It was at about mile 6 that I knew I would not be running a sub 4 hour marathon, and that was just fine. Right before the start, I realized that a time of exactly 4:20 would be an apropos time for this year’s Monkey. There might even need to be a special prize for someone with that time. Of course, in the beginning I believed that something under 240 minutes might be possible, if not desirable. Last year, I learned the hard way about attacking hills too early, and this year’s Grandfather Marathon bore out the wisdom of a cautious start.
And there are some good climbs right out of the gate as far as the Monkey goes. Some people start walking on the first hill. Others clearly were not prepared for what would come later judging by the way they went out. Goal number one for me was to not walk unless I was getting more fluids. That’s sort of a stupid goal, but running a marathon is stupid so having stupid goals while doing something stupid is perfectly sane. The most perfectly sane thing I did was to not run in the kilt, having not worn it at all since July.
Another good idea was to break down the run into four sections, and the first section ended around mile 6. I reached this point about 58 minutes in. Given that the majority of tough climbs were still ahead, I had a decision to make. I could struggle to find time at every opportunity, loping down the descents and pushing along what few flat spots presented themselves, essentially trying to beat the hell out of this course and myself. Alternatively, I could embrace the pummeling which was coming anyway and just roll with it in the hopes of finding a sense of what? peace or something?
I don’t know, maybe joy. And yes I know I’ve gone on about this already ad nauseum, but there it was again at mile 6 saying “I am not about the avoidance of pain or the achievement of every goal, but I am about what is real and what is here and what is now.” So, it was time to just roll with it and accept what was happening this moment. Including yet another climb up another steady grade.
See, the thing about the Grandfather Mountain Marathon, which everyone ooohs and aaahhhs over, is that there are actual flat spots. There are gentle descents. There is an opportunity to recover somewhat at various spots along the run. Not so with Herr Monkey in which every climb seems to be followed by a potentially quad busting descent which ends just in time to start up the ridge again. And it is just one ridge, but you climb it six or eight times.
Somewhere around climb 3 or 4, I spotted the guy in the tutu. Loyal readers may recall that last’s year’s secondary goal was “don’t get beat by the guy in the tutu.” I got beat then by the guy in the tutu. So, this time around my first thought was “REVENGE!” which was followed immediately by joy’s threat to depart in the face of hubris. Hubris, as anyone in a toga can tell you, wants me to bonk. The guy in the tutu was there to run his race. I was there to run mine. Pass or be passed, it did not matter.
What did matter is that I had made the turn through the end of the second section, roughly halfway through the race and on to the most difficult stage. I was entering the section which had been my downfall the year before. Here were ghosts to be reckoned with in the form of long, steep climbs. Short strides, I reminded myself. It’s easier to run with good form than to run sloppy.
With one climb down, I started to worry. I am drinking a whole lot. Is that ok? Should I rethink the gatorade / water mixture? Those people who are ahead of me should be behind me. Am I running too slow? I shouldn’t have passed that person. Am I running too fast? These anxieties are what pass for hitting the wall these days, and the answer to all of them is a variation of “Chef” Hicks’ maxim from Apocalypse Now: “Don’t ever leave the fucking plan.” Just keep doing what you are doing, what you have done since the training for this thing began.
I found myself at the bottom of the climb. The climb. I wanted to attack. It wanted me to attack. It seemed to come with a sign reading “Slay yourself here!” which is exactly what I had done last time. Small strides. Even breaths. Don’t leave the plan. St. Patrick’s Breastplate. And then I was at the top. Not in victory, just in fact. Section three was complete. Now I just needed to run home.
And I am not saying it is easy to run 6 miles when you have already run 20, but I knew it could be done. This 6 miles was to be a celebration. As the temperatures climbed to over 70, the party showed signs of turning ugly. But it never came off the rails. A water station or a piece of shade showed up at just the right time.
Reaching mile 25, I knew it was time to put whatever I had left in. I thought about my Sweet Lady. I wore our anniversary date as my race number. It’s a dicey thing to dedicate a whole marathon at the outset since you have no idea how it will go. I could, however, dedicate this last mile and pour myself into it as I hope to pour myself into our life together. I thought about Mama and the joy she took in everything her children did. I thought about Ace, out there wrestling with joy, demanding a blessing before letting go. I was lucky to be here, to be a part of this. I would not walk now, not even to make the finish a flat 4:20.
The demon hill at 19-ish has gotten me every time so far. Disclosure: I only ran 16 miles of Monkey Groovy (8 in and 8 out, I ran my brother into the wilderness and collected him on the back end – yes, I ran up the big hill going back, but I was fresh, so, haha). Somehow, I feel entitled to wear the shirt, even though Trent assures me that I am not, in fact, entitled.