This is not the story I was planning to write.
When I pitched this series to Sports Editor Bill Stewart, my goal was take readers through my training and then tell the triumphant story of my race at the Maine Marathon. I would write about all the miles I crushed during the race, fighting through the pain to get to the finish line, where I would ring the PR bell and then finally, after 12 years of trying, erase my goal time of 3:47 off the chalkboard that hangs in my apartment.
Unfortunately, I don’t get to tell that story.
I ran my sixth marathon Sunday morning and the day did not go as planned. I missed every one of my time goals, nearly dropped out multiple times, and was left wondering if I ever want to do this again.
I won’t bury the lead anymore than I already have: I finished the race in 4 hours, 13 minutes, 58 seconds. I missed my ‘A’ goal by 26 minutes, my ‘B’ goal by 23 minutes and my ‘C’ goal by nearly 14 minutes.
It was not the race I was hoping for, but there was way too much good to focus only on the bad.
It was a stellar day to run a marathon. It was right around 50 degrees when the race started, ideal weather for a marathon. I chatted up friends and hung out with folks from my run group until the race started, then I went my own way, to run my own race.
I was cruising between 8:45 and 9 minutes per mile for the first 6 miles, taking in all the signs and the ocean views, and shouting out friends and high-fiving my sister Melissa when I saw her just after mile 6. I stopped at the porta potty during mile 7 and choked down my second gel (I literally choked on it for a second, yuk), and picked the pace back up in mile 8.
The hills started at mile 10, but I was feeling good, keeping my effort relaxed, and dropped down to 8:36-8:43 per mile until the half marathon. I crossed the half in 1:57, a little slower than 3:47 pace, but right on target to give it a good effort on the way back to Portland.
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My race took a turn in the 17th mile while climbing the hill at Tuttle Road in Cumberland. My right knee, the one that always gives me problems during marathons, started to really hurt as I approached that hill. Every swing of that leg, every time my foot hit the ground, my knee sang in agony. Before I started to limp, I told myself it was OK to walk to the top of that hill, then get back on pace at the top.
I never did get back on pace. The final 10-plus miles of the marathon was a slog. A slow, painful slow. I jogged when I could and walked when I felt I needed to. I considered dropping out every time I saw a medical tent, but didn’t allow myself to quit. That’s one thing I can take pride in.
I was about 2.5 miles from the finish line when I looked at my watch and saw 3:47 flip to 3:48. I knew long before that I wasn’t hitting that goal, but it still hurt to see the number pass so far from the end.
I jogged the final three-tenths of a mile, determined not to walk across the finish line. I shook hands with my colleagues, waited in line for pizza that never came, then left with my sister and brother-in-law for a well deserved lunch at Wilson County Barbecue. I celebrated the day, not necessarily the race.
Ten months after signing up for this race and after 18 weeks of training, I’m ready for a bit of a break. I’m looking forward to running again, but not right away. I’m going to recover, reflect and decide what’s next.
What won’t be next is another marathon. I don’t know if I’ll ever put myself through that again, but it’s too soon after the race to say, “No way.” After all, seven years ago after running the Chicago Marathon, I said that was it, yet here we are.
If I ever do decide to try again, I’ll remember how much fun I had this summer putting in the work, and do everything I can so it doesn’t physically feel the way it did on Sunday.
That will be a story I want to tell.