The Chosen: Marathon for Adoption

The Chosen Marathon for Adoption was held on Saturday, October 29th.  This was my first full Marathon in an actual race.  Race day dawned at a chilly (for Texas) 45 degrees.  There were approximately 1600 runners entered between the half and full marathons.

I had been nursing a stress fracture for the last couple months and felt very ill prepared going into the race--but once you pay the registration fee and book a hotel there is no going back!  My plan was to run conservatively for at least the first half and see how I felt after 13.1.  I fell in pace with a runner from San Antonio named Dave.  It turned out that Dave is also LDS and it was nice to have someone to run with for a ways.  He helped me monitor my pace and was a great support.

The course was set up as an "Out and Back" course--which means that you run out 13.1 miles, turn around, and run back.  Those runners doing the half marathon turned around at just past 6.5 miles.  Up to that point the course was somewhat congested.  You had to be careful about wandering so you didn't bump into other runners but at 6.5 miles the course became wonderfully clear when all the Half Runners turned around. 

As I trained for the this Marathon I had dreams of attempting to qualify for the Boston Marathon--which means I would have had to finish the race in 3 hours and 10 minutes.  Those dreams were broken during a training run that should have been 18 miles but was cut short due to an excruciating pain in my lower leg...for future reference I recommend NOT getting a stress fracture.  Anyways, after not seriously running for 2 months, the best I could hope for was to finish the race in one piece.  I told my family, who was also my support crew, that I should be at the turn-around point by 9:00 or so. I actually got there at 9:11, which put me just a little behind my goal--but I was still in holding it together.

At 13 miles, the sun finally came up and thawed out my freezing hands, my leg felt fine, and I was really enjoying the beautiful route so I decided to pick up the pace.  The police escorts apparently couldn't get through all the half marathon runners that had already turned around so my family wasn't able to meet me at my turn around.  They drove past me about the time I reached mile 16.  I was still feeling good so I waved and kept going.  Just seeing them was great.  Each time I reached a point when I was about to let the pace drag a little they would be waiting around the next corner and I would get a boost of energy from them.  Thanks to each of them for keeping me on track!

I have come to believe that race directors are sadists, and while I appreciate everything the race was, this marathon was no exception.  At mile 22-23, right about the time most runners hit the wall, the course comes to a steep hill that climbs for close to a mile straight.  Whatever gas I had left in the tank was burned away with fumes by the time I reached the top.  Fortunately, Mom was there to save the day with a handful of M&M's.  GO MOM!!!!

Running on less then fumes, I trudged through the remaining miles.  This picture (Below) was taken as I approached the finish line.  I guess I was pretty out of it because I really don't remember any of the cars being behind me.  (Sorry for holding up traffic).

I crossed the finish line and looked at the clock to see my time at 4:12.  A long ways from Boston--but I managed to smile about it anyways--after drinking some water and eating a few fajitas.

WARNING:  

The following section contains graphic pictures.  If blood makes you queasy--Don't say you weren't warned.

When you run long distances, there are usually consequences: strong heart, tight butt, good tan and cool T-shirt are just a few.  But once in a while distance runners suffer pain.  At the end of the marathon I took off my shoes and wondered, "How in the world did Mindi manage to paint my toe nails without me noticing?"  But when I tried to scratch off the nail polish, the screaming nerves firing messages of "Ouch, Ouch, OUCH!" to my brain triggered a jaw dropping realization: this wasn't nail polish, it was dried blood under the toe nail--That baby was coming off! 

Both of the nails on my big toe's were purple and hurt like I had dropped a 75 lb dumb bell on them. So we decided to go home by way of my podiatrist's house (who also happens to be my brother).

He was nice enough to stick a 4 inch needle in my foot (thanks, again!).  Now I really don't get along well with needles in the first place--but sticking a needle in the foot of someone who has just run 26.2 miles is...well, mean.

It hurt.

I think he enjoyed it.  I got to thinking through the ordeal that my brother the podiatrist would make a great race director.

He grabbed that purple nail with a good set of pliers and popped that sucker out...all in all there was little damage done.  I'm pretty sure he will recover his hearing soon.  It's amazing that even after running 26 miles one can still scream like a little girl at full volume.

I guess there's no better summary of a brother's love than when he grabs your sore and tender toe nails and rips them off with a pair of sterilized pliers.  What a guy.  All I can say is Thank you and I look forward to repaying the favor!

Thanks to everyone who made my first marathon possible and bloody good one!