier for a few miles to prevent burnout. Heading up Barbur Blvd., I was a couple minutes behind the next closest runner. As I plotted my tangents up what looked like a grueling hill, I noticed that cars were entering the course and there were no cones on the lane divider to keep them away from runners. After passing an entrance, and being passed WAY too close by a few cars, I was thinking, "Man, the race organizers are going to get an earful about this. Not safe." But I continued trudging up the hill to keep the guy in front of me, and hopefully the pack in front of him, in sight.
Then, from behind me, I heard the growl of one of the little utility trucks I'd seen the race volunteers driving around the course. Then a voice. "Sir!" I looked behind me and saw the driver of the truck jogging to catch me. "Can you get over to the side please?" I did. As he approached, he said, "So, you're off the course. There was an unmarked turn back there. I'm really sorry and we'll refund your entry, but you need to stay on this side and run back down the hill until you see the course again to get back on."
"Are you kidding me?" I said. "There's another guy just up ahead." And I turned and ran down the hill. Passing through a tunnel, I yelled, "FUCK!". 10 seconds later, I heard, "FUCK!" echoing off the walls of the tunnel. The guy who had been ahead of me and was now behind me, also getting his anger out. After some light Frogger, I found the course, and cut through a grassy median to get back on it, ignoring the suspicious looks of the runners passing by—runners who had been several minutes behind me when I went the wrong way.
A couple minutes later, my "FUCK!" buddy caught up with me and we started laying down anger-fueled 6:10 miles. It was nice to have company in my misery, but I had a bad feeling my race goals were out the window. According to our watches, we were almost 2 miles ahead of schedule and several minutes off pace. At the halfway point, after running faster than I ever have in a marathon, it was unlikely I'd be able to maintain a pace that would allow me to catch up to where I'd been.
At mile 15, I passed my parents' house (Mary, Bob), where they were cheering like maniacs. I stopped for a second and briefly recapped the situation. Then I ran down to the porta-potties and took the pee that I had been planning to hold because I wasn't going to let a pee ruin another PR (different story).
The next several miles were still fast. I passed the 3:05 pace group and had the 3:00 group in sight, but it became clear as my legs started to tire that I wasn't going to catch them. My goal had been to break 2:50 and now a sub-3:00 time wasn't even likely. It was over.
But, I'm not a DNF kind of person, so I wasn't just going to quit. I knew I didn't have the emotional reserves to try to keep racing the clock—nothing but misery and disappointment down that road. For a while nothing seemed likely to salvage my race. But then it hit me. I was wearing a GPS watch that would tell me when I had run 26.2 miles. I would keep racing until I hit marathon distance, stop my watch, and wait for my friend David so we could finish the race together—something we never get to do because we run at different paces.
When my watch said 26.2, I was still 2 miles from the finish. Moving time: 2:47:50. I'd unofficially smashed my goal and my PR. I started walking, ran into another old running friend, David, who was handing out water at an aid station, and eventually David caught up. The sun broke through the clouds and we ran as a team to the finish.
With an official time of 3:11:something, I didn't have a Boston qualifying time, and didn't place in the top of my age group, both of which would have happened if not for the snafu. Then something happened that I will never forget and which I will attempt to pay forward in one way or another in my running community. Another friend, Clint, had been just behind me when I went off course. Just as HE was about to go off course, that same race official diverted him and some other runners in the right direction (and proceeded to put down the road barriers that should have been there). They all tried to call me back, but I was too far out to hear or understand. In the beer garden after the race, we were all rehashing the story when Clint, who had officially finished first in our age group, offered me his award patch, a little velcro badge that wraps around the ribbon of your finishers medal. "You were faster than me today," he said. "You would have won this." At first, I was nonplussed and embarrassed and felt very much like that award belonged to the person whose name was at the top of the official results. Taking it would be wrong. But he insisted. And in a few awkward seconds, it occurred to me that what was happening was an act of altruistic sportsmanship—one athlete recognizing the unfair misfortune in his sport and doing the only thing he could to make it slightly more right. I took the badge and told him I would have both of our names embroidered on it, which I will do. It was the most touching gesture in sports to which I've ever been party. You're a hero, Clint.
So, I smoked my marathon and I beat my goal. It's not on the books, but I know I can do it. The course was beautiful and the race well organized (except for, you know, that tiny matter of the course not being properly marked in that one spot). I got to finish the race with my best buddy and I was the recipient of a pretty astounding act of goodwill. I ran with Kermit for a while and got to hug Toto in all his shirtless glory before the race. Runcast power user Bill and I were reunited in the party zone. Some other best friends, Heather and family, who I haven't seen in ages, showed up at the finish to help celebrate and we all went to lunch together. All in all, a great marathon morning.
But if I could take it all back to have that 2:47:50 on record, I would. That shit stings.
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