Thoughts on training for the Monument Marathon

I call myself a runner. I am not a fast runner, but I am a runner nonetheless. I have been running and training for periodic races for about 6 years, and for 2 years quite steadily. This weekend marks my third marathon attempt ('attempt', as I have yet to finish). I hope to run a PR (personal record). This is a lofty goal, given the course, and maybe a little unrealistic (a characteristic error that I seem prone to make). 

My preferred distance is the Half-Marathon (13.1 miles), which I view as a 'raceable endurance event', one in which I can use strategy and pacesetting. My marathon strategy, however, is solely about finishing as respectably as possible (preferably on my feet with my head up). Inevitably I reach the point of exhaustion well before the 26.2 mile finish, and during those later miles, the event becomes almost other-worldly: in both of my other marathons, I experienced the brokenness of dissociative suffering. My mind must separate itself from the flood of pain and exhaustion signals from my body, each step pounding that reminder up through my feet, ankles and shins, ricocheting through my spine into my brain, adding volume to the growing voice in my head that says "Walk. You want to walk. You want to sit. You want to quit." 

Every training cycle has a story. This is the story of my 2012 season. It begins with skepticism. 
My running goals for 2012: 
1. Run consistently, 
2. Build base mileage. 
3. Make 'friends' with hills.
4. Churn out a few RunnersWorld holiday run streaks. 
5. Run some safe, familiar races. 
WNCC threw me a curve ball when they announced the inaugural Monument Marathon slated for October 13, 2012. 

Dayle, you had me at 'inaugural'. My two prior marathons were both inaugural events in meaningful locales (the inaugural 2008 San Antonio Rock & Roll Marathon, and the inaugural 2010 Denver Rock & Roll Marathon). The Monument Marathon promises to be the FIRST race of its type in Western Nebraska, the product of a race director who's run many events ('run', meaning on her own two feet, as well as 'run', meaning she has successfully organized many others). Thanks to the hard work of Dayle Wallien, Tom 'TR' Rohrick, Denee and Paul Janda, and Katie and Jeff Bradshaw, we have a USATF-certified Boston-qualifying course in our own backyard. I could potentially sleep in my own bed the night before the event, and see familiar faces handing out timing chips and sports drink. I would look back on this and regret not running (admittedly a terrible reason to run). I reluctantly registered for the full marathon before the fee hike, and before I could change my mind. 

Check out the Monument Marathon (or even register yourself) at http://www.monumentmarathon.com/

Though you don't know it, many of you have already run the race with me, either in person or in thought. Join with me on a pre-race tour of the Monument Marathon course, seen through my eyes. (Or belabor me, since this is a therapeutic journey for me, and I have many to thank along the way.)  

Unbiased video of the route: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=uklKAIzZvqA

After running San Antonio, I recall the energy of the start line: this is MY town, MY Spurs, MY Riverwalk, MY Alamo, these are MY people. The cityscape filled me with pride. I can only hope that when I toe the start line at Wildcat Hills, I will feel that same sense of community and pride. I will undoubtedly be shivering in the cold while awaiting the starting pistol, but remembering the blazing-hot summer afternoon hike that Greg Elliott, Brielle, Katherine, and I did three months ago in Wildcat Hills in preparation for Mt. Sherman. 

Once we peel onto Highway 71, it will be hard not to think back on my biggest injury of the season: During one early-morning long run along the dark shoulder of 71, I tripped and fell while engulfed in an oncoming car's high-beams, and experienced my first 'hip pointer'. If I can run 14 miles on the course with a bruised throbbing hip and a bloody stinging road rash, then I can do it on race day, right? Assuming that 71 is partly-closed to vehicular traffic, I will make it to the Sandburg Road turnoff, where my friend Amber (who graciously volunteered) will be extending a cup of sports drink, a smile, and encouragement as I turn east into the Nebraska sunrise. 

Only I know the secret spot in the cornfield alongside Lockwood Road where I had to make a pit stop on a training run to relieve myself, and I fully intend to salute it as I pass it on race day. Don't worry, on Saturday I will refrain from any elimination activities outside of the designated porta-potties. Under the McClellan, watch for birds popping in and out of their mud-nests under the overpass. Run faster to avoid being a target for droppings. 

As we run west across Ave D, visiting runners will get their first glimpse of the sunrise on Scottsbluff National Monument. Despite its ominous size and position at the top of the worst hill of the course, I view the Bluff not as my foe, but as my partner in many fitness endeavors. I will think of Lisa since this is her 'hood. I will smile as I recall the funny 'wildlife' photos that Katie posted on her Monument Marathon blog. 

Check it out: http://scbcitizen.wordpress.com/2012/05/01/monument-marathon-and-its-western-nebraska-scenery/ 

The turn west onto Highway 92 is about the halfway point, and I have mentally prepared for the long, steady uphill through Mitchell Pass. How many settlers' feet have trod countless miles more than mine, with greater suffering and yet with greater purpose? Here, I will conjure up the memory of my favorite run of the entire season, a tough hill-run up Saddle Trail whose reward was a marvelous morning dash down Saddle Road and through the tunnels with Imagine Dragons 'Radioactive' booming in my head. 

Passing Scottsbluff National Monument will bring to mind the many hikes this summer with family, friends, and WestWay-ers in preparation for this year's 14ers Quandary Peak, Mt. Antero, Mt. Sherman, Ellingwood Point, and Blanca Peak. My mind will flood with visual imagery of those (and many other) hikes-- the tough climbs, the summits, the smiles, the tears, the pain, the triumph (the wind, the snow, the rain). I will see the faces of my fellow hikers and imagine them at my side, spurring me on: Jon and Brielle Arnold, Greg Elliott, Mike Andrews, Andrew Thomas, Drew Findley, Manda Troutman, Nate Parrish, Jennifer and Scott Reisig, Katherine Reisig, Faith Reisig, Debbie and Lauren Thomas, Nisha Dietrich, Andrew Roy, Lois Bridges, Kim Skinlo, Amy Holzworth, Anita and Randy Schanaman, John Thomas, Mark Scanlan, Rodd and Nancy Hall, and Ashley Hall. 

Then, I'll run downhill (ah!) along the west slope of Mitchell Pass and past Barn Anew. If there is a train along Ridgeway, I intend wave to the engineer and let the breeze carry me along. I will laugh at the junction of Hunt Dairy Road and Ridgeway, recalling having to bushwhack to cross the tracks on a wrong turn during a training run. 

Then suffering will begin to seep into my run. The next part of the course will take its toll at a distance that is a common breaking point in a marathon. Experienced marathoners say the last 10K (the last 6 miles) of a marathon is where the real race begins, and my limited experience has proven that theorem true. Not that the first 20 miles are a piece of cake. By this point, I will be fatigued physically and mentally, and my focus will be sketchy. I'm banking on the fact that I've experienced this part of the course many times: I've run it when the Gering canal was full and when it was bone-dry; I've run it in the hot sun, and in the sandblasting wind; I have seen hawks, wild turkeys, and many deer, and been chased by a dog, and I've fallen and turned an ankle more than once. I've also found a golf ball or two. It will likely be the toughest and loneliest section of this entire course. At this point my form will have deteriorated, and it will take mental effort and constant self-reminders to lift my rib cage, reposition my head and neck, relax my shoulders, shift my pelvis forward, and try to stay light on my feet. I have prayed that God will grant me strength to keep my ankles from turning as I stumble over the rocks, dirt, and gravel. Quicken my foot turnover, like local runner and coach Aaron Carrizales, who has been so gracious and encouraging to all of us runners this season. Defy the 'slow', like David Griffiths, who methodically plods on the treadmill in his basement and continues to get faster despite the inevitable passage of time. 

When I round the corner and see the familiar dead tree, my legs may feel like dead trees, but I will know I am nearing the last of the finger-like turns trough the badlands. I will mentally aim for the radio tower that marks the return to the pavement, and what I feel may be the most-underestimated 'hill' of the course: up Country Club road. I pray that I will still have the energy to maintain a run up this section. Here, I will think back on my longest run of the season, during which I listened to the audio book 'What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.' The author, Haruki Murakami, has a marvelous quote: "Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional." I'm sure I will question that truth at this point in the race. 

I may think back on the suffering I endured trying to keep up with my training runs during 5 days of delayed-onset muscle soreness after hiking Ellingwood and Blanca, and the 'mandatory' runs I did to 'keep the streak' after Quandary and Antero. I will remember the many long runs on the treadmill in my basement while watching a movie (or two), and on the many different hotel fitness-room treadmills staring at a blank wall. I may look back on the sacrifices: mornings I was pulling on shoes while others slept, evenings I spent pounding the pavement instead of gathering with loved ones and friends, hours of lost time with my family. Will all the work and sacrifice pay off? Did the 3-4 week head-cold cost me precious minutes? I could have done more speed work, longer mileage; I should have eaten better, slept more, traveled less, run more and hiked less. Have I have trained well enough to cross the finish line with my head up? To PR? These are the pre-race doubts of every runner. 

I will cherish the turn south onto the Monument pathway, as a flat section for catching my breath. After I pass my usual parking place on the U Street pathway, I will make my way across a short section of canal-ditch to Five Rocks Road, followed by a nice jaunt through an unfortunately not-very-shaded neighborhood, then back across to Highway 92. Here, the final stretch involves a short uphill to the cemetery entrance. I suspect I will be in full-dissociation mode by this point, wishing I could tune-out the constant negative commentary from my psyche, which in its defense is only trying to prevent further tissue damage. It will be mind over matter. If nothing else works, I will resort to 'counting'; I cover about a mile by counting, in rhythm with each footfall and breath-cycle, up to 200 and back down again. This is when I will summon my mantra to drown out the ever-louder droning inner voice of Doubt and Quit and Sit and Stop. For when I am weak then I am strong for when I am weak then I am strong for when I am weak... 

I won't truly surface until I am in the shade of the lined trees of the cemetery. When I run by cemeteries, I ponder life and mortality, and I pray that running will not lengthen my life, but rather enrich it. I will think of how Haruki Murakami wants his headstone to say, "At least he never walked." I will likely not live up to that epitaph, and I will remember that sometimes walking helps me get to the finish, unlike the Japanese party that froze and called 911 on Ellingwood Point this summer when I summited with with John, Mark, and Andrew. I will likely walk the steep but short ravine that precedes the downhill stretch to the finish line. I pray that I have the strength to summon a shuffling trot that will carry me down to Five Rock Amphitheater and across the line with my head up, and familiar faces will greet me and hang a finisher's medal around my tired, sweaty neck (which will be well-sunscreened, thanks to learning the hard way after burning and peeling twice in the November marathon in San Antonio.) 

If I had my way, they'd play The Script and will.i.am's version 'Hall of Fame' as I cross the line. The world of running will never 'know my name' (as the song says), but I will 'go the distance; I will run the miles, and walk straight through hell with a smile'. 

This may be the hardest-earned medal yet. And the most precious, PR or not.