Goal: Anything sub-2:00 to get back in the vicinity of my prebaby PR of 1:49
Outcome: 2:08, a few minutes slower than my first postbaby half (Argh.)
So ... like many other amateur runners and triathletes, I have to qualify that unsatisfying finish time with what I like to consider a "conditions report." These are all the things that a race day poses that don't usually come up during controlled training. Things the race course or race day simply throw at you, waiting for a response. All the things that make some runners and triathletes a little neurotic about always being prepared with a Plan B.
Record-setting choppy water for a triathlon swim? Conditions report. Debris on a race route and two flat tires during one triathlon? Conditions report. Thunderstorms? Conditions report. Unexpectedly getting your period during a race? Conditions report. Breaking your only ponytail holder halfway through a race? Conditions report. You get the idea.
For this 13.1, it was the heat and humidity. When I walked outside before 5 a.m., it felt like someone had left the door open on a giant neighborhood sauna. I thought, "Hmm. This should be interesting." When I met up with my girlfriends to get to the starting line, it was noticeably hot and humid. In various veiled ways, we said, "This ain't good." We were sweating just standing in line for the porta-potties. It was apparently already in the 80s by then. The race started under what they called a yellow flag heat advisory, meaning we were all supposed to go slower and drink more water. Always a comedic warning to give to a bunch of people about to start a race.
I'm stubborn. I knew the weather was nothing like my training weather. I knew it was already sunny and hot and humid and the gun hadn't gone off yet. But I also knew I had traveled to Chicago to meet up with friends to do this race. And I also knew that I had put in twelve weeks of good training and I didn't want to let it go to waste.
When my corral started, I tried to ignore the weather and just imagined the start was like any other race start. Go easy, shake out the jitters and get into a groove. And get into a groove. And get into a groove. Eh-hem: Get into a groove! But my body wasn't listening. When I found myself looking for the first mile marker, I knew I was in for a long race.
And yes, it was hot and humid. Much worse than any of my hottest training days and any of the previous few days I had spent in Chicago. And my legs felt like I was slogging through quicksand a lot of the time. According to a heat guide in a recent Runner's World article, it wasn't the best day to be running the race:
Without trying, I did everything the experts say you're supposed to do in hot weather—besides going home to hang out in the AC. I sipped water at every aid station. I hung on to the cool towel I got at mile 7 like it was my security blanket. I doused it with cold water at every aid station and hung it over the back of my neck. And, though I tried as hard as I could not to, I ran slowly.High heat (85+) + high humidity (over 60%)
THE EFFECTS
Raises core temp, reduces blood volume; humidity interferes with evaporation of sweat.
THE SOLUTION
"Stick to easy runs or use the treadmill," says Puleo.
I also played a lot of games with myself. I imagined there was shade where there wasn't any. I pretended there was a breeze coming off the Lake. I focused on the backs of runners until I passed them. I kept thinking about how a longer race meant taking longer to get back to the finish, where my family was waiting to meet me—also in the heat.
I abandoned my time goal and focused on finishing without collapsing. But I refused to let myself walk. I ran, but my legs felt sloppy. I saw other runners weaving, staggering and nearly fainting along the race route. At some points, it seemed absurd to even be running "for fun" at that moment. Any outsider could have easily said we deserved whatever was coming our way and that we were idiots for actually paying someone so we could run in this mess. But who cares what they think, right?
When I had just about one mile left, I heard a man on a bullhorn calling out, "We are under a black flag. The clocks have been turned off. Stop running." No one crossing the finish from that point on would receive an official time. All I could think was, "F*@&, no!" A bunch of other tired runners around me were uttering similar things and none of us stopped running. There was no way we had come this far only to stop. Besides, all pride aside, I was pretty sure my legs would cramp on the spot if I stopped to walk.
So I kept jogging (which, by this point, felt like slow-motion shuffling), crossed the finish line and kept moving my legs long after. I wasn't too thrilled about how the race went, but I was so glad to see my family at the finish. My kiddo was snoozing in the stroller, wearing a T-shirt that read, "Go Mama!" (a cute surprise from my hubs and sister). And, one free beer later, I returned to planet earth.
My husband told me he saw someone collapse at the finish line. Later, we found out that same guy, who was just in his 20s, had died. A couple of days after that, I found out he was a family friend of my husband's cousin. And that he had been planning to propose to his longtime girlfriend a month later, on Independence Day. And here I was, moping about not meeting my time goal. And about how the weather had ruined my "big" plans. Talk about putting things into perspective. Talk about first-world problems. I remembered to be thankful that I made it back safely to my guys.
Sometimes—almost all of the time—the race isn't everything. But when it's a goal, it becomes part of your being, and it's often pretty hard to remember the big picture. It's hard to explain to nonrunners why that is. It's illogical. Probably pathological. But I'm pretty sure it's why most of us keep signing up for the next race. God help us.
© 2011 GUF
