Alright folks, I'll stop the suspense: I made it.
I ran those effing 46.125 kilometers, through the wonderful city of Chicago. And my time? As predicted, it was painfully slow. My girlfriend’s father, who trained under the Boston Marathonian beast/legend Bill Rogers, emailed me the night before with the sagacious advice: Start out slower than you think.
So I did.
And being slow in Corral J is kind of a performance. My girlfriend was first waiting for me at mile one. That way, she’d be sure to cheer for me at least once.
Let me start from the beginning, though. Firstly I had not run for two weeks after an eight-mile Achilles fuck. At this point in time, all training halted…permanently. The only marathon-related activity that took place was short stretching sessions once or twice a day (see previous post)..
On Thursday, at noon, I decided to save some money and I grabbed lunch from Market Basket, which was basically a giant middle finger the first commandment of marathons- never try something new in the last two weeks. Training related or not.
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| Thou shalt not consume unfamiliar turkey bacon paninis two days before the marathon. Guacamole is fine, though. |
The turkey-bacon Panini that I grabbed was gross, especially the radioactive, microwave-thawed bacon that tasted like IKEA's expired-in-2007 Romanian horse meat. By 3pm, I was feeling under the weather, and at 5pm, I left work to drive at the maximum allowed speed home. Before going to bed, the puke-o-meter was at about 98%. I really struggled to not vomit because I would have had an irritated throat for race day. I sucked it up and I had one of the worst nights ever, waking up in a cold sweat every 10 minutes. Plus I was experiencing race-stress nightmares. Sleep deprivation three days prior to the marathon perpetuated the anxiety further.
On Friday, I flew to Chicago and everything worked surprisingly well: the “Lyft” to the airport, the Spirit airlines flight (though it would have been more comfortable if I had the height of a dwarf), and ground transportation to our AirBNB room. The concierge (yes, the concierge...Roosevelt was his name) had the keys ready for us. We stepped into the room and were flabbergasted by the view from the bed. To be honest, it was not a cheap room. But at the time of booking, I was convinced that I’d die in this marathon, so I decided to get one last good time in life.
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| I treat her so well and she treats me like shit. |
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| Click on the picture to see. STOP BEING LAZY. |
Saturday, by 9pm I had my belly loaded with shepherd’s pie, intercourse was performed, and I was ready to fall in Morphee’s arms. And I did in about 20 seconds. This time, I didn’t have nightmares and I wasn’t stressed. Though I woke up at 4am to go pee and couldn’t go back to sleep before 5am, I still had a good night's sleep.
The alarm went off at 5:20am, and I immediately turned on the stove to boil my pasta water, which was already in the fridge. In the meantime, I took a hot bath and stretched (and farted) like crazy. After, I relished my pasta dish which consisted of pasta… and salt. I savored with it a de-carbonated coke (so my belly wouldn’t explode). With it, I took a last “blood builder” pill along with joint nutrients (glucosamine). I wanted to take aspirin as well, but Google informed me it wasn’t a good idea.
Then I called my dad (it was his 70th birthday) and I put on my shorts loaded with various substances:
- 6 Hammer nutritions gels
- 2 aspirin
- 2 spare contact lenses
- 4 eye lubricant capsules
- 4 salt tabs
- 1 Massachusetts ID
- 1 Nexus-4 phone
- 1 pair of headphones
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| Pretty accurate depiction, except for the Islamic-inspired architecture. But no, Chicago did not look like this. |
I originally planned to take the subway to get to to the start line at Grant Park, but when I saw everyone in the street was walking at 6:45 AM, I gave up that idea and walked the 1.5 miles between my
Once there, I kissed my girlfriend goodbye and I went through the security gates. Kind of crazy to see all of the intense security measures that have been put in place since the Boston Marathon bombings in April. Now your loved ones can't watch you start or finish! Only registered runners with bibs can pass through these red inflatable gates.
So I went in line to pee and there were about 10,000 people in line. Twenty minutes later, I went to my J Corral, looking desperately for something to drink. Welp, seems like Corrals A to F only deserve Gatorade. Not the losers at the end. I don't know if I should be pissed at Gatorade or Bank of America (who sponsored the whole thing). Fine by me: I’ll drink Powerade and bank with Sovereign from now on (if I ever run/ have money again).
8am- the second wave's call time. We all started to walk together to the start. Music was blasting over loud speakers and the announcer was doing a great job pumping everyone up, as we were walking at an increasing speed toward the Chicago skyline. The marathon day excitement had finally arrived: I felt strong, energized, and eager to eat those miles.
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| A few seconds before the start. Bladder and belly are both full at this point. |
After 1 km, my girlfriend was waiting on the right sidewalk in front of the NBC tower. She decided to run alongside me, pointing the camera at me and recording a video. This was most likely the most dangerous security treat that the marathon experienced that day. See for yourself:
The first 7 miles went fine: I had no pain, but the urge to urinate become stronger. Luckily we arrived at Lincoln Park. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to piss against trees à la a cocker spaniel, but when I saw one of the runners taking a dump against one of them, I knew I was safe to pull out my french fry and relieve myself. Against a different tree, of course. But this image of the shitting runner was forever imprinted in my brain. I mean, he was defecating in the middle of broad-daylight, in front of everyone (my 99-year-old grandmother really enjoyed this part of my Marathon tale).
At the 12 mile marker, I had reached the summum of happiness. The pain in my foot was still mild, I was energized, and I was running in between skyscrapers under a blessing sun, cheered on by hundreds of people. The aerial subway that was above the course stopped, and the passengers all cheered and waved at us. I waved back.
At the half however, I began my journey toward hell. Coincidence that I descended into hell and this was also the point in the course where we take a sharp turn south? I think not. The pain in my left foot's extensor tendon was beginning to become acutely painful; let's say it was at an 8 on a 1-10 pain scale. I started to stop frequently and stretch, along with few other runners.
My girlfriend was waiting for me at mile 17. At this point in time, the pain had reached a solid 9.5/10 and I started questioning if I could finish. When I saw my girlfriend, I gave her a hug and immediately kicked off my shoes. I had preemptively stored my Cryoderm Cryotherapy roll on menthol in her "spectator-purse." So we started rolling it all over my legs and bare feet in the middle of the race.
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| Cryoderm: crack for your excessive marathon habits. Available for all Amazon Prime Account holders. |
The drug felt good for a half mile, and immediately I was back in the throes of horrible, tendon-inflammed agony. And I dealt with this pain for the next 9 miles whilst running through the south side of Chicago. Not the finest. They made the marathon course end in this empty industrial area, with virtually no trees and no multi-story buildings. As a result, there was no shade and the 75-degree October sun was slowly cooking us. Ninety percent of the runners were walkers at this point. I tried to run as much as I could, realizing that the pain was only a little higher running than walking, but it would get me to the finish line faster.
The last 6 miles were the hardest. Every one of them felt like an eternity. I finally got a last burst of energy once arrived at mile 26, but even there, every 100m felt like climbing the Everest. Then you see the finish line, and you finally know you made it. Crossing it was actually somewhat anticlimactic, as no public was authorized in, and it was just a bunch of staff members who were probably thinking, "You suck; can you hurry? I gotta go home and enjoy my Columbus Day weekend."
But anyway, I MADE IT. After 8 months of training; one major foot injury; 3,000 marathon-related arguments with my girlfriend; $12,000 spent on doctors, PT, shoes, Tiger Balm and heart rate monitors; and 5 hours 53 minutes 28 seconds of effort, I can say it: I'M A MARATHON RUNNER.
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| Ciao bitches. |
And the best part is: I'm not even in that much pain right now. The first line of this final post was mainly written to shock you all. But the truth is, I'm fine! I can even drive my car, clutch and all. I only had to walk downstairs backwards for two days!
Special thanks to:
Please allow the mellifluous, sentimental sounds of Sarah McLachan emit through your cheap Lenovo speakers while you read my list of appreciation.
1.) My girlfriend:
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| OK, but where is my cryoderm? |
2.) My family, who watched my live results online. For six whole hours, on different continents, members of my extended family were glued to a little blue avatar that was running across the website.
3.) Bob M. and Robert W. for being my #1 fans. The latter actually took the time to stalk me and friend me on Facebook, later posting on my wall: "I told this girl I met at the Hilton pasta buffet Saturday night (who ran a 5:29) and her parents about your blog. She couldn't believe it was genuine. She thought it must truly be fictional satire."
This blog made it to the Hilton. Mission: accomplished.
4.) The Guatemalans who read this blog, who probably had not a fucking clue as to what I was even
talking about.
5.) The three sexy ladies who followed my blog.
6.) The Hubway bikes that destroyed my tendons every time I rode them.
7.) My physical therapist, podiatrist, and the college kids working at Marathon Sports, who really did nothing to help me, but slide my credit card and convince me to buy extraneous shit.
8.) The credit card companies who took a chance on me to provide me with aforementioned cards to finance this whole fucking thing.
9.) My foot for giving me something exciting to write about.
10.) DJ Adriano Fernandes from Brazil, who incentivized me to run through his awesome hour-long-Sound Cloud mixes.
11.) This girl, who stole my original blog URL on the first day I decided to run/write:
As a result of her yoinking the cliché title back in January, "Chicago Marathon Blog," I was forced to go back to the drawing board to come up with something more imaginative, honest, and yes, contentious.
Please note the part where I attempt to trash-talk this poor girl who is running to save the people of Africa. "Can't wait to pass you," I foolishly wrote on February 17th. I later deleted the comment out of fear of vindictive, karmic universe.
AND it looks as if... karma did find me and absolutely fuck me in the cul. Because my time was 5 hrs, 53 min.
And Megan's was:
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| 4:15. FML. |
Thanks for reading this blog. I hope you enjoyed reading about my dismal failures as much as I enjoyed writing about them.
