My Worst Run Ever

As an experienced runner I have had some good runs and bad ones. For example, I had one of my best runs ever just a couple of weeks ago – 5 miles on a trail in my hometown; the weather was perfect, my head was totally in the game, and I was energized. I finished that run feeling downright amazing. But this blog post isn’t about that run – this post is about my worst run ever: the Chicago Marathon.

Hey, my blogs can’t always be positive and uplifting, right? J

I got into the Chicago Marathon through their annual lottery system at the end of 2017. I threw my name in just to see what would happen, and as luck would have it, I was one of upwards of 20,000 who were selected to participate in the 2018 Chicago Marathon. I was over the moon when I got the good news; I had completed the NYC Marathon in 2017 and had loved every second of it. Now I had the chance to run in another world major marathon and bask in the glory of completing a third marathon in my lifetime (statistically, less than 1% of the world’s population have ever run even 1 marathon – so yeah, it’s kind of a big deal).

I realized during my training for the Chicago Marathon that I was starting to lose my love for long races. For one thing, I developed a hatred for the treadmill and could only run outside – which is great and all, but it reduced my mileage considerably during my training (we had a very hot and humid summer, so running outdoors wasn’t always an option). And while I had a lot of really excellent long runs during my training (the 5 mile run I referenced earlier being one), many of my runs were not great. I felt like Forrest Gump after he ran across the country twice and then decided he was tired and wanted to go home.

When I first started running 13 years ago, I never thought I’d be able to complete a full marathon. Never one to be naturally athletic, I didn’t think I’d ever have the stamina or the discipline to pull it off. And then 2 years ago I decided to go for it. As I approached the awesome age of 40, I got it in my head that running a full marathon was an important and meaningful goal. A couple of people chuckled when I said I was going to train for a full marathon – whether they were chuckling at the idea of me completing such a crazy long race or they were laughing at the absurdity of me merely wanting to do something like that, I’m not quite sure – but their scoffing only made me want it more. When I finally completed my first marathon in early 2017, I was elated. Then I had the opportunity to run the NYC Marathon later the same year, and I was excited to go for it. Running had become part of who I was, and even though I was never a fast runner, it started to come more naturally to me over time.

Fast forward to about a month ago: I was in the middle of one of my many long runs one early humid September morning (I believe it was my 14-miler) and right in the middle of the run, I realized I didn’t want to run anymore. Not just that day, but like, in general. I knew then that the love affair I had had with running for 13 or so years was over. It had been building for some time, but on that fateful day it all came to light. As Forrest Gump once said, “And just like that, my runnin’ days were over”.

There was just one tiny problem: I still had a major marathon to complete (Chicago). And there was no way I was backing out of that race. So even though my head and my heart were no longer fully in it, I pushed on with my training. I still continued to have good runs and bad ones. I kept working on psyching myself up for the Chicago Marathon, mainly with the notion in mind that this marathon would be my swan song.  One final race before I hang up my sneakers. Honestly, that thought kept me motivated to keep going during the tough runs.

It was exciting to go to Chicago. I had never been there before so it was cool to visit a new city. The race itself was flat, as promised. It rained for the first couple of hours but I still started out strong. It was warm outside so while the rain was not ideal, it didn’t make things too challenging for me. But despite all of that, this was my worst long run ever.

People often ask marathoners, "when did you hit the wall during your race?" There was no one moment when I hit the proverbial wall during the Chicago Marathon - that entire race was one giant wall for me.

I was happy and feeling good for the first 10 miles. Then things changed. As I approached mile 12, the “sweep” trucks started coming up behind me and the pack I was in. We weren’t even halfway through the race and the trucks that take down signs and mile-markers were already out and about. They eventually passed me and for several miles I could see them a half-mile ahead of me, essentially breaking down the marathon across the city.

Full disclosure for those who don't already know this: I am a slow ass runner. That is no secret. My best time in a full marathon is 6 hours and 48 minutes because I typically run most of the race and walk some of it. I knew that the Chicago Marathon was supposed to close down after 6 and a half hours from start time (not my start time, but from the actual race start time), but the trucks I saw breaking things down were doing that after only 4 and a half hours from start time. I get that the city needs to start cleaning things up, but what they don’t realize is how the slower runners feel when they see all of the signs and mile-markers coming down while they aren’t even halfway done with a 26.2 mile race. It kills your morale at a very critical time when you need as much morale as you can muster. 

I'm not trying to be a "snowflake" about this; I don't expect to be coddled throughout any race but when you (Chicago) allow slower runners to enter your race, clearly they are not going to finish the race with the elite runners, so try to show them a little respect while they make their way through your course. Just sayin'.

I broke down just after mile 12. I cried so hard I could barely see through my tears. Because I wasn’t even halfway done with this incredibly long race and I didn’t think I could go on. Signs were coming down, the clocks on the mile-markers were being shut off, the carpets on the bridges were being rolled up, street sweepers were riding down the streets blowing trash around, and I was quickly losing all will to keep running.

And then I got to 13.1 miles, I stopped weeping, and instead I got angry. No, I was enraged. I was mad at Chicago for messing with my head and I was mad at myself for wanting to quit when I had come that far in the race. I didn’t go that far to only go that far, damn it. Being the stubborn asshole that I am, I used that resolve to push forward. So I gave the city of Chicago a big fat middle finger and decided that even if I had to crawl across that finish line, I was going to get that damn medal.

I walked a lot more of that race than I wanted to. I have a lot of sciatic pain since running my first two marathons and it really affected me that day. And because my feet were wet from the morning rain, blisters were an issue as well. But even though my time was not my best, I still persisted. And after mile 20, I never saw another mile-marker, because the city had taken everything down by then. Despite all that, there were still a lot of spectators on the streets (including my awesome husband and amazing kids) and I am so grateful for that. Many strangers gave me high-fives, pats on the back, and told me they were proud of me - and that (in addition my rage J) is what kept me going to the end.

After I hit mile 26 and rounded the corner to jog the last .2 miles to the finish line, a man standing nearby wearing an official marathon jacket yelled out that in 2 minutes the gates were closing and we would not be able to get our medals after that. At first I thought he was kidding, but then I looked at his face and I knew he was dead serious. OH HELL NO! There was no way I was going home without a medal that day, so I sprinted, and I sprinted hard. I didn’t feel any pain anymore, all I felt was white hot rage. And determination. I saw the marathon workers pulling the gates, getting ready to close up the finish line, and I ran even faster.

When I crossed the finish line and they put a medal around my neck, I bawled my eyes out. I am pretty sure I cried harder than Desi Linden did after winning the Boston Marathon this year in the worst weather conditions ever. I was crying out of relief, pride, and yeah, pain. I was crying because I really earned that medal. Even though it took me 7+ hours to finish that damn race, I worked my ass off for that medal and I earned every last inch of it. That marathon was not just physically challenging, it was also emotionally and mentally difficult, too.

So that was my worst run ever. But it had a very good ending, and really that’s all that matters. Below is an image of the breakdown of my race times at each split. I wasn’t going to show anyone this, but then I thought, “what the hell”, I have nothing to be embarrassed about. Even if it took me 7 days to finish that race, I still finished. I am proud of myself for seeing this through, even though I wanted to quit and had trouble staying motivated at many points. And I am especially happy that my kids got to see me run my last marathon. What a wonderful way to retire from running.

Hey, would you look at that, this post ended up being somewhat positive and uplifting after all. J