Finding the packet pick up and registration proved to be problematic, but we found it. I productively munched half a Cliff Bar as we meandered down the street, chewing thoroughly to help it digest smoothly.
I picked up my number, 80, rather pleased that it had an 8 in it. I'm not superstitious, but my previous race numbers were 318 and 138, I like that they all had something in common. I introduced myself to the race director, who was very pleasant. Originally we'd planned for me to start early, but when he realized I didn't have crutches or a walker, he said I would be fine starting with the others. I felt good and weird about that.
I found my way to the starting area. And we were off. The director called out my name, cheered, and waved as I passed. I smiled.
The C&O Canal Towpath is not very wide. I ran with my iPod and headphone off, trying to take in the sights and sounds around me, and keep a steady pace. After all, even though this was a race, it was more importantly a training run for the future.
Soon, and as expected, everyone passed me and ran out of sight. There were a lot of obstacles to avoid because the course was not closed. Non racers, on foot and on bikes, kids, dogs in addition puddles, and the worst of the mud. I thought there might be markers at each mile, and maybe their were, but I didn't see them. Just as I was getting nervous about being too slow I made it to the water stop at about mile 2.3. I took some water even though I didn't need it at that moment, I knew I'd need it later.
On I went, mostly alone, although some other non-racers and cyclists passed me. I was surprised by my doubtful mind, thoughts like, "Just walk, it would be easier," and "You're slow," were popping up, but I brushed them aside. I focused on the canal, the flowers, and the best route through or around the puddles. In an odd way I began to enjoy it when water seeped into my shoe, because inevitably my feet got dry again, and then wet again. I began to guess at each puddle whether or not my feet would get wet or not.
I turned on my iPod, leaving it at a low volume so I could still hear the other people around me. At the second water stop near mile 5, a volunteer asked me if I was going to go all the way, and I said yes. I tripped twice, but did not fall, the route was hard packed dirt with various rocks, a bit more hazardous than the asphalt of home. Neither of my injuries were bugging me, I felt pretty good actually.
Other runners, the fast ones, began to pass me on their way back, which was difficult in the areas made narrow by large puddles. I stood aside for them, they could be on their way to winning money, prizes, or a new PR, I wasn't out for any of that, so a few seconds wouldn't make a difference. I thought it would be more mentally and emotionally challenging to watch everyone pass me, but it wasn't. I saw it as personal progress, the more people I saw, the closer I was getting to the turn around.
I began studying people as they passed. How was their form? How hard did they seem to be pushing themselves? Were they hurt? Some acknowledged me as I passed, some did not, I didn't mind. The post turn around miles would be hardest for me, I assumed that was true for others as well. I was having trouble reading the time on my iPod, but I hoped my pace was still on par, I was mindful of each step, making sure I did not speed up or slow down.
I caught glimpses of the Potomac River in all its splendor through gaps in the tree line. I hope to some day be one of those runners who has the time to take pictures as they race. I found myself comparing the river to the canal on my right side, and looking back now, I think Shakespare may have found the proper words to contrast the two, though of course the deeper meaning in the text must be forgotten:
"Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it." (Romeo and Juliet, 2.2.9-10, Balcony Scene)
This photo of Harpers Ferry is courtesy of TripAdvisor
Other runners told me I was nearing the turn around mark, right on schedule. Soon I was alone again as the last runners made their way past me. A bit of worry and confusion crept into my mind as the turn around did not appear. The trees overhead made the sun dapple the ground, which was lovely, but made telling time more difficult.
"Perhaps I'm just slowing down a bit, or wasn't going as fast as I thought," my mind reasoned.
As 9:45 or the 1:45 mark came and went, I grew more concerned.
"You have to run 6.55 miles to get there, your 6.2 mile time was about 1:36."
When I got a good read on my watch again, I realized it was now 9:47, so I might not have been as far as I thought, because it must have said 9:27 before. I felt a little better. I did not know how the turn around was going to be marked, but since it was at the 6.55 interval, I figured they would have to mark it somehow.
And then 10:00 came and went. My resolve started to slip.
"2 hours to run 6.55 miles..."
When I ran 12 miles, I hadn't begun to slow so noticeably until mile 9 or so. My first 7 mile run finished in 1:45... Maybe I couldn't tell I was so slow because I'm not used to running by new scenery or in a line.
For the next 20 minutes my mind busily tried to calculate how long it would take me to get back, factoring in what I knew would be about a 3:00 to 5:00 increase in pace per mile and this molasses pace I was running.
And then I saw it around 10:15. A marker on the trail.
Mile 9.
And then the doubts I'd tried to be so cavalier about silencing were strengthened.
After the last runners had passed me, and I'd made it another few minutes down the trail with no sign of the turn around, I started to think that maybe, they'd taken the last water station and the turn around marker assuming that the other two runners I passed, were the last ones. I had told myself,
"No, you would have seen them coming back down the trail with stuff, or something,"
"But there was a Parking lot there, remember?" part of my brain interrupted, sounding a bit like a hybrid of the big mean snake from Harry Potter and the eels from The Little Mermaid.
"Oh."
"They forgot about you."
"Maybe they didn't, maybe that sign is for a spur trail."
"But aren't you on pace to be at the 9 mile mark?"
"Yes. So, I'll just keep going, I'll still run the 13.1 miles, there's probably other markers down there."
I kept running, passing under a large overpass and into the unknown. But something about the overpass scared me, as did not knowing when I might next see a parking lot or landmark. And then I realized that if I didn't show up within a reasonable time, back at the start, my husband would worry. So, I thought I'd run/walk back. I would complete the race. But the same fear popped up, plus the addition of not being sure I could make it. And, knowing we had to leave by 2:00 at the latest so he could be at work on time.
"Just run back about 4 miles, to where the other water stop was than at least you'll know you did it."
And I wanted to, so badly, but I knew that was another hour's run, and I knew I could do it, but even if I made it that far, I'd still have to walk 5 miles back to the start. My mind started factoring again, conservatively it was at least a 3 hour return trip.
I started to imagine everyone gawking at me when I arrived back at the start. Or maybe they all went home, but then if they did, my husband would point out I wasn't back. And then what if they thought something had happened to me, I pictured a park ranger driving up to me and telling me to get in his truck because he'd been dispatched to find me.
I forced those thoughts away and remembered a parking lot that had looked quite busy not far back, and so, rather close to tears, I stopped running, and turned around.
10:47 AM I officially gave up.
I walked slowly, planning as I went. Get to parking lot, find people, borrow phone, call husband, wait for him. I hoped the parking lot was still busy. I remembered seeing a sign advertising an open house for a historical site, though I couldn't remember the date. It wasn't long before I came to the parking lot again.
I told the park ranger I needed to find a phone and she let me borrow hers. I hoped very hard I remembered my husband's new phone number correctly. Thankfully he answered. I told him I'd gone too far and where I was.
It turns out they were having an open house for one of the shelters along the trail and a nature walk. There was also free lemonade and cookies. I didn't want to take anything, I wasn't going on the walk or going to the house. But I needed to replenish, so I had some pink lemonade and a snickerdoodle. Afterwards I walked up the small hill to the parking area, sat down on the curb, and waited.
I still refused to believe I hadn't made some horrible error as far as directions. It was too easy and convenient to say the race volunteers had forgotten about me. I wanted to at least consider my own responsibility. What I was really upset about was the fact that I hadn't been able to make the distance, race or no race. I thought I might cry, but maybe I was a little too dehydrated, or just too disgusted with myself. Or too something.
Where had my mental strength gone? How could I ever make 26 miles if I couldn't make myself run 10 miles? Maybe the 12 mile run had been a fluke. I was a quitter, a disappointment, a failure. My body, mind, and spirit were weaker than I believed. Perhaps this was their way of saying, "Stop, don't, you can't."
Often runners talk about how a race is far more about winning against the race or one's self than it is about beating other competitors. Part of my running joy had come from the fact that there was a place for someone like me in a race.
Everyone can play baseball, but not everyone can go to the World Series . But everyone who runs, runs the same race as some of the best athletes in the world. For so long I thought the sport of running was never even a possibility. But it turns out it was probably a sport I had the most chance at success with on a competitive level. Because there were no teams to make, no judges, just me, just me and time.
But I could not overcome myself, and the message I had received from the race was, "You are too slow." I forced myself not to dwell too much on these negative thoughts.
When my husband arrived I fell asleep in the car rather quickly.
Back at home I emailed the race director to let him know what happened. They had already posted the race results online. It stung to see that if I'd finished in the time I planned, I would have only been about ten minutes behind the last finishers. A few hours later my suspicions were 99% confirmed via a response from the race director. They had most likely taken down the Mile 7 water station before I arrived, along with the turn around marker. The gentleman apologized, and I told him not to worry about it.
I was in this weird emotional state. I felt I could cry, but knew I wouldn't. I wasn't angry, I was never angry about it, what good would that do? I appreciated the apology, but I didn't seek it, or any kind of recompense. I wish I finished and earned my medal, but did not dwell.
I question whether or not I should race again. I was forgotten, first in the 10K and now in the Half. I prepared myself to be last, even a distant last, but I had not prepared to be forgotten. I was forgotten again even though I'd tried to take precautions this time.
I want to prove to myself that I can finish and finish without being forgotten. But this is the wrong motivation. I should be satisfied without having to make my presence known, but I suppose it is natural, to want to finish and feel only the joy of the accomplishment. I think that is what I'm running after, pardon the pun.
I want to run a race and know that all I need to think about is running, not about whether the people are going to be where they say, or if they are going to forget me. I want to finish and feel only joy, not confusion or hurt. And I know, I only feel hurt because I allow myself to, but I am sure even the best marathoners would feel a little pain if they knew people had taken the course apart before they finished.
Now is the time to reflect on whether I will continue my training or postpone it until I can find a marathon I know I can finish.
