Before running a marathon in the rain, my feet take the prize as the most disgusting part of my body. First let's get something straight.
I don't have body image issues. I've long since accepted the world prefers buff, bulky men that fill up a shirt, work as bouncers, and get car repairs for free by merely stating that intent. If I were built like that, I would, too. That said, I've accepted my lean, lithe figure, and embrace the fact that, 17 years after graduating from high school, I weigh five pounds more than I did then and I can still wear the same size clothes. So I don't worry about the fact that some supermodels have the same height and weight as I.
Back to the topic at hand. Certain things happen when you spend your time elevating your heart rate at regular intervals. Yes, your legs tone out and your resting pulse descends and your entire cardio system works more efficiently. Admittedly, however, certain parts of one's body take a great deal of the impact, the nasty stuff. For a runner, that would be the feet.
If were to do the metrosexual thing and get a pedicure, I could see it going down like this. Pedicurist comes out of the back, takes one look at my feet, throws her apron on the floor, and says, "Hell no. I'll quit before I touch those things with someone else's hands." Seriously, the pointer toes boast nails in various states of decay. I lost the left one training for my first marathon in 2001 and it never grew back properly. The right one has been black for almost a year. My heels crack and split like chapped lips. My big toes are calloused but still blister. And the tops of my feet have veins like pipes as well as scars from where I screwed up while tying my shoes, or from the Bass dress shoes I didn't vet thoroughly enough before purchasing.
With this as a backdrop, I'll say in advance I ran through a lot of rain on Sunday. There is no amount of protection my synthetic socks could provide with that kind of moisture all around. No clue what the measurements were but it rained during the first and last seven miles; the first seven were no big deal because I was settling in and impervious to the conditions but the last seven sucked because I had gotten used to being dry. Ugh.
Liz and Elisa headed out to separate gatherings, leaving me behind to attempt a staredown with Rontu. No problem there, that was part of the plan. They came home a half-hour or so apart, walking past my slumbering corpse on the couch, both before midnight. The next morning, I woke up and had my meager breakfast at 4 a.m., and read some more of "Summer of '49." Elisa followed an hour and a half later and gave me a ride to the start line. I suggested she drop me off and head back home to finish sleeping, advice she took. If it hadn't been raining, she might have hung around and taken pictures (she's a ridiculously talented artist) but I wouldn't have asked anyone, family or friend, to stand out there in the rain and wait for my sorry ass to finish this nonsense.
I hung out for about an hour, stripped down to my shorts and Cubs shirt (in advance, I got a couple of compliments and a minimum of grumbling), and stood in the rain for about 15 minutes before some guy with a microphone said "go." There were 15,000 people signed up for the marathon, half-marathon and marathon relay, and while logistically things went smoothly for me, I might be done with big-city marathons, at least for a while. It just felt so cramped and crowded, and I'm just not a fan of taking 2:40 to reach the starting line. Yes, I realize it'll take 10 times as long if I ever do Boston, and some races involve hours getting to the start line. Simple solution: With the exception of Boston (and the Bolder Boulder, or any other race that seeds its participants in waves), I'll avoid any race with more than about 1,000 people in it.
Anyway, I started really slow. Strategically this probably is the best marathon I've run, between starting out slowly and gradually increasing my pace over the course of the first half of the race. I hit my fueling and never felt out of it physically or mentally until mile 21. Aside from briefly trying to chase a cute Asian woman between miles 6 and 10, I ran my own race and didn't worry about anything else around me.
There was just rain, though.
It rained for the first seven miles of the race, which didn't bother me because I was dialing in my pace and trying to get enough to drink, while trying to avoid the nasty-deep puddles. Plus, I live for racing in shitty conditions, but as long as those conditions are on my terms; that eliminates extreme heat and wind. The rain and temperatures in the 50s were a nice departure from the extended winter we've had here on the high plains, but perhaps my theory was proven again: Humidity neutralizes altitude.
At about mile 8 it stopped raining. At mile 10 for the marathon the half-marathon course split from the marathon one and suddenly there was about one-tenth the amount of people on the course. "Now it gets lonely," one runner said. "Yeah, and we lost that brunette with the nice butt," was the reply. One, lonely running is redundant; two, most male runners are pigs, true, but because it's a lonely pursuit we are somewhat self-motivated. So we kept moving forward.
There was a clock at every mile marker and I occupied my mind by doing the math of my pace. This definitely was higher math because I had to subtract 2.67 minutes from the time on the clock, which I assumed started when the guy said "go." Then dividing and figuring the pace. I calculated that I did one mile (around 14) in close to eight minutes. Surely that didn't derail my race but it didn't help. What helped was me getting drier the longer it went without raining. At mile 19 my hat, shorts and shirt were dry and I was steeling myself for the last push. Run to 20. Run to 20. Run to 20.
About that time it started raining again. I ran to 20. It rained harder. I ran to 21. The rain stayed constant. I felt the skin on the ball of my right foot folding and rubbing. The blister on my Achilles' heel ruptured and stung, and the scrape on the top of my left foot pinched. By mile 21.5 I was on a long, gradual hill and walking for the first time. After just a mile-and-a-half of rain my shirt was sticking to me again, and the water was falling off the brim of my hat. I don't need to tell you what my thighs felt like. And that about did it.
The last four miles were a constant up-and-down, both emotionally and geographically. Walk up a hill only to pound my legs and feet on the way back down. Drink water, then Gatorade. Watch the crowd get thicker, feel another piece of skin fall off my foot. Look at the watch and continue to calculate what you must do to get across the line in 3:45, 3:50, 3:55 (after the bib-designated leader of the 3:50 pace group passes you).
A wheelchair competitor nearby was excoriating herself over her effort, struggling up the hills and coasting on the downhills. "I'm such a wimp," she said. Not sure where I have room to complain, eh?
Anyway, the finish is down a slight hill, and takes a quick S-turn. I saw the clock and it said 4:02:20-something when I looked up. Quick calculation: I broke four hours. I think. Did I add pi and divide by sigma?
Official time was 3:59:34. I squished through the finish chutes, got my medal, a glass of lemon-lime Gatorade, and then some food. This was all on well-trod grass, which by the time I got there was mud. First thing I did when I could sit down was take off my shoes and socks. The damage was nasty -- blisters on both big toes, folds of skin on the bottoms of both feet, the aforementioned Achilles' rub. And I could barely sit or stand. And it was still raining.
27th mile: What pissed me off the most was that someone at the expo said there would be orange Gatorade on the course. So I got a bottle of fierce grape because of my longstanding aversion to all things orange (notwithstanding my choice of college). All I saw on the course was yellow Gatorade. Dammit. I carried 24 ounces of liquid for nothing. ... I can't thank Elisa enough for carting me around at oh-dark-thirty on her day off. She met me at City Hall after I texted, then we went to Pi for some of the best pizza I've ever had. I bought lunch but I still don't think that's enough. ... My celebratory meal 24 hours later: Jack in the Box. Large chocolate shake, bacon-cheddar potato wedges. When I got home, it was tomato soup and two bowls of cereal. ... I was the only finisher from Wyoming. At Cincinnati's Flying Pig Marathon, that earns me some special treatment. ... The plan is to take this week off and hope to God that I don't enjoy it so I can at least get on the swimming and cycling next week. ... Thanks for reading this far, you masochist. Maybe I'll reward you with a picture of my feet.
