Runkeeper supports the hypothesis that my run reports are related to miles run, as I have not reported since the BRR 50 in April. With two marathons on the schedule, at least one of which I plan to actually run, and that a mere three weeks away, I realized last weekend that it was panic time. My last outing was a ten-mile tourist jog along the Sea of Marmara, great fun but not great training.
So I declared to a few friends that I would cover twenty miles on Sunday, hoping that shame would do the job where common sense had failed.
While I did not expect that distance to be easy, I supposed I could somehow push through it with willpower. Which, in the end, is about all I could do, but the second half was much more a shambling mess than I envisioned, and completely outside the realm of the Oprah Line territory which I am considering a goal for the MCM. If I had added an 6.2 additional miles at my average pace, my marathon time would be 5:38. If, realistically, the last six were done at the same speed as the last six of my 20, my marathon time would be closer to 5:50. Perhaps even that is not realistic, because I was not being lazy during the last two miles and simply could not propel myself faster than a 15-minute pace.
My discipline was not very good, and I hope I can improve on that score. Several times I broke pace for no good reason. During the long boring stretch alongside Four Mile Run, I got passed for the first time. I kept the runner in reach by running on her head’s shadow while I tactically prepared for an overtaking maneuver by laying in some more of the Powerade I grabbed at the Arlington Exxon and squeezing in another gel. But then instead of a civil passing, I took advantage of a corner like it was some kind of Formula One race, then to “put some distance between us” and “destroy her will” I posted my fastest mile (9:11) since the first two. This strategy had the obvious result, as I was gassed after making the turn north by the airport. I resisted the urge to look back but thought it was likely she was pulling me in. When I did look back, I realized that my hypoxic brain had memorized a rather unhelpful feature to recognize a runner: yellow headphones. But eventually the yellow headphones pulled alongside and then on ahead, maintaining a steady pace. I kept her in sight and decided that if she stopped at the potties at Gravelly Point, I would take the chance to regain the lead. But she did not stop, she did not look to the left and she did not look to the right but kept on like she had cruise control. I started walking, at first to look for a water fountain and then because my will was broken.
That first long walk was finally ended by a goose. It was thinking about crossing the path in front of me and gave me an evil look as I approached. I glared back, and he opened his beak to prepare a hiss. I hissed first, and somehow channeled that aggression into resuming a run.
I brought my headphones along, correctly anticipating that running for hours on paved trails would be a bit tedious. This probably made it easier to walk, providing one more distraction from my goal. At some point I was passing time blabbing to myself in broken French, and it occurred to me that the word “courier” means “runner.” That seemed kind of cool and evocative and worth looking up.
A little later I had another breakdown of discipline. I was starting to get thirsty and planned to cross the pedestrian bridge to Roosevelt Island for the water fountains. When I saw the locked gates I was more than a little annoyed; I had not anticipated that the island would be shut down along with the federal government. I would have to detour to Gas & God to get some more fluids. While jogging along and entertaining such thoughts, I saw some dog-walkers on the path ahead. I moved to the left lane to pass them and resumed my beat-down, hunched-over posture. I looked up a bit later and realized that I wasn’t gaining on them. This was so infuriating that I burst into a flat sprint, which continued as I climbed the roundabout ramp bridge over GW Parkway. I was breathing pretty rough when I got up to Lynn Street, and the “Pacers Oasis” set up there was about a welcome a sight as I could imagine. I assumed they were set up for an event, but they called me over and said the water, sports drinks and snacks were there for everyone. I drank about a quart on the spot and topped off for the way home, glad of an excuse to linger through another streetlight change. They didn’t have a tip box out, so I had to express my gratitude on Twitter.
I started with two Clif bars and four gels, one with caffeine. I took that one and two Advil at the oasis, but didn’t sense any obvious effect. By mile 16 or 17 it was obvious that poor conditioning and not discipline was keeping me down. No amount of cursing or promises of self-bribery could get me into a decent pace zone.
As I waited at the last road crossing a guy came up on a bicycle and said “hola amigo.” He was all sweaty and told me it was 90 degrees out, maybe 100. I was ready to believe the 90. (It was actually 70 in the morning and 79 when I got home.) We both complained a bit, then he told me he was from Honduras, where it was “tres veces más caliente.” Maybe I should run a marathon there, so at least I will have a good excuse.