lindsey's guide to running marathons stoopidly

I ran a marathon this weekend at the Sunburst Races in South Bend, Indiana.  It's a nifty race, starting at the College Football Hall of Fame, and finishing on the 50-yard line of Notre Dame's stadium.  I finished the race in 4:03:01 in the midst of a heat advisory-- 86 degrees and 90% humidity.  My training plan?

1. Binge drink, rage, or go to happy hour 3-4 times a week.
2. Eat out every night.  The more burritos, pizza, and excessive amounts of sushi the better.
3. Play indoor soccer twice a week, and power walk once a week so you can gossip with girlfriends.
4. Run 5 miles 4 days before the race, just to see if you can.

I've done some Extensive Internet Research, and this is by far the funnest training plan on the web. The results of this genius/stoopid training?  A roller coaster of a marathon, as illustrated below:

Mile Zero:  It's 5am, and my stomach is upset because I was stoopid enough to drink milk without a Lactaid pill the night before.  It's 70 degrees and super sticky.  I drink some Diet Coke and cross my fingers that I don't die.

Miles 1-3: I'm flashing my Azzn peace signs to photographers, and I'm cruising along jamming out to Glee tunes.  Life is GOOD!!

 

Miles 4-11:  Man, it's starting to feel hot.  I'm sweating up a storm, but that hasn't stopped me from noticing when the course doubles on itself that there's a Really Cute Tall in third place.  Still cruising at an 8:15 pace and feeling like a (sweaty) rockstar.

 
Miles 12-14:  I pass the half-marathon mark at 1:48:45.  It dawns on me that I'm only half way.  My legs are still going, but it's taking a little more effort.  The pure adrenaline that's been fueling this run seems to be running out.  I also notice that I can't feel my right toes.  This can only mean bad things. 


Mile 15:  I quickly spiral into despair.  I'm hot and sweaty, I'm tired, and this is the Stoopidest Thing I've Ever Decided To Do.  WHY would I ever sign up for a marathon?  WHY would I not train?  I start planning escape routes.  Maybe if I throw myself into a car at one of the intersections, I won't have to finish.  Maybe I'll pass out and the paramedics can take me home.  My legs hurt, I feel like there's a blister on the tip of each of my toes (the ones that I can feel), and I'm ready to give up.  I run an 11-minute mile. 
 

AND THEN.... a shining light in my moment of darkness.  Kiwi.  My darling, beautiful, freckled, iphone-toting sister Kiwi is there, cheering me on from the sidelines!  My spirits soar.  I flash my peace signs for her camera, chat a little, and continue on my way.

Miles 16-20:  The red (warning) flag is up.  It's HOT.  There are salt crystals starting to form on my skin from all of the sweat. I start drinking one cup of gatorade, half a cup of water, and splashing the rest on my face to cool off.  Despite it all, I'm deliriously happy.  I'm listening to Glee's rendition of Endless Love, and seriously-- there could not be a better running song in that moment.  I'm chatting up other runners, and I've made a new friend.  Plus, I get another glimpse of the Really Cute Tall in the front pack   I do have a slight freak-out moment when I allow a volunteer to dump water on me from a gallon jug, and my ipod stops.  Water + electronics = bad?  But it miraculously starts again, and I keep on keeping on.  

Miles 21-26:  I finish out of sheer stubbornness.  (See to the right for my poor depiction of "grim determination").  I've made it this far, and I'm not turning back now!  My legs feel heavy, my gluteus maximus is killing me, but I'm not going to let anything stop me.  With a mile left to go, I pass little children holding up a sign that says "What are you, a potato?  You sure are running like one!"  and I laugh.  And when I see the stadium ahead, I quickly flip on Snoop Dogg's "Drop It Like It's Hot," and sprint across the finish line at 4:03:01.  

Though I'm proud of myself for finishing, knowing that I relied on natural athleticism I didn't even know I had doesn't feel like much to be proud of.  Also, my butt and quads are killing me.  Moral of this story?  Train for a marathon, Stoopid.

L