Some months back I signed up Forrest and myself to the Mississippi River Marathon and Half to be held on February the 8th. We opted for the half distance. In 2016 be both did the full. Neither of us has been healthy enough to return until this year. Forrest's schedule got wacked knocking him out of the race, and my health took a short-term hit calling my participation into question also. Tuesday morning I had a major kidney stone attack. I did not train Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. Friday I only swam. Four days of no running equals some loss of fitness. How much?
Saturday morning, I responded to my 3:40 a.m. alarm by arising from bed, eating breakfast, and dressing to make my sojourn to Greenville. Although the race would not start until 8:00, packet pickup ended at 6:00 a.m. so I had to leave Greenwood before 5:00. I left earlier than that.
On the drive over, I was questioning my decision to go ahead with the race. How would my body react? Besides not training, I spent a lot of time in bed. You lose fitness double fast that way. Plus, I was still carrying at least two stones. They could erupt like killer earthquakes at any moment. To make it all better, my left foot was sore from running into a piece of furniture Tuesday morning to add some insult to my already injured body. How would the foot hold up? Would it cause issues? The only time I had ever run on a sore foot before, it did cause problems.
But like I have said in the past, confidence is overrated.
I made it to downtown Greenville, parked, picked up our packets, and walked quickly back to the truck for some heat. The temps were in the thirties but the wind was mild unlike the previous years that I have done this event. Since this is a point-to-point race, they bus us to the starting line. There must have been at least twelve big yellow school buses that lined up and prepared to take us over. I waited in my truck for a long time. I know from experience that those buses are cold. We were scheduled to leave at 7:00. I walked over and boarded a bus about a quarter till.
At seven we all headed out like a caravan of pirates, ready to rumble down the road and steal some fun if we could find any on the race course. We, the halfers, were hauled to the Cow Pen restaurant on the east side of Lake Village, Arkansas. Our race would begin on the Mississippi River bridge and end in downtown Greenville, Mississippi. Upon arrival, everyone raced out to get in line at the porta-potties that lined the parking lot. Then we had to wait, wait for 8:00 o'clock.
Finally the time came and we unloaded, made our ways to the starting line, and were off. Like usual, I spent the first mile and a half stalking and passing fat ladies. I also passed a 2:45 pacing group which was not a group at all but only a pacer. Everyone seemed captivated by the sight of the river from way up on the bridge. It is a magnificent view indeed.
Around mile three I started to get the idea that this was going to be a long day, a suffer fest maybe. The 2:45 pacer caught up with me, and I decided to jump in with her. She will hold me back from chasing fat ladies, I thought, and push me on towards the end when I will slow if I am on my own.
She was as steady as a Timex watch. At every mile she pulled up her pacing chart on her phone and told us where were were. "Two minutes and thirty seconds ahead," she said after six miles. That's when I began to realize that things were going to be O.K. We were almost half way through, I was feeling better, and I was even talking a lot. When have you ever known me to do that?
I told her about the Chicot Challenge, how it started, about going to Little Rock (where she is from) for a strongman contest, about thirty-two hundred mile bicycle rides in one year, about journey runs, about ice-cream as my swimming fuel, about being the strongest man in my gym. She told me about swimming in college, about beginning running, about her husband being in the army, about races she has done, about her training, her goals, her kids.
Between miles seven and eight, the course turns off 82 and into a beautiful neighborhood of large houses and pretty trees. They call it Bayou Road and people sit in their driveways and cheer us on. Slowly we ran into Greenville onto South Main Street. Around mile ten, I began to realize that the sore foot was impacting me. My right hip started to hurt. I could not tell that I was limping, but it doesn't take much. It got worse as we went along, and then I knew if I was not with the pacer, I would have been walking.
Around mile eleven, a side by side vehicle drove up and said something to us. She missed it all. I caught the last part where he said "the marathon leader." We took it that the 26.2 man was about to appear. About mile twelve, on Washington Street just before we crossed the tracks into downtown, he came around looking strong, smooth, and dry. Dry? Yeah. No sweat. He looked like he had just dressed and headed out the door.
After you cross the railroad tracks on Washington Street, you can see the finish line, but it is way farther than it looks and it takes longer to get there than you think it should.
Alyson, the pacer had told me earlier that this was her fifteenth time doing this duty. "I always come in on time," she said. And she did, about fifty seconds early. As we were running up and crossing the line, the announcer called out our names and where we were from. She was Alyson Hodge from Little Rock. Huh? I wish I had gotten to talk to her after the race because I might be kin to her husband.
I was not walking well when it was all done. I waddled back to the truck to shed my hydration pack. When I sat down, however, I knew I was not getting back out of that seat until I got home. I needed to walk around some more to move some blood through my muscles, but I was as done as a burnt ten dollar steak.
It was an odd week, and I was only glad I had bit the bullet and done the race when it was all over. That is the way it often works. Now, a full day later, the whole thing seems like it was a lot more fun than it seemed then. Yea, I have experienced that before also. Thank you, Jesus, for setting me up with the pacer and getting me through that. Thank you for restoring my health. Thank you for a good day, even if I suffered some. Thank you for a good pacer. She did her job, and she did it well.
[A note to the reader. I took some photographs and wanted to share them in the story. For some reason, my computer has stopped importing pictures from my phone. Yes, I have updated and rebooted both and tried over and over and turned cords around and gritted my teeth and been tempted to break something in a violent fashion.]
No comments:
Post a Comment