it was the worst of times...


On Sunday, I raced 16 miles of a marathon. I ran a portion of the remaining distance from miles 18-20, but only mustered something resembling a jog/walk from miles 21 to 26. This is the story of how I finished the most difficult race of my life.

The temperatures had begun to rise earlier during the week and all the weather reports for Sunday were singing the same tune: mid 70’s for the high, mid 60’s for the low and overcast with a 30% chance of rain. Surely, these were not ideal conditions for a marathon, but they were far from impossible. My last 20-mile training run took place during a certifiable deluge, so I felt confident I would perform well despite possible precipitation. I carb-loaded throughout the week, drank water, and went to bed early on most nights. I was ready.

Race morning. I woke up at 4am to take Buster outside. Immediately upon exiting the door, my confidence took a shot – it was humid. 100%. A fog had developed and it didn’t look like it was going anywhere. There was no wind. I could feel my palms sweat. A bead developed under my armpit. I was losing it.

I decided to abandon these feelings through the mindless business of race preparation. I have developed quite the ritual – band-aids, moleskin, body-glide, sunglasses. Check. By the time I laced up my trainers, I was ready. Again.

Dad and Adam swung by the house at approximately 5:45. We were in the car and heading to the drop off point before long. After a couple of arguments concerning directions, we arrived at the corner of St. Mary’s and 281. We started the half-mile walk down to Broadway. In the dim light of an overcast morning, I listened to the conversations of other runners. I gave Adam some last minute advice. I repeated to myself I was ready.

I queued up at the porta-potties and got to work. I made small talk with the ladies in line and handed out jokes like rolls of toilet paper. Gold. Dad, Adam and I then walked the corrals and made our way to the front. My corral. #1. Nothing too spectacular going on – racers going through their preparations. Perhaps a bit more mindful than I do, but only because it’s worth more to them. Literally.

With 20 minutes left, we parted ways. I performed a couple of shake-out stretches off to the side – leg swings, high steps, some skipping. I looked around and saw all the familiar faces: Westley Keating (who would go on to win the half in 1:05), Joshua Keena (from Austin), Chris Layman, and Robert Michell. All looked to go under 3 easily, if not under 2:50. As I lined up in the corral, I saw Gary Guerrero and we nodded to each other. He was gunning for a sub 2:50 and went on to smash it: 2:47.

Right before the national anthem, my Dad appeared along the corral fence. He put his hand on my shoulder and wished me luck. It was brief and not many words were exchanged. How do you feel? Ready? You’ll do great. I tried to hide my nervousness, but I wanted nothing more for him to be right. You too, Dad. I could tell he was anxious as well. I’m not sure I was convincing enough, but I tried. I told him to hurry back to his corral, but he refused. He said he’d be fine. And so we stood there for a while longer. Father and son. Two runners.

After parting ways, I lined up towards the middle of the corral and went through another routine: pat the thighs, kick out the legs, roll the ankles, and stretch the shoulders. Not long after, the horn blew.

I got out to a quick start and then settled in, I was being passed very quickly by all the half marathon runners, but I stayed on pace. The 3:10 pace group was on my left shoulder making noises and laughing. The 1:35 pace group consisted of Roger Soler in a odd-looking hat running alongside that girl who wore the same shoes as I did in a recent 5K (refer to SNIPSA 5K for comment I made to her). I wanted to run beside her, show her my shoes and say, “SEE?! I’m not a creep!” But then again, given the lack of context, it would have probably creeped out anyone close enough to hear. I decided to keep running.

My goal was a 1:35-36 opening half and a 1:33 closing. I allowed the 3:10 group to gap me a bit, but always kept them within striking distance. After the second mile, though, it was obvious they were running faster than a 7:17 pace. We clicked a 7:09 mile without blinking. Not my race. I slowed down.

Maki and Mom snapped a couple of shots of me at miles 1.5 and 3. I made silly gestures to entertain them. I felt sharp. Fast. And a tad bit high on pent up glycogen. I understand this means nothing to non-runners, but make it through a couple weeks of tapering and you’ll know how I felt.

After cresting the only real hills on the course and running past several people I knew, I hit the first GU (energy gel). It didn’t sit well and I immediately knew something was off. It took more energy to consume and I burped a lot after I guzzled the mandatory 5 ounces of water. I wrote it off as nerves. Likewise, I was coming upon the 7-mile mark and I had to determine what sort of jack-ass photo I should have my Mom take. Obviously, I felt good enough.

After that last photo op, I knew I was not going to see everyone until the end. I focused on turnover and developed a good stride. I was clicking off 7:10-12s with ease. I talked to people as if I was jogging 7:50s and felt even better. This is the race I was looking for. A breakout.

Then, things changed. I started to develop a slight stitch on my left side towards mile 8. This occurred immediately after a Cytomax stop. By the way, cytomax is what you get when you mix demon urine with baby gravy. Disgusting. But that was the only electrolyte drink offered, so I dealt. I shrugged off the stitch and maintained the 7:10 clip throughout the first half.

I dropped a 1:34 half marathon. I was about a minute under schedule, but I felt good enough that it didn’t worry me. Then, all of a sudden, I was worried. My stitch developed into a steady, sharp pain and it wasn’t getting any better. It wasn’t affecting my stride at that point, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore it forever. At mile 14, I saw Natsuki, Yuka and their children. He made a sign for me: “Go Paul, ボストンや!”
Boston it read. Perhaps. I was so happy to see him. I wanted him to be there, but I knew how seriously he took his familial obligations. Ever since the birth of Kazu-kun, he’s stopped running entirely. Terrible timing! we used to joke. We could have made each other great.

And there we were, 3 years after his 2006 San Antonio marathon, running together on the same course. He asked me how I felt. Better I mustered, but I’m not sure what’s going on. I can’t breathe. My chest and side hurt. Thank you so much for showing up. He asked me more questions. Told me my pace was still impressive. Somewhere around 7:20. He asked me the question I knew was coming, “行けそう?” Could I make it? I’m not sure. Not if this continues, I responded. It’s funny. I was asking myself this question starting from mile 8. This was the first time I really answered it.

The real answer came at the end of mile 15. I tried to ease the pace to around 7:20-30 for a couple of miles to ease the stress, but the pain had only increased. It was causing me to alter my stride, breathing, and posture. I was running slightly hunched and taking in shallow breaths. My stride was shortened. This was at the 15.2 marker. I remember because I looked down at my watch. I wanted to remember at one point in the marathon I stopped racing.

I attempted to run/jog in hopes of having a couple of bad, yet recoverable miles. Perhaps 3:10 was out of the question, but I could turn around a 3:12 I thought. When the water began to hurt going down, I knew all was lost. Still, I kept going. I tried to walk the water stops, but people urged me not to. Losers! I wanted to scream. But their intentions were pure. Ignorant, but pure.

By mile 20, I was a walking, jogging mess of a man. The 3:10 pacers were well out of sight and the 3:15 balloon was approaching from behind me quickly. It didn’t even take a quarter mile for them to catch and pass me. I let them. How could I do anything else? I was barely fit enough to stand straight. Still, I had been able to hold on to somewhat decent splits. Hovering right above and below 8 minute miles. Then, my watch beeped. The end of mile 20: 8:23. This number is special. It represents the slowest mile I ran at Big Sur. It was the slowest mile I ran during marathon training during a fast-finish long run – uphill, into a wind, and hung-over. I always thought, at the very least, I will never, ever run any mile slower than 8:23. Today, however, it felt fast. And that’s when I knew it was truly over.

After that mile, I decided I was OK with a “DNF” (did not finish) next to my name. This was not running, let alone racing. This isn’t you, I kept repeating. You don’t hit the wall. You don’t cramp. Your legs still feel great. Why this? Why now? Naturally, I didn’t have the answers to any of these questions. I had a crippled torso, weakening mind, strong legs, and 5.2 more miles left. That’s it.

Given this state, I declined quickly. The pain intensified. I had stitches on both sides of my torso and an awkward pain began developing in my right chest. The walking breaks grew in length. I was done. I needed to find a medical tent. I could be in trouble. And then Natsuki showed up again. Get away from me! Was my first thought. I wanted to suffer this breakdown alone. Self-pity is not named group-pity for a reason. But he yelled. Yuka yelled. Kazu and Mana would have yelled too if they knew how. Natsuki started to jog with me. He didn’t lie to me. He didn’t say I was doing great. You’re almost there. Great pace. He told me, “大丈夫や. 無理するなよ.” It’s OK. Don’t overdo it. I told him the pain was worse. I couldn’t breathe or stand straight. He repeated his phrase: Don’t overdo it. And then he made me smile with his comment: “俺のペースじゃん.” This is my pace. He cramped terribly in ’06 and ran 10-minute splits to the finish. He was right. I had run exactly two 10-minute splits back-to-back. He jogged alongside me while I walked again. He didn’t walk. That’s Natsuki. He has never walked in a marathon. So I started up again. As I ran under the I-10 Bridge, I heard him shout an extended “頑張れ!” A rally cry. I put a thumb up and kept the slog fest going.

For the next two miles, I didn’t walk as much. I managed a couple of miles under 10, but all the stopping and starting began to affect my legs. I’m a mess if I stop. A couple more miles of this and I’m done, I thought. But I realized I was only a mile out. 25?! Seriously? I started down Durango with people lining every available standing spot. I heard the yells, but don’t remember a single word. They weren’t necessarily for me, but for the effort that I embodied. I didn’t appreciate the effort, though, so naturally I tuned everyone out.

I knew things were bad when I had to walk on a downhill coming into the Alamodome. It was like a nightmare. I couldn’t even run downhill. And then I saw a sea of people. Camera flashes. Open mouths. Fists pumping in the air. My feet had started to move and I went along for the ride. I was clutching my side because the second I released it, I felt nauseas with pain. I turned the corner. I had one more hill. I looked to the right and saw Seth. I heard his voice among all the screaming. “Good job Paul.” Perhaps that is what he said. Perhaps that is what I wanted to hear. I really appreciated him being there.
I turned the corner to the finish and immediately saw my Mom, Martin and Maki. The look on my brother’s face was priceless. He was the only one in the entire crowd who knew how I felt. I looked to him through my sunglasses and nodded. I looked to my Mom who looked sorrowful. Come now, it isn’t that bad, I thought. I tried to release the grip on my side, but almost threw up when I did. I decided to let go right before the finish. They have a video of me coming across. In it, I almost threw up. 3:29:40.
I went through a range of emotions during and immediately after the race – frustration, depression, anger, sorrow, self-pity, and then, finally, elation (only because it was over…don’t get any ideas that in pain I found some profound meaning to all this crap). This sucked. In every way and at every conceivable angle, this sucked. I trained for months, put in nearly double the mileage and ran more efficiently than I ever did for Big Sur, only to run 2 minutes slower. Most people have told me that I succeeded because I finished. Not really. I didn’t want my parents to have to pick me up anywhere. Traffic was a nightmare. That’s why I finished.

But here it goes: I came to realize that finishing was the best thing I could have done. The race was just as important to all the people who woke up early to watch me, to cheer for me, to see me finish. More importantly, I wanted to finish for my Dad. So I did. He finished as well. Because runner’s run. That’s it.

BQ or bust

It's taper time. I dropped down to 58 this week and plan on running around 35ish this week. No more than 12 miles next week – around 3 days. It worked for Big Sur. I toed the line feeling fresh and completely charged. I’ll attempt to do that again.

I've put in some serious training over the last 14 weeks. I have dragged myself from bed hungover and on less than 4 hours of sleep to stamp out 15+ mile runs more times than I wish to count. I have run in 100+ degree weather, 100% humidity, and certifiable monsoons. I have been sunburned, wind burned, drenched and chafed. I have been attacked by poisonous snakes, wild dogs, and a mocking bird. I have been heckled by homeless people, insecure men, overly secure gay men, and the occasional cougar.

But I will start the 2009 San Antonio Rock N’ Roll Marathon with exactly 801 miles logged since August 1st. Although I only have 7 runs of over 15 miles, I have run a total of 32 times over 10. I have averaged 57 miles a week with a weekly high of 77. For Big Sur, I averaged fewer than 26 and never ran more than 44 miles in one week. I ran only 3 total runs of 15 miles or more and only 10 runs over 10 miles. It was enough to land me a 3:27:58 in windy, hilly conditions.

I have switched from the Brooks Ghost to the Brooks Launch. They weigh approximately 3 ounces lighter. They own a more minimal construction. They are brighter. Faster. I have also stopped wearing shorts over my tights (‘compression shorts’ when I’m explaining what I’m wearing to non-runners). Free is better. I will switch from the Mizuno Creation singlet to the ’09 Adidas adizero singlet (red). The only difference is that the Adidas singlet doesn’t retain water quite as much as the Mizuno does. The other accessories don’t matter much. Socks are the same.

I’m attempting to qualify for the 2010 Boston Marathon. As far as I know, I am the first in my family to do so. My Dad came close in 1987 with a spectacular 3:22:11 debut, but fell just short of the required time of 3:15. He did this in San Antonio on a very similar course. I don’t think he even gave thought to Boston. He just ran. That’s what runners did back then. I plan to do the same, but I need to run 5 minutes faster. I need a 3:10. This requires that I average no slower than 7:17 per mile. My goal is to average anywhere from 7:05 – 7:12 pace. I want to open up with a sub 1:34 half marathon, and then finish with a sub 1:33. These are my times. This is my goal.

Let’s do this thing.