finished.

ben took the photoz, yo.

ok, so it's rather hard to write about this. there's so much. it's been an experience of several days, ranging from our flight being cancelled (and me nearly crying) and begging our way into getting transferred to a nonstop on a different airline, to the only grocery store in downtown Eugene being out of bananas (though we found some at a 7-11 instead.)

i had intended to not drink this week but we all know what an effing joke that is. the night before the run, yeah, i was hittin' it at the Eugene City Brewery, aka Rogue. Ben and I even joined the Rogue Nation. hells yeah. let's just say it helped me sleep... a little. The time change had me asleep at 8pm and up at 3:30, sick. I didn't know what to do. The race was at 7am. I decided to tough it out and if it wasn't over, I'd take measures at 6:30. And I did- half an immodium.

I showed up at the start with my belly like a brick. Peed. Peed again. Felt all crampy, cold, and odd. Lined up between the 11:00 and 12:00 milers and tried not to get all nostalgic-teary. Old Beastie Boys started on my ipod just before the start. By the time I started running, it was The Faint. I was jammin'.

The start was a great big mess, there were no corrals or waves, and folks just stood where they felt like it. The first three miles were a complete zoo, people passing me and me passing lines of walkers 4-across. I now believe wholeheardly in waves and corrals.

My belly didn't get better till mile 5 or so. The leaders came running past us going the other way on the course and the awesomest was the lead girl on the marathon high 5'ing me. Hells yeah, sister. Kick it.

The first 10 miles just kind of rolled below me. They had us running with the half-marathoners, who started complaining at mile 7. It was nice to have the crowd with us, but, hearing that when I was less than 1/3 the way there- that I didn't need.

I took a tip from a friend and dedicated miles to people, thinking about them and what they're up to. Mile 2 was for Judi who I kept thinking about - with the 2 hour time difference, she was 10 miles in front of me at the Flying Pig marathon. Mile 4 was for Jen, 5 for Amy, 6 for Adrianne, all of whom I'm really rooting for. 7 was for my friends who've really cheered me on- Amy and Audrey and Rachael and folks. There were miles for Molly our Pit Bull, for my Mom, for my Dad, for my sister, for my brother. And for my Half Acre teammates. And for Nike's sweatshop workers.* There were lots of miles, lots to think about, lots to run for.

Anywho, everything was roses till mile 11, when my foot started hating me. All crunchy and ouchie right where the cortisone injections were. Remembering the "things don't just get better- they get worse till you fix them" advice, I stopped to stretch and that helped alot. After the 1/2 marathoners turned off, I stopped and wasted several minutes at a porta potty I didn't really need to be at- that sloshy stomach feeling does not necessarily mean you have to pee.

Yeah, I had a plan. A nutrition n' drinking plan, a walking plan, whatever. The nutrition plan I shifted to gel at 3-8-13-18-22 and endurolytes whenever I damn well pleased (which in the end was 8 tabs over the course of the run, it was hot) but the walking thing I totally disregarded. Until mile 15 I didn't walk at all.

I didn't wear a watch. NOTE TO SELF: if you care about your pace, you should be wearing a watch. I kept asking other people and they told me that we were running anywhere from 10:00 to 11:20 miles, but all said we had 5:00 finishes in the bag. I never did find the 5:00 pace leader. The 4:30 pace leader passed me in mile 4 or so. But I guess I'm a better self-pacer than I knew.

Ben staked himself out along the route, and I motivated to get to him. When that 13-mile low hit, I just told myself for miles, "get to Ben, then you can walk with him." I hit ben at 15, and we walked for a few minutes. It was great, it was like stepping out of my echoing brain and going to a different place. But it was also the start of walking, a slippery slope.

I charged on through the next miles, slow n' steady, running. At 18, I started crashing. The brain kicked in, this time with motivation instead of a 'shut down' message. It was hard, though. By 20, my ankle was throbbing. At 22, my calves started cramping anytime I tried to stride long. I caved and walked, probably 1/2 a mile, losing valuable time. I growled out loud, intent to beat the hurt. I started running again. I was going to finish, and in my goal 5:00.

I met a woman from Ithica who had knee trouble and was in the same boat. We twittered and chattered through miles 22 to 25. It kept me going. Amelia saved me. I would have totally walked that without her. Just hearing about why she ran and her stories kept me in gear. And when I saw 25, I was all out to the finish.

5:01.

Goddammmmmit. I wish I could succeed or fail, but being 1 minute over my goal, what the heck is that? Did I succeed? Nearly? I can't be angry at that... but I'm still not quite there. Is that supposed to make me want to go it again? Let's be serious.... 18-24 were HARD, kinda discouraging for #2. I'm sorta in limbo. I'm confused. I'm... done for now. (let me also take this opportunity to say that EVERYTHING related to the BigDay makes me tear up, and since I didn't want to tear up, I just sorta ignored the finish. "Oh, I finished. OK." I should have "OMG, I just ran a marathon!" and let myself cry. but i didn't. i cried more at "the Bucket List" on the in-flight movie. WTF is wrong with me?)

The ankle's bad. It somehow bruised (i didn't hit it on anything, mind you) and the bruise is right where they injected Cortisone last week, it's big and red and tender and raised. It's hard to walk on. It's throbbing. Looking forward to the week off. Hopefully it'll chill out. Who knows.

So, mile 27. A few weeks off, then some speedwork in a 1/2 plan. A distance I can handle, where I can focus on going fast. More bike racing, less running. I shopped for weeks for a hotel room in Portland and scored with a Friday night Hotwire score. Hotel Monaco, 4 stars. Today, we're drinking Oregon microbrews and sitting in the lap of luxury. A happy ending.

(*If you're like me and hate Nike, steer clear of Eugene. It's like this little hamlet full of Nike's white-collar workers, all happy and green and organic, but with those sinister secrets. I hate that their nice neighborhoods and well-manicured lawns are paid for by a company that profits off 12 year olds' labor. The whole thing is sick, sick, sick.)