I woke up at 5:18 this morning, though the alarm was set for
six. It’s the pain that did it, a jabbing that started behind my right ear and
shot up to my right eye and down my neck. It passed so swiftly that I wondered
if I’d dreamed it. So I drifted back to sleep and bam, there it was again.
Startled, I sat up and debated my next move. If I got up and
took some meds, I was up for the morning and I knew it. I slid back under
the covers, and rolled onto my side, hoping the new position would calm my head
so I could get those extra thirty minutes of snooze time. Not five minutes
later, the pain attacked again.
I climbed out of bed and padded into the kitchen, gulped
down some pills and water, and made coffee. Outside it was dark and silent. I
turned on the computer and checked the weather in Hollis, New Hampshire.
Perfect running weather: mid-60s and overcast.
“That’s a good sign,” I thought. “Everything will be just
fine.”
I still had four hours until the race. Anything can happen
in four hours. People on the cusp of getting over stomach bugs can heal
remarkably well in four hours. I’d certainly
felt much better last night than I had the night before. Obviously, I was on
the mend. Maybe this last pain surge was the end of it.
I showered, dressed, and packed Body Glide, water, and a
change of clothes. I double-checked that
I’d printed out the directions to the race. I was already fed up with the spears
that still insisted on poking at my skull and neck. I didn’t want to add
getting lost to my worry list. I took another pill and checked the label on the
side of the bottle. Wasn’t this stuff supposed to kick in a half hour ago?
Now my stomach was gurgling but I was afraid to eat. I wondered
if I needed the calories anyhow. Maybe muscle memory would be enough to get me through
the run. I considered the extra weight I’m packing. In a perfect world, I
wouldn’t need to eat anything today anyhow. I certainly have enough extra
nutrients stored away in my thighs and upper arms. Geez. Hibernating bears survive winter on less
fat than mine.
I packed a banana and some peanut butter toast though, just
in case.
I drove north. The sun had risen. The highway shimmered. The
surrounding landscape, undulating trees, sunburned rainbows, breathed and
glowed. I played Bruce Springsteen and sang along to drown out the acid
bubbling up my digestive tract. At least the skull attacks had finally
subsided.
I got to the start and watched the runners. Wondered who’d
be lagging behind at the end with me. Some wore race T-shirts. We talked about
races we’d done. Most hadn’t done this half marathon yet.
“I’ve done it plenty of times,” I say. "But I don’t know how
today will go. Stomach bug.”
Everyone gave me a version of the same hollow line: “Oh you’ll be
fine.” Then they’d leave to go talk to
someone else and I would too.
The race started on a driveway next to Hollis-Brookline High
School. You run a tenth of a mile down the driveway, then take a left, then a
right, then another right and loop back. You hit the high school again at the
two-mile mark, and then at the finish, the 13.1 mile mark.
I’ve run this course at least a half dozen times. As I wait
for the announcements to commence, I remind myself of that. I used to meet up
with a New Hampshire friend here, and we’d run the course together as part of
training for some of our marathons. It’s pretty and shady. There are horse
farms and orchards and lots of steep hills.
I groan at the thought of those steep hills. I clutch my
stomach and position myself way at the back.
My plan is to start slowly, and take inventory. Check my
legs, stomach, head. If I don’t feel capable of completing the run, I plan on
dropping out at the mile two mark. I’ve never dropped out of a race before.
I’ve always finished what I’ve started. But if dropping out is the right thing
to do, then so be it. I’ll live. Right?
We sing the Star Spangled Banner then move downhill, all 1,200 of
us. I run gently and wait for the magic to happen; for my legs to loosen, my
stomach to tighten, for some electricity to shock my system. But there’s
nothing, except this thought, “If you weren’t signed up for a race today, you would be resting. You know better. You need more time off.”
But the thing about running distances is this, sometimes
that’s the way it is at the start of a run. Your head and body aren’t always in
sync right away. I’ve had plenty of runs
where I’ve felt crappy the whole entire distance. But still, today feels
different. It feels wrong.
At mile one, my legs are clumsy and thick. I slow even more.
I keep my head down and move forward. I feel like I’ve already run eight miles.
“Why are you out here?” I keep asking myself that and I
don’t have an answer. My legs hate me. My stomach is burning. I make it up the
first steep hill at mile 1.5, but as I head down to mile two, I’m clutching my guts.
I know the run needs to end. Stopping is the right thing to do. There’s no
doubt at all. I am about to experience
my very first DNF – Did Not Finish.
I reach the mile two water table, gulp down a cup of water,
and take myself off the course. People smile kindly and start saying nice
things to me but I look away. I don’t want to hear them. My eyes start filling
up. I take off my race number so I look
just like any other spectator.
I knew going into the run that it was pretty likely I’d have
to drop out. I knew it would hurt. But here’s the thing. I
never expected the dropping out to hurt more.
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