boston!

yesterday was the chicago marathon. 22 miles of fun. 4.2 miles of absolute torture. not only was it insanely cold (never topped 40 while i was running), but the wind didn't make it any easier.

i started out with the 3:10 pace crew to try to get my to my boston qualifying time. we started out doing 6:55ish miles. the pace crew backed off and i decided that, as i was feeling good, i'd try to keep going. i knew i would fall off at the end but wasn't sure that if i were to start hurting at mile 16 or 17, if i'd be able to mentally push through for the final 10 miles. if i could stay ahead of the pace crew until 22 or 23, i could force myself to get dragged along by them for the final 3 miles or so. i'm stubborn enough for 3, but 10...i'm not so sure.

so the miles come and go and up until about 18, i'm completely checked out of reality. i'm just running...no thoughts...no feelings...just running. around 18, reality starts to come back. i start to get some twinges in my legs but nothing severe. mile 20 comes around and the calves start to get upset. still nothing i can't deal with but my pace is noticeably slowing. mile 20.5 the 3:10 pace crew arrives on my right shoulder. oh shit...not good. i needed another couple miles before this. i pull a 'steelhead triathlon' and drop in 40 feet behind them. as i try to hold their pace i notice that they are going significantly faster (~20 seconds per mile) than i was.

ok...so this might hurt a little bit.

we reach mile 21 and things are starting to hurt. still nothing that is going to stop me, but nonetheless, the wheels are getting a little loose. at mile 22, my head is down, my shoulders are hunched over, and satan himself has jabbed me in the right calf with his pitchfork.

before each race, i prepare a list of distractions/motivators for when the wall comes. here was my list:
1. hold your form. hold your pace. you'll be fine.
2. you command your legs. not the other way around.
3. you do lots of things in life simply because they're hard. this is hard. quit being a pussy.
4. i'm going to leave this one blank...just suffice it to say that it existed and would embarass me greatly if i were to make it public.
5. it's a lifegoal. if you miss it because you weren't mentally strong enough, you will always regret it.

all of these flew out the window around 22.5 miles just before the turn across lake shore drive. i know this because that's when i first thought of giving up.

i can see the red, white, and blue hat that the pace leader is wearing 40 feet ahead of me. his sign is down, but i know it's him. it seems as though he is picking up the pace...or i'm slowing down. ok, so 3 miles to go. 21 minutes. i can handle this. i can handle this. just 21 minutes. god will that finish line feel good. i can finally stop. see mom and dad. timmy. succubus. wow a massage would feel good right now. hawkins. zschiel. aw crap...i have to get back here for him. that's gonna sting a little. i wonder how he's doing. ammie. hawaii? wrong sport. 18 minutes. how many people came out for this? damn. 12 minutes. if i go spouting off my mouth about how badly i want boston and fail here in the last 2 miles, all these people who came out will just pat me on the back and say 'good job' knowing full well that i hate myself for not sticking it out. it will feel worse than what my legs feel like now.

fuck that. you will not fail in the last 2 miles. not for anything. now run motherfucker. 10 minutes. you sonofabitch. wow...14th street...this is where i'm to pick up zschiel. not much further. 1200 meters. 800 meters. just a quarter mile to go!! this must be the final corner! What the?! WHO THE FUCK PUT THIS GODDAMN HILL ON ROOSEVELT?!? GODDAMN ASS-MOTHER-BITCH-COCKWHORE! GAAAHH!!! FUCK THIS! FUCK YOU! FUCK!

chick in pink. pass by the lightpole. done. dude in tanktop. take him at the corner. final 400. goddammit. 400 is a quarter mile...not 800. retard. tanktop guy. done. final 200. Clock check. Can't see it. Dude in white. you're celebrating too early. you've been passed. Funny-right-foot-kick guy, your turn. Hawkins! Hi-five! 50 meters. Funny-right-foot-kick guy eats my dust. Clock check. I'M GOING TO MAKE IT! Empty out the tanks. Hands up in the air and smile for the cameras! Slow down. Stop. Clock check. yea bitches. hells yea. ouch.