The following is a recap of our trip to Sacramento for the California International Marathon (CIM). It's mostly race recap, but since it's technically a trip we took, it goes here. Warning: it's very long. And no photos in this post (blogger is problematic right now). Anyway: have at it!----------------------------------------I worried.
I worried if I would slip in the tub. I worried, on long runs, if I would pull a muscle. And the three or so days before I ran the California International Marathon (CIM), I worried that I wasn’t carbo loading, I was fattening myself up for slaughter.
As runners, we worry. In my case, it goes a bit beyond, into anxiety, a constant internal “what if?” dialogue, an ongoing scenario-setting, putting words in others’ mouths before you hear what they’re actually saying. This sensitivity to my thoughts and intuition of others’ is actually quite useful as a writer. But it’s hard as a runner: You tend to overthink things.
I ran my first marathon in 2005 in San Diego. I went from “I’ll run if you chase me” to a 4:18 marathoner. I ran Portland in 2006, pacing the first half of a marathon and then deciding to run the rest.
I considered CIM in 2007—but a stress fracture that summer precluded training. And in 2008, a mysterious quadriceps problem negged the race.
But this year, it all seemed to come together—although with the accompanying worry and doubt that accompanies any training.
So here’s the recap:
We are in Sacramento by 9:15 a.m. on Saturday. The race is Sunday.
Nick and Megan, friends of Justin’s that he knows through his Volkswagen TDI car club, pick us up. They are awesome. Nice, friendly, down to earth. I feel good about this race, this place. Go to hotel. Check in at hotel. Nick and Megan will pick us up for lunch and drive the course with/for us.
Go to the race Expo. Expo is at the Convention Center which has the creepiest fountains I have ever seen. Will post in next post.
It is the usual running Expo for a mid-size marathon, full of the essentials you need (your race number, your timing chip) as well as random sponsors (olive oil? really?).
Race shirts for the women are nothing short of fug, pale urine in color and a fabric texture that appears to be a blend of first aid gauze and parachute pant. The men’s shirts are royal blue and thicker. I’m told to come back at 5 p.m. and I may be able to exchange the shirt for another.
My race number has a 5 and a 3 in it. This makes me happy. 35 is my lucky number, in any combination.
Run into friends from my running club at the Expo. It is nice to see familiar faces. Then I wander over toward the water bottles to buy an extra and can’t find them again.
There is a balloon display. Except that the “A” is deflated, so: “GOODY BGS.” This makes us laugh. Another good sign.
Go back to room. Realize I need to do an easy, loosen-up run of about two miles. Change, go downstairs, ask at the front desk where I can go. The hotel is across the street from Capitol Park, which is about a mile if you run all the way around it, they say.
It is cold at first, and I have forgotten my gloves. I do two laps of the park. The sun is out, and the park is very green and manicured prettily with lots of zigzagging paths and crisply white buildings, and I spot a bride and groom getting wedding photos taken, also crisp and white against the green, and I’m running with a big smile on my face because I am here! I am here! and barring anything catastrophic, I am going to do this race tomorrow, and goddamn it if I’m just not the happiest runner in this city right now at this very moment.
Then I return to the hotel room and shower, effectively frizzing up my hair for the whole weekend.
Nick and Megan come by the hotel about 12:30. They are nice enough to chauffeur us around the whole damn weekend, really going above and beyond in the realm of coolness. Part of this chauffeuring involves driving the CIM course, which starts in Folsom and ends up in Sacramento.
We take the highway to drive to Folsom. The course does not go on the highway, but driving from downtown Sacramento to Folsom makes you realize that 26.2 miles is indeed “Fa, a long long way to go….”
But first: Lunch. Fats: Asian food in Folsom, where we (okay me) gorge on rice and veggies and shrimp salad rolls and more rice again. I drink pitchers of water. I should be hooked up to a tap.
The course does indeed roll. Gentle, fat rollers, undulating like ribbons. As we drive, we comment on what it would be like to have a house with lots of land, we comment on a painted Victorian farmhouse in Folsom, and then commented on the scenery toward Fair Oaks and Citrus Heights, where chickens strut across the sidewalks, past a nursery that Nick and Megan call “the snooty nursery,” to Sacramento.
Just when you forget that there are hills, we drive over a series of more lifts and falls.
We get back to downtown in time to hurry into the expo for me to check to see if I can exchange my shirt for another. The only men’s shirts they have that aren’t the size of a dress on me are short sleeve. I’ll take it.
Time for more food. Nick and Megan are, I think, a little bit fascinated by how much I eat—and that I need to eat so early. We go to a teriyaki place and I order some veggie rolls and salad and miso and eat it like I am training for sumo.
Back to the hotel about 7, in bed by about 8:30-9, up at 2:30, 3, and 4:01, panicking because the wake up call didn’t come and gee, it’s amazing that I woke myself up in time, because like, omigod, can you imagine if I came all the way here and woke up at like 7:15?
The wake up call comes at 4:02.
Justin’s alarm on his phone goes off at 4:15.
The poor guy. I owe him at least a few days of no snide comments, eh?
Morning preparations for a race are different in a hotel. I have my bread, my clothes laid out, I’ve brought a green tea bag from home, the water in the coffeemaker is very hot. Make many trips to the bathroom. Many. Quick shower, to warm up.
Clothes.
Let’s take a step back.
Knowing it was going to be 30 degrees at the start, and that there would be some standing around at the start involved, I ventured to my local Goodwill to buy some throwaway clothes the week before the race. (Lots of people do this. The clothes get donated.) But then I liked the thick red hoodie and sweet gray velour pants so much I couldn’t bear to throw them away. Goodwill fail.
I then decided to try the thrift shop near my office two days before we were to leave.
Jackpot.
A ratty, pilled gap pullover from Gap from about 1991. A…well, I’m not sure what this was. It might have been pajamas. It might have been a jogging suit. Really, it looked like something snatched from the set of Mama’s Family. It was blue. 100% polyester. And it was fuzzy and warm and baggy enough so that I could out it on over my race outfit and not have to take my shoes off to take off the pants. As long as no one lit a cigarette next to me, I was golden.
Pics to come in next post. Having a lot of problems posting pics right now.
Justin is awake, by now, having zip-tied my chip onto my shoe. Another of my running superstitions: Someone else has to do it.
Huge line outside of hotel. Buses to the start line (this is a point-to-point course) have just left. We wait for more. I stand behind a group of girls who eye my outfit and then turn around and talk to each other. I see sororities are alive and well in adulthood. Start talking to the guys in back of me, who are much more fun. We are asked to move to the sidewalk by hotel staff. I am then discouraged because that puts me at the back of the queue when I hear my name called by someone at the front of it.
It’s Gary! I met Gary through my friend Julie, and had done a few long runs with him. It was so great to see him, a wonderfully familiar face in the darkness and the cold. (Actually, I wasn’t cold. I was warm as Hades in my getup.) We chat a while in line, waiting for the buses to take us to the start.
The next wave of buses doesn’t show. A group of us decides to walk the block over to the Sheraton, which is the host hotel, where we catch one of the buses. I wonder if they ever showed up at the Hyatt.
Anyway, on the bus. Gary and I chat, he eyes the blue of my outfit and the plushness of the fabric and says I look like I should be wearing a stuffed animal face at an amusement park. It’s even funnier because he’s saying all this in a northern England accent.
The buses are heated very heavily. The heat and the rock of the bus smoothing over early morning highway and the washed purple sky all seem to lull many folks (including me) to sleepiness. We settle into comfortable silence. I am so warm that I actually put my hand to the window to feel the coolness. I need to stay awake, alert.
The bus seems to take ages. It’s like we’re going to Foreverville.
When we pull up to the start, it reminds me of a scene from the X-Files—if there was a port-o-potty episode: Dark sky, floodlights. And hundreds upon hundreds of port-o-potties. As someone who was in a port-o-potty (how many times can I type port-o-potty in one paragraph?) at the start gun of her first ever half-marathon (Brooklyn half, winter 2005), it’s something I appreciate. Gary and I wander down to the bus where people are tossing their bags of sweats to pick up after the race. I don’t bother with that – I’ve got everything I need on me. Gary and I bid farewell and get into our respective pace areas.
The sky is lightening. It’s a lovely-looking morning. Clear. Mountains in the distance. We’re not running over them and I am glad for that. The sky: Sunrises are underrated. Sunsets get all the credit.
6:50 and the race starts at 7. Time to shed my adorable outfit. Sigh. But the show must go on. I remove the pants, take all my Gu Chomps packets out of the pullover’s pocket. I have pre-opened them halfway, because, based on previous runs in the cold, I will likely not have the ability to open the packets while running. Not because I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time—I can totally do that—but because I have Reynaud’s syndrome, where my hands turn colors and in the cold, they essentially turn into bricks and I can’t move them individually.
Raceready shorts are the best. I highly recommend them. Pockets are good when you are a person who needs to eat a lot. As I am disrobing, a guy next to me named Rafael offers me some Icy Hot, and a washcloth to wipe my fingers on after using it. This is the equivalent of someone presenting a finger bowl to you at a shmancy dinner party. Although I have coated parts of my legs that are likely to ache in tiger balm (which Justin oh-so-lovingly calls “stink rub”), I take him up on his offer. Rafael and I wish each other good luck and carry on.
My race strategy is kind of cribbed from Better Off Dead: “Go that way. Really fast. If something gets in your way, turn.”
Racing a marathon was something I was going to attempt this year. Here I was. About to do that. Or at least PR*
(*PR = personal record. It has almost as many uses and conjugations as the F-word. Used as a noun “I got a PR.” And a verb “I PR’d.” How many more uses can you find?)
Here was my strategy, though. Start slow. Be conservative. Run a good and smart race and see what you end up with for time. Be mentally present.
In May, I ran the Eugene half marathon. I PR’d (see?) by 3+ minutes and I did it by starting slowly and being focused throughout. I wouldn’t let myself stop or think bad thoughts about how I was doing. I wanted to run happy. And I did. My last 2 miles were my fastest and I passed people at the end like there was free couture at the finish.
So I found the 4 hour pacer. I figured that would keep me honest.
We’re in line. I have my Garmin turned on, my ipod poised on pause.
People are tossing last-minute items of clothing. I toss my top layer and it ends up on the curb. Some shorter runners aren’t so lucky; they are the unwitting receivers of airborne apparel. Go long! Someone shouts. Everyone laughs. No one is angry. We are here, lined up, widely spaced, even, no elbows, no jostling, ready to begin.
My vision sharpens from the tears I blink back. Tears? What are you doing here? What is this…salty discharge? A small giggle pops out. I am here, I am present, I am about to run a race. I am so happy and honored and humbled to be standing where I am. It’s pride. I stand straighter.
We’re off.
Well, not quite.
It’s about 3 minutes to the start line. We just kind of stand there, bob from side to side, in anticipation. Someone in the crowd jokes that this is a great pace.
We cross the start line. There’s that delightful Santa wonderland sound of thousands of timing chips a’ beeping.
Our first mile is 9:40. This is going to be kind of a problem, but it’s so congested, and I have faith in the pacer.
Second mile, 9:14.
I am starting to get a little concerned, but at the same time, I have faith in the pacer. I focus on staying slow, slow, slow at the start, pacing, up the hill even effort, and down, gently. I talk briefly to a woman from Eugene who is trying to break 4:00. I tell her I intend to stay with the 4:00 group until about mile 16 and then see what happens. “Me too!” she enthuses. Yay. I have a buddy. We keep checking back behind us to see where the 4:00 pacer is, as if we are on a class field trip and she is the teacher.
The next two miles the pacer decided to speed up and get us back on track. 8:40s.
I’d lost my new friend by this point. I don’t remember if I passed her or if she stayed in front of me. I think it was the former. I hope she did okay. She was nice.
This is where I sidebar:
I’ve paced a grand total of twice, and each time, it was for half of a full marathon. I don’t do this for a living. CIM was my third marathon. I don’t do ultras and I certainly didn’t do an Ironman the week before like our pacer had. She could kick my ass eight ways from Sunday, no doubt whatsoever.
But, really? Do you want to try to get on pace by doing 2 miles that are ~30 seconds faster than pace just to get back on pace that quickly that early in the race? Don’t you want to gradually drop it down? I know I always tried to do that. You go too fast, you lose folks.
But maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about, and maybe those miles that she sped up were the good miles to speed up on.
But I wouldn’t have done it like that.
Also another thing. When Team Red Lizard gave out pace bands for the Portland Marathon, mile splits were adjusted for the terrain. An uphill mile will have a slower time than a flat mile, but with the downhills, it all works out. I was shocked to find out the pace temporary tattoos they gave out were even splits. Isn’t that kind of silly? Especially with all those hills? What’s up with that? That seemed like kind of a fail to me.
I stayed with her, and always stayed in front, but while they eventually faded back to 9:08 pace, I kept on ahead.
First relay point, mile 6. This marathon also has a relay along with it. It’s usually not bothersome.
The wind comes out to play. Uphill we go, while the wind goes sideways. I’m at a spot where I can hear the 4:00 pacer, but she fades a little, but I want to go conservative on this area. I’d driven this course, read the recaps of these miles on the Sacramento Bee’s blog, knew they were some of the slowest miles, I wasn’t that worried.
Clicking off the miles. 9:05, 9:06, 9:02 – miles 7, 8, 9. Windy.
The music gods were with me that day. To a point where it was almost supernatural. Cross the 8-mile marker and Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” comes on. Stuff like that. Morrissey “You’re going to need someone on your side” at mile 9.
People on your side.
I know some people who write the names of 26 people on their arm, one for each mile. Or they keep the names in their heads. I don’t do anything specific like that. I would say my thoughts when I run long and alone are like someone really impatient switching the remote. Static, ADD, unsettled kind of things, some flashes of good stuff, but mainly background noise.
The first marathon I ran, I spent a lot of time thinking of a childhood friend, someone I’d known since early single digit ages. She was a good friend, then she wasn’t, then she was, and then she wasn’t, and she died early before we could become friends again. I thought about her this time, too.
People on your side. They may be people who aren’t around anymore. They sometimes show you they’re there, in fact, on your side. I ran behind a guy with a URL on his bright orange singlet for a few miles. I got up to him and asked him the significance. A young girl, brain cancer, friend of the family, who survived. He was running for her.
My uncle died in late 2006 of lung and brain cancer. I thought about my Olympic-caliber swimmer grandma, who died in 2008 well into her late 90s.
They were there. Pushing me along.
And I thought about all the support I had from living people, friends back in Portland and across the country. They were sending me good energy, I felt it, I knew it, I embraced and held it. It surrounded me.
Mile 10, happy people at Fair Oaks, passing them and then heading up an uphill at mile 11. Wind back again, I’m zoning, by now there’s one of those long and undulating technoish songs on my ipod, which I’m fine with. I’m not in the mood to think about words, I just want a beat.
Pushing through to 13, where I was supposed to see Justin, Nick, and Megan for the first time. Justin had a full water bottle, and I was low on mine.
We hit the 13 marker. Where are they? Where are they? Shit shit shit. Keep going, keep going, they said they’ll be here, they’ll be here. I’m looking for Justin’s Carhartt jacket and crap did they say they’d be on the right or left side? I don’t know, shit, I need a boost, where are they, where are they?
And then they were there, not far from mile 14, I raise my hand, he sees me, I drop a water bottle at his feet yell “thanksIloveyou!” and grab the one he’s holding I see the signs they’ve made, big cardboard, my name, spray paint, but it doesn’t register, water, water, get the bottle wrapped around my hand, but my hands are so cold that my fingers won’t move enough to shove them in, it’s like working with one solid frozen mass.
I then drop the water bottle, run back a few paces to pick it up, slam it onto my hand. “Nice save,” says one of my fellow runners.
“Thanks,” I reply. “I try.”
Really nice runners in this race. My hands were so frozen I couldn’t get my Gu packets out of my pockets. I had to ask other runners to get them for me.
I wondered if this is what Bob Barker felt like when someone in Contestant Row guessed the exact amount and reached into his pocket for $100.
I ate a couple of Gu chomps about every 3-4 miles or so. I found that worked the best for me, rather than to eat, wait 6-8 miles, and then eat again. It kept me consistent. Once I had the packets out of my pockets, I would hold one in my left hand and the water bottle in the other. I think I ate about 8 servings worth of Gu in this race. That’s a lot of caffeine. Because I normally drink decaf.
Miles 14, 15, 16. Good music, flat terrain, ugly old strip malls. Peel off the miles, keep going and going…
“Don’t call it a comeback! I’ve been here for years!” sings my ipod.
I’m running alone this whole time. I amuse myself by trying to find people to draft behind. I don’t have much luck. Running back and forth trying to do this is probably why my Garmin says I ran an extra .10 of a mile for this race.
I just kind of tuck my head down and run. I spend a lot of this stretch trying to keep my hat on my head. It keeps working itself up over my ears and I yank it down. This is not a good look. I fear the race photos.
I’d thought the later miles would suck more, but it was about 15-17 that I was kind of blah, this is middle child territory, there’s a reason no one pays attention. Last big hill about 16. Even effort up, race the downhills, I tell myself. Fly down, perpendicular to the ground.
I imagine I have a cape.
I spot Justin, Nick and Megan around mile 17, which is right by Nick and Megan’s house. Justin has used his special telepathy skills to intuit that I would have loved him to refill that water bottle. He presents it like a prizefighting trophy. I am in love all over again. “Ohmigodthankssomuchloveyoubyeeeeee!”
I tell myself that 16-17 or so is where I’m going to test things. I want to tell myself “open it up, push it,” but I’ve got 10 miles to go.
But I like this distance. I like a nice 15k race.
So let’s play, I tell myself.
I had my Garmin set to record each split. The only data I had on it was pace per mile, heart rate, and time elapsed per mile. I didn’t know my overall pace. They had people at each mile marker shouting them, but that was if you’d started right at gun time, so it was basically meaningless for me, at least in the early miles.
Each mile was its own, each mile like a short story in a book of short stories. Read one, turn the page, onto the next one, don’t look back.
I once read a piece of writing advice by Stephen King. It was about short stories vs. a novel. He called a short story “a kiss in the dark.” A short story left things up to you, the reader, to interpret.
I thought about that as I clicked through the miles, ratcheting.
An 8:50 mile? That was easy. But still many miles to go. So, let’s see if I can take it to an 8:48. Hey, look, I did that for 2 more miles. How about an 8:47? Sure, but keep some in check for that J street bridge hill.
I imagined it like the Broadway Bridge in the Portland marathon. Not a big hill but after 24 miles it’s lethal.
I took my last Gu at about mile 20.5 in anticipation. It was the Espresso Love gu, with 2x the caffeine. Bring it home, babe!
Oh! That was the bridge? That was easy peasy! Awesome! Must have been the Gu?
I run across the bridge. The sun peeks out behind the clouds and darts back in again. The water is still. There are ducks. I hear birds, even though my ipod. The clouds are beautiful, smeared striations.
I’m running faster miles in mile 22 in a marathon than I ever thumped through for 10 seconds on a treadmill only a few years ago.
I have a grin like it’s every birthday all rolled into one.
My vision sharpens again, each droplet on the water seems to sparkle and call to me. I think my eyes hurt from smiling so widely.
This feeling. It is joy.
Down over the bridge and over to mile 22, 23. The streets are numbered in the 50s and I have to get down to 7th. Okay, I tell myself. It’s like running from Tabor to the waterfront. I can do this, I have done it. Often.
The joy wears off in its own way. I am blazing by folks. They are walking. I haven’t walked one step in this race, save to pick up one dropped water bottle and one Gu. 8:37 for mile 23. Mile 23! One of my fastest miles. I am going, going, gone.
And then: Mile 24. I’m bored. The course is flat. I’m now bored with flat. I want the ribboney roads back, I’m still ready.
At this point I wish I’d had a friend with me; I’ve had such great company on all my training runs. I knew I’d have to run my own race, and I was okay with that, but by then I was kind of bored with it.
No one is even having conversations I can evesdrop on, because I’m passing just about everyone. I feel almost guilty, except not at all. I’m mainly bored. 8:42, a bit slower, because I’m so bored. At least I’m mainly out of the wind.
For 24 and a bit of 25, I tell myself, “It’s just like a tempo run on Springwater on a Thursday morning. You’re kind of tired, you have to go to work after this, you’re running a little late, and OMSI is close, so don’t stop, soon you’ll be at the Millwork place and then round the corner past the boats and the ballet place to OMSI and then under the Hawthorne bridge and you can get in your car and go home and get ready and start your day. It’s just a tempo run, flat, doable.”
Mile 25. 8:38. Less than a 5k. Hmm, I think, let’s aim for a 5k under 23:00 in 2010?
Mile 26 is here. I tell myself that it’s the last 1600 meters in a track workout.
It certainly felt like it. It was starting to get that Tuesday Night Track Tummy feel. All the Gus I’d eaten were suddenly starting to churn into one mixed nasty fruity espresso soup in my stomach.
Just go go go, Carin! The sooner you finish, the sooner this will be over with and you can get on with your day
I was bored but at the same time heady! I was flying! I just wanted to be done! I wasn’t in pain, it was just a lot of physical blah blah, blah runcakes.
I looked at my Garmin a lot those last 2.2 miles.
I saw a friend from my running club and shouted his name. I think he looked surprised to see me sailing by, happy, yelling his name. That boosted me faster. How you like me now?
Excuse me, excuse me, pardon me, I have what looks like a massive PR to attend to.
Mile 26 marker! .2 miles to go.
It’s just an 800, it’s your last 800 on the track before you get to cool down and then go home and shower and warm up and eat rice and toast in your pj’s. An 800, let’s do it!
7:12 pace but I only know this later because I am so not looking at my watch, I’m looking at all the freaking people I’m passing and the crowds and the hollering and I am so strong!
And I’m into the finishing chute!
...wondering why they have separate ones for men and women, is this like old school schooling or something?
The announcer says something about 5 minutes until breaking the 4 hour marker and I’m thinking “That is gun time, dude! Get a grip!" I smashed the 4:00 mark, yo, ain’t no thang!” and whirl through the finishing chute and “beeeeeeeeeeep!” goes my chip, heralding my arrival! And I am done, done, done! and a smile like it’s going to freeze on me if someone thumps my back and I just might do it to myself because I feel so unbelievably high…even though I have no idea what my time is.
I figured it was about 3:52ish.
(Later I checked the site and learned I did a 3:53. First half in 2:01. Second half in 1:52.)
Justin spots me in the crowd. I lean on him, happy and spent and babbling crazy talk like I always do when I have a fantastic run. I am beyond high. They ask me what do I want? Do I want water? My sweats? I tell them I just want to get out of the crowd. I could care less about the post-race food, the milling, the freebies. Gross.
We walk to the hotel. Nick and Megan go to buy me my preferred post-marathon food of Doritos and a regular coke (so nice of them), and they fill buckets with ice and hang out in the room while Justin closes the bathroom door, leaving them in the room and us in the bathroom, and runs me an ice bath.
We chat about the race, about what I’ve recapped above.
As I immerse, good lord, it’s cold. I tell myself, out loud, that “I am on a beach! Somewhere warm!” and sip on Coke and he feeds me Doritos like I’m a baby bird. ““Happy place!” I yell.
What he doesn’t know is that this, right there, is my happy place.
I will be old and feeble someday, with a constant state of feeling like my post-marathon state, and I will always remember sitting there with him, my legs practically cryogenic and us both laughing about something silly that only we find funny and laughing so hard that we’re crying and he knocks some Doritos into the tub.
Oh, man. Writing a long recap seated at a desk is probably not the best thing for marathon recovery. My legs seem to be tightening with each word typed. So I’ll speed up and close.
Rest of day is spent at Nick and Megan’s, eating Chipotle and watching Up and random car things while their dogs and cats snuggle with us. This is the most comfortable couch in the world, and I am happy and spent and my legs feel fantastic. I feel fantastic.
I did what I sent out to do. Who knows. Maybe I could have qualified for Boston this race. Maybe I did run it too conservative. You can argue that since the second half of the race was 9 minutes faster than the first.
But really, what I wanted to do was enjoy myself. Remember why I set out to run marathons. Keying into why this was, still, important to me. Why I get up on Saturdays at 6:30 and drink green tea and eat weird bread all so I can go to the bathroom several times before an 8 a.m. run.
And it was long overdue. I felt like a marathon virgin all over again. And really, it’s the first marathon I’ve raced. And maybe I didn’t even do that. Racing would imply that I gave it my all for every mile, no? I didn’t race against anyone, except a past version of myself. I didn’t race for a specific time. That will likely be an upcoming goal, one that appears not as out of reach as previously thought. And then why not even faster than that? Why limit myself?
Or maybe racing is that control. Maybe that was my challenge. To not go out too fast and cramp up. That I made dropping the pace fun, like a game. That I kept myself going, running, going going gone. There was wind, yes, but was it Tough Conditions? I guess. I didn’t feel that way until someone told me that the race was in Tough Conditions. The marathon is tough conditions, you know?
