YO!
I know, I'm committing blogging error 101. I'm writing an extremely long post. Having said that, if you make it all the way to the end, there are lessons you can learn from this read. Let's get to it:
I ran the Kampala international marathon Sunday, November 25. Everything about it was terrible. I've never hurt that bad or had that bad of a run in my life. The day before I left our WGM board meeting early because I was feeling lousy. I slept the afternoon and evening away before waking up to eat dinner.
I woke up at 5:30 AM on Sunday and felt pretty good, or so I thought. I caught my boda (taxi) ride to Kololo airfield where the race was starting. We walked about a half a mile to get to the start line. MTN, a cell phone company, sponsored the race. They gave everyone a yellow, sleeveless jersey which 99% of the runner's were wearing. It was an explosion of yellow. Thousands of yellow shirts in every direction I looked. Naturally, I didn't wear my yellow jersey because I pride myself on not blending in (as if being one of the only white people wasn't enough). I walked through the metal detector and found my start line.
This was a 10 kilometer, 21K (13.1 miles), and 42K (26.2 miles) race. Over 10,000 people ran the 10K but only 300 warriors did it all. (Sidenote: don't insult my race by calling your 10K a "marathon." If it's not 26.2 miles, it's not a marathon. Yes, that is a pet peeve). The marathoners got to take off first and away I went on my first ever international marathon.
It was fun! I was running with two friends and the three of us stuck together early on. I was holding down an 8:15 pace per mile for the first few miles. I was wearing my fancy GPS watch for only the second time in my life. I'd heard plenty of stories about people getting lost or running more than their race called for, so I was trying to avoid that.
Soon, the course for the 21K and 42K split. I had a small video camera I was carrying in my right hand. I recorded something about how it was, "time for the warriors to step up." I was still feeling great and carefully mentally planning out the rest of the race.
At the 17K mark, we had to move up a large hill. That's where it all fell apart. I still don't know what happened. That hill killed my pace and was tough on me physically. I was never able to recover. The pain in my legs got stronger and my pace grew slower. I watched my time climb over 9 minutes a mile; and then 10.
At this point, I wasn't even halfway through the race. That is horrible! A 9 minute mile is bad for me anytime, but especially this early in the race.
By the 24K (15 miles) mark, I started walking. I was questioning how in the world I was going to cover another 18K (11 miles). Everything from the hips down hurt. For my racing standards, I was a pathetic sight setting an even more pathetic new racing low.
The next few miles were a slow, painful and discouraging run/walk mix. It was taking 20 minutes or more just to complete a single mile. I've never had physical failure before in my life, but reality was starting to set in. I couldn't finish. I was already struggling with how I was going to have to tell everyone I quit. But, I couldn't go on; it simply hurt to bad. I felt like a failure.
At the 34K (22 mile) mark, I laid down in the grass accepting defeat. All but 6 runners were ahead of me, no one was waiting at the finish line and I wasn't 100% healthy. Hurting more than I had ever experienced, my race was over.
"NO!" I thought. "CT, you are not a quitter. You weren't raised to be a quitter."
The internal battle began.
"My body has already reached it's breaking point."
"But it's only 4 miles. You've done that thousands of times in your life."
"Maybe, but never feeling like this. Just accept defeat."
"No, I don't care if I have to walk every step and am the last person to cross, I'm finishing!"
I dragged myself off the ground and stumbled to my feet. One step. Then another. And another.
"No quit CT, don't you dare quit."
The kilometer countdown was on. 7 to go. I started to jog. I was actually doing it.
6K...
5K...
4K...
The whole time I was telling myself over and over I could do this. By this point, I was 2nd to last in the race. The roads had opened up and the people directing the runners where to go had already gone home. I was following the yellow signs I saw in the distance.
3K...
2K...
25 miles in, only 1.2 more to go. I watched each hundredth of a mile tick off my watch. I heard the music from the finish line party. Mentally, I had already checked out and was picturing myself being done. Just little more to go. I saw another yellow sign in the distance.
"OK CT, last kilometer. Bring it home baby."
7K
"What. What? Did that sign just say 7K? That's impossible."
I went back and looked at the sign again.
7K
"Holy shit! You have got to be freakin kidding me," I said out loud to myself.
To say I was upset was an understatement. How could this be possible? The worst race of my life threw me a curveball. Somehow, I got off the 42K course and found either the 21K or 10K course. I asked a guy wearing a yellow jersey, obviously finished, how to get to the finish line. He told me to take a left at the next street and the finish line was, "just up the hill there." Typical African directions with no time or distance reference.
Now, turned around in an unfamiliar city, I was relying on this stranger. I was angry with myself and the race organizers. I had no idea how to get to the finish line, so I grudgingly followed his directions up the hill.
The next sign I saw read 4K left to go. I started the countdown once again, every step ringing pain in my body echoed by frustration in my head. Finally after what felt like forever, the finish line came into view. I was walking. A local told me to run because I was almost done.
Those next few hundred steps were the most painful of my life. I ran past the live band. Past the sea of yellow shirts already finished relaxing. Past the people eating in nearby tents. With each painful step the finish line grew closer. I finally crossed the finish line in a disappointing 4 hours, 57 minutes and some seconds to spare. I slowed to a walk never more thankful in my life to be done.
But I didn't quit.
