Wandering in the Fog
2008 California International Marathon Relay Challenge
December 7, 2008
Folsom, CA to Sacramento, CA
5.9 mile relay leg of 26.2 mile marathon

The very hardest thing about my modest career as a fitness writer for "the rest of us" is feeling compelled to take my own advice. I wrote "Do As I Say, Not As I Do" so frequently in Slow Fat Triathlete that it quickly became just "DSAID, NAID." But on my slow, arduous return from Boo-boo Kitty land this fall, I felt compelled to listen to myself, at least partially. Since I have this spiffy new book out and all.

Be Slow. Be Proud. Have Fun. That's what I say. And I was in fact having quite a bit of fun being slow and proud as my chronic fatigue symptoms subsided. Walking two miles was just fine, doggone it, and working up to riding 12 or 13 miles on the flat was even better. I even managed a quick swim in the Sacramento River, just to remind myself of the feel of open water. (Wet. Cool. Murky. Wonderful.) But when Leslie asked if I wanted to do a leg of the California International Marathon relay, I was hesitant. Almost six miles? And a race? Oh, don't worry, said Leslie, I'm walking it because I've had this issue with my foot; our team will be really slow, you can totally walk it. OK, I said. I can work up from two miles to six. And this became my new home marathon when Tim and I moved to Sacramento in July. So I really should use this as the first event of my comeback. And it would be fun to hang with Leslie, who I hadn't seen since February, and the Chico tri girls.

So I trained. Kind of. It was more fun to ride my bike along the American River Parkway than to lumber my ungainly body around the neighborhood, feeling my butt and lower back straining as I waddled. Many days I counted my walking to and from train stations in Sacto and Berkeley as my workout. But Thanksgiving weekend, with the CIM just over a week away, I pushed my walk distance way up to 4.75-ish miles (DAIS, NAID) and worked in some easy jogging. A time trial on the school track showed me that I could click off 16-minute miles in this vein. But allowing for the unheard-of distance of 5.9 miles and a bit of terrain, I told Leslie and the team I'd be around 17 minutes per mile. I was a bit achy after the Big Training Walk/Jog, but I felt reasonably confident.

Of course then I caught a cold, but by Friday, when I went to pick up our team's shirts and numbers at the expo, I felt good physically and mentally. The buzz of a major event gave me a huge rush of excitement. I was back! I was picking up my race number and timing chip! I was going to be an athlete again.

We went for lunch on Saturday at a divey breakfast joint, and as we walked, I asked Leslie, "Hey, how's your foot? Are you OK to walk?" She looked at me oddly for a second and then said, "Oh! No, I'm pregnant." "Get OUT!" I said. Well, she was looking a bit heavy in her baggy Chico Running Club sweatshirt, but I thought it was because her foot had been problematic and she hadn't been running or cycling. Foot! Hah! She had wanted to tell me in person, so had invented the foot tale. There was screaming and hugging, and then we had lunch.

My leg was the first one, starting just below Folsom Dam, so I was on a rattling old school bus up to the start sometime before six on race day. It was about 40 degrees and foggy, as it had been every morning all week, so even with my extra layers, I was freezing in the bus. The windows didn't close all the way, and at freeway speed, I felt myself congealing into a frosty mass. Once the bus disgorged us at Folsom, though, I realized that outdoors was worse. I was loath to take off my windbreaker and sweatpants, but when I saw masses of people converging on the sweats truck with their numbered bags, I joined the crowd and peeled off my clothes once I was safe in the huddled throng. Nothing like being surrounded by a few thousand marathoners to warm you up. I was nearly trampled while trying to extricate myself from the pants, but it was a small price to pay for the warmth of my fellow humans around me. My bag safely on the truck, I went to huddle near the start.

It was getting light as the starting gun went off and we shuffled toward the start, a flock of mostly skinny emperor penguins in DriFit and CoolMax. We crossed the line and my cozy flock dispersed, leaving me chilled but running (running!) through the mist. We were way out in the country, surrounded by scrub, pines, and oaks. The new grass was fresh and moist in the fog. It was marvelous.

And then we hit the first uphill.

Well, yes, I had looked at the elevation profile, but over a 26.2 mile race, rolling hills just look like tiny squiggles. And to a conditioned athlete, these rollers were mere blips. To me, though, they seemed more looming than bliplike. Still, I got through mile 1 in 17 minutes, even if I was breathing harder than I had planned to. And I actually seemed to be warming up a bit, hitting my stride a little. Mile 2: not too painful. Mile 3: still feeling good, though I was pretty much walking and jogging alone at this point, having been passed by everyone from 18 to 80. At the mile 4 marker, I asked for a time check and lo! I was averaging 16 minute miles! It wasn't exactly flying, but I felt pretty good about things. Sure, it was chilly, and the fog was so thick I could hardly see the where the next roller began, but I was on the right road and I was feeling slightly stronger than I'd anticipated.

The only fly in my ointment was the troublesome hot spot forming on my right sole. In yet another mad frenzy of "DSAID, NAID," I had decided to replace my insoles with SuperFeet insoles, which promised better shock absorption. I had hiked many miles in SuperFeet replacement insoles and found their shock absorptive qualities to be as advertised, so I blithely put a pair in my running shoes. And didn't get a chance to test them out before the relay. D'oh. Oh, well. Learn from my mistakes, people. Because clearly I don't.

At mile 5 I had that squishy feeling that I know all too well is a blister the size of a Sacajawea gold dollar forming on my poor foot. Ouch. But I had less than a mile to go! I could easily survive 15 minutes of blister after a year of Boo-boo Kitty. I wasn't able to pick my pace up much, but I did power through the blister. I also powered through a lot of heavy equipment, since Oak Avenue was being dug up by serious machinery for this whole last mile. The whole rural peace and quiet thing was long gone. This was suburbs and roadworks. Mmmm-mmmm good.

With relief, I spotted the traffic lights for Fair Oaks Avenue, made the left turn and ....wait. Where was Margaret? Where was .... anybody? There were some volunteer types milling about, but nothing that looked like a relay exchange point, and definitely not Margaret, who I knew would be resplendent in a new aquamarine hoodie from the Fleet Feet bargain table. I trotted up, confused. One of the volunteers hollered, "Your friend left a few minutes ago." I was aghast. Margaret wouldn't desert me, I knew.

"What? What time is it?" I yelled back, thinking that maybe the blister had cost me a lot more time than I thought.

"It's 8:38."

"What's going on?!! I'm two minutes earlier than my earliest projected arrival time! She knew I would be here between 8:40 and 8:45!" I was kind of ticked.

"Oh, they told us there was nobody left out on the course, so we told her to just go on."

I felt absurd tears welling up. "I am NOT NOBODY!" I yelled back. "I am SOMEBODY, with a race number, wearing a race shirt! How could they miss me? It's not like I'm small or anything!" Now I was really ticked. "Nobody said there was a time limit on this thing!"

The (by now somewhat abashed) volunteer replied that the guys picking up the road barriers and cones had provided this incredibly faulty information. Now I was ticked at the cone guys, since they had waved at me twice. They'd pass me, then I'd pass them as they stopped to pick things up, and that happened at least twice. How could they not have remembered?

"Well, they were just WRONG!" I managed. "People are supposed to catch a bus from here back to town - you oughta have a better system then 'the cone guys' to tell you when the last racer comes in! What the hell?"

"We knew they took some people away in ambulances, so we told your runner to go."

All this merry dialogue was taking place as I jogged off down the road. I could actually see Margaret through the fog, and I didn't want to talk to these idiots any more. I wanted to catch my runner and give her the timing chip if it was the last thing I did. I didn't know how I was going to get home and I didn't care.

"I'll give you a ride!" yelled another volunteer.

"Well, you better catch up to me!" I answered as I kept jogging, somehow thinking that this lent my failed chip transfer an air of legitimacy. I wasn't really sure about my ability to catch Margaret, since she is a world-class triathlete in her age group (70-74, I believe), but I was fueled by anger.

When the nice volunteer pulled up in his Blazer, though, I didn't hold out any more. I sat in the car and tried to be gracious. He kept explaining how everyone told them the road was clear. We gave Margaret the chip and approached the next challenge - finding the bus. I was fully intending to have this guy drive me to downtown Sac if need be, but when we finally saw the bus up ahead, I figured I'd be ok. This bus, though, was the "sag wagon," picking up injured and sick runners along the way. They had actually passed me around mile 4 and asked if I needed a ride. "No thank you!" I said with indignation. "I'm fine!" (Hey, that was someone else who should have known there was a runner on the course.)

I was afraid I'd be going 5 miles an hour on the sag wagon, picking up the infirm and wounded all the way back, but at Gold River we left the race and hit the freeway. More freezing at freeway speed, now in inadequate and damp running clothes, made me wish we were still going 5 miles an hour.

The infirm and wounded piled out of the bus at the finish area near the Capitol and without hesitation went off to look for our sweats. I have never been so excited by sweats in my life. I was so cold it took me about 45 minutes to pull them on, and once I was done I was in no mood to keep standing in the cold watching runners finish. I limped down L Street and cheered runners on along the way - these were the fast folks, the sub-3-hour people - and stopped at a cafe for the hottest, tastiest mocha I have ever had. Somewhat restored, I limped on, finally arriving back at the Holiday Inn Express, where I showered, nibbled, and fell asleep watching football while waiting for my team to return.

Jennifer and Margaret arrived together, since Margaret, who like me (and because of me) had missed the bus back and been shuttled around between sag wagons and regular buses. Finally Leslie arrived, to tell us that she had been announced as the anchor leg of the last relay team to finish. Yay, Team Moving Forward! Margaret had run 13-minute miles and Jennifer had done 10's, so it was Leslie and me who bore responsibility. And Leslie's not just pregnant, but 7 months pregnant.

So yeah, now that I'm not sick any more, I need to get much more serious about my training. Much. But now I can train, so that's pretty cool. I'm out of the woods, I'm out of the fog.