Running Ruminations

Before last weekend, the only race I’ve really repeated in excess was the Chicago Marathon (2007, 08, 10, and 13). Now I can say the same for the San Francisco Marathon (2010, 14, 17, 18). It’s funny only because I don’t typically repeat races more than twice simply because there are so many races out there. I keep coming back to SF, however. It’s special, and I’m apparently more sentimental than I acknowledge. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The backstory; alternate title: that freaking stroke

I’ve written about this in previous SF Marathon recaps, but TSFM — or these days, the Biofreeze San Francisco Marathon (BSFM) — holds a pretty special place in my heart. Back in the day, I decided to run the 2010 race for fun and made a quick trip in from Chicago to do so. Years later, for whatever reason (honestly, probably because I got an email about it), I applied to be a social media ambassador (SMA) for the ‘14 race, when I was still in Chicago — and before I knew we were moving here — and I was selected. Through that first SMA program, I met tons of folks who’d become some of my closest friends, many of my first California friends, and I’ve been in the race’s SMA program since then, going on five years.  

This year, I got notice that I had been selected to be part of this year’s SMA group sometime in late January, if I recall correctly, which was just great. I was super excited; I thought I’d finally really rock that super hard marathon this year (fourth time’s a charm) after surely having an incredible spring PA racing season with my Wolfpack team and destroying PRs in spring ‘18, just as I had in spring ‘17…

… and then the universe misaligned, or otherwise some weirdass, still-inexplicable shit happened, and I had a stroke on 2/4. I’ve written and talked about it ad nauseum now (understandable, I hope), and so once I got cleared to run, 4.5 weeks after having a stroke that could have killed me, or could have paralyzed me, or could have left me with any number of stroke-related deficits — but didn’t — after I got cleared to run, after taking off the most amount of time I had since mid-2010 (due to pregnancy #1), I registered for TSFM.

As though it weren’t obvious, registering for a marathon a few months out, just 4.5 weeks after having a stroke, is an exercise in trust and blind hope. Let’s be honest: some will call that decision stupid. I understand. I think it’s all of the above.

The thing — and there’s always a thing, right? — is that training to run a marathon, the same marathon that I’d be doing any other year, was going to be an in for me, a way for me to taste the normalcy that was so weirdly and abruptly (and temporarily, luckily) taken from me in February. Registering for a marathon — and a “hard” marathon, at that — felt like taking a leap of faith, trusting that between mid-March and late July I’d get back to feeling like my usual running self. Plus, to boot, I was registering under an elite/subseeded status again, which stoked my ego just a little bit and made me feel that much more determined to see what I could do — safely, and under solid coaching from Lisa — between March and July. I saw my GP, had a conversation with her about it, and after a few weeks of pedestrian running, Lisa and I delicately entered the utter and exhausting grind that I just freaking love.   

 

 

With marathoning, we (royal we) always talk about trusting in the process. The process is this weird, sorta vague catch-all that can befuddle novice runners, of course, but also the most experienced ones in the room as well. There are many aspects to marathon training and racing that are, for lack of a better description, based in sound science, physiological principles that any exercise scientist or coach worth anything would agree upon. That’s the easy part.

The hard part is all the nebulous stuff, the stuff that’s sorta beyond description and well beyond being applicable to the masses — all the listen to your body or your mileage may (literally, figuratively) vary aspects — that can leave us questioning how much we actually know about how to do this stuff at all, much less how to do it well. We know a lot, but frustratingly, we also *don’t* know a lot, too. It’s an incredible amount of trial and error for all of us, to some degree.

Throw the curveball that is walking away from having a stroke out of fucking nowhere, and trusting the process and listen to your body, all the aforementioned gray stuff to marathon training, and training for this year’s SF marathon was unlike anything I’ve had before. Every day, every week, every workout felt like it was a massive experiment, a line in a Word doc that’d end with a question mark instead of a period. Would I be able to do this? In the mid-March to late-July timeframe, I went from literally zero miles and feeling so.freaking.sore after every single run, as though I were doing this all for the first time in my life, not my thirty-second, to feeling as strong and fast, if not more so, than I ever have.

As time wore on, it was as though the events that happened on 2/4 actually never happened, like it was some weird mindfuck that everyone in the world was in on; like instead, I just randomly decided to stop running (and lifting, and picking up my kids, and so on) cold turkey for no reason whatsoever for over a month… and then one day, I decided to start all over again.

I can’t tell you how many times during my training that my mind would go to the stroke. If I do this workout, what if it somehow does something to my brain? Or I shouldn’t run predawn during the week because what if something happens to me? No one’s going to find me for a while. It’s too early. Of course, there was often the I had a headache yesterday; what if today’s run sets me over the edge? The last thing I did before I had a stroke on 2/4 was run. Correlation doesn’t equal causation, but… And on, and on, it went. There’s a reason I went to counseling over this mess, friends.

Early in my training, I was nervous and often would make it a point to run in very crowded places — places and times that I’d usually avoid, for that very reason — with the thinking that oh shit if something happens, people will be there to help me. It’s all relative, I know, especially in the world of stroke survivors, but it took me a while to regain my confidence when I ran: ironic only because it’s through running that I glean confidence in the first place. (In the world of stroke survivors, I am as lucky as they come; it’s not lost on me. However, knowing my luck isn’t easy, either. I’m not complaining at all, but I hope that this back-and-forth can give you an idea of what the mental trauma was/has been and how/where running has intersected my “grieving” process, if you want to call it that. This sport has given and given to me, and this has become especially apparent to me in the past six months).   

As is often the case with these things, time helped considerably. Each week and month I became farther and farther removed from 2/4, the less I thought about it. Friends and acquaintances would ask “how things were going” or “how I felt,” and my answer was always the same (great, thanks, like I’ve never been better). Flip as it might have been, my curt response was proof positive to the world, at large — anyone who cared, anyway — and to me that I was fine now; that yes, 2/4 happened, but it was over and done and I had luckily averted catastrophe somehow. I wanted it behind me forever and ever.

In the weeks and months following 2/4, once I began running again, I was in my element and poring myself into training for the distance that is so brutal but the one that brings me such a huge ROI. Most importantly, I was excited, I was healthy on all accounts, and I was having a blast with all the training and racing leading up to The Big Day.

This is all to say that by the time BSFM weekend rolled around, I was ready. In talking with Lisa pre-race, we believed that I was in great shape, arguably PRable even, and when asked whether I wanted to go Big Time or merely have a confidence booster for a race, I didn’t hesitate. I wanted to run hard and fast because I knew I had it in me.

I guess more than anything, this year’s race — which would be almost six months to the day since the stroke — was going to be one of the most symbolic and meaningful 26.2s I’ve run. I owed it to myself to perform to the very best I could.

Expo fun on Saturday

After a short shakeout at home early on Saturday, I headed north to work the expo at Fort Mason, as I typically do each SFM weekend. Like last year, I’d be helping at the next year’s early bird registration area, which I find super fun and energizing. Really, it boils down to loving talking to random strangers about running. I had a good time working with my fellow SMAs, and I think the best thing all morning was helping an 86 year-old man — who was running Sunday’s first half — register for next year’s first half. He had asked me to help him, and I thought he wanted simple, general guidance. Instead, I did his entire registration for him, and when the confirmation screen appeared at the end, we both whooped and hollered and gave the other a huge hug. (Others nearby asked me if I knew him. Not at all! How awesome that an octogenarian was going to be running a HM the next day though and had every intention of running next year’s, too?! That’s my dream).

 

Lisa came right as I was about to leave, and one last pre-race strategy sesh solidified everything we had talked about earlier. The race was mine to have; the training was there. My knowledge and experience would help me, even with this year’s new course, and I’d ostensibly know when and where to push and pull back. Again: I was ready. Quiet confidence. Keep the thing, the thing, and just go do the thing. It’s that simple.

 

A nice change from years past at SF was that I’d have the great company of my two teammates, Julie and Oscar, at the race. They’re both much faster runners than me and had goals for the race that were basically not even in the same galaxy as mine, but no matter. They’re both great humans and humble and talented athletes, and having their company pre-race at the VIP lounge and in the subseeded section was going to be awesome. We were all ready to have a great race day.

Not long after leaving the expo, and after going to Dateway to pick up my Safeway vegetarian sushi to complement my veg pho from San Jose, I went to Erin’s, per yoosh for SF race eve. We go back to Chicago, circa 2010 during Boston training, and part of what makes my SF race experience so lovely each year is staying with her and catching up. You’d think that our ~50 mile distance wouldn’t so heavily preclude us from seeing each other, but then you’d see our schedules, and you’d live in the Bay Area and understand the epic level of shit that is the traffic between SF and SJ, and you’d understand. Anyway. I wouldn’t be nearly as enthusiastic to come into SF, go to sleep at 8pm, and wake up at 3am if I weren’t doing that all at her house. Plus, we run by her place around mile 19.5, so I almost always get to see her mid-race. I love her so much.

I was in bed by 8pm, and aside from a few quick wake-ups when my family called me or when I had to pee, I was out until 3am: good enough. A quick bowl of oats with pb and soymilk, part of a banana, some tea, and a PRP later, and I was in a Lyft by about 3:50am to get to the Ferry Building by 4:15 for a 5:30 race start.

Race day

Luckily, I had earned enough credit through my SMA efforts to earn a spot for my teammates Oscar and Julie; my friend, teammate, and training partner Janet, who’d be biking the course; Coach Lisa, who’d also be biking the course; and me at Marketbar in the VIP lounge area. Like last year, it was an awesome set-up: real bathrooms; a heated venue (it was “feels like 49” when I left Erin’s!); a full spread of food, beverages, and libations; our own separate gear-check, the whole shebang. I couldn’t have asked for a better pre-race environment.

I can’t say enough how lovely it was to share the race morning jazz with my teammates and with so many other SMAs. Some SMAs I hadn’t really gotten a chance to talk to the day before at the expo, like Elysha, Ron, Scott, and Charles, so we had a good time bullshitting for a while, staying comfortable and seemingly carefree. Around 5:15, Julie, Oscar, and I casually walked out for some last pics with Lisa and to go toe the line. It was cool, probably in the low 50s and pretty humid, with the GGB enveloped in thick fog, and not a ton of wind like last year. As far as marathon mornings go — and in late July, no less — it was perfect.  

 

And we’re off

A 5:30 start time promises that you begin BSFM in the darkness, which can be a little off-putting if you’re not used to it. Fortunately, the first few miles along the Embarcadero and through Fisherman’s Wharf are all flat, punctuated periodically by trolley or train tracks that necessitate a bit of attention to your footfall. This year’s race changes meant that only the full marathoners were starting at 5:30 (and more or less right at 5:30, since runners were released from the corrals pretty shortly after each other), which was a welcome change from years past. It seemed like right away, I was surrounded by 100+ much-faster-than-me runners right off the line, most of whom were from the A corral behind me. I saw Lisa on the sidelines early, maybe around mile 2 or 3, as well as another Wolfpack master runner, Bob, whom I didn’t know was running (and actually had never met before). That’d mean there were four of us running that day, which was awesome!

The first hill is right around mile 4, as you approach Fort Mason from Fisherman’s Wharf, and even with that longish ascent, I was feeling solid. My pace locked in early around 7:31/33, which was right on the low end of where I wanted to be for the day, with the goal time range being something like a 3:17-21. As far as I can remember from SF ‘17, I was running much more evenly and consistently early at this year’s race and honestly felt really good, almost as though I were moving in slow motion but still posting low 7:30s (#thankyoutaper).

The 2018 BSFM course changes

The 2018 new course manifested right before the GGB, at about mile 5. In years past, runners would ascend a fairly long and steep hill to get up to the bridge and onto the roadway. Then, after an out and back on the bridge, after looping the turn-around at the vista/overlook in Marin, runners would exit the bridge and begin their travel on Lincoln, through the Presidio, towards GGP.

With the GGB Authority revoking roadway privileges for BSFM, it meant that this year’s marathoners only were allowed to run the bridge but had to stay on the sidewalks on the outermost periphery of both the northbound and southbound sides. Simply stated, that meant that for miles 5 and 6, we marathoners sorta approached the bridge from below (by way of Crissy Field) and then double-backed to climb a different access road to the bridge. I feel fairly certain that this way was the same path that we had raced during ATB12k in June (though in reverse), and it may have even been the same path as we traveled in the Mermaid 10 miler back in 2015 or even Nike Women’s half in ‘14. At any rate, these new climbs still afforded quite lovely views of the bridge (encased in fog as it was), and the climb, while long, was still quite enjoyable. I saw Lisa right around mile 6, during one of the steeper parts of the climb to get onto the bridge’s sidewalks, and I was feeling strong and just having a great time only steps away from getting onto the bridge.

 

Unlike in many of my other previous marathons, I was happily going along and doing my own thing. Part of that was necessity — my buddy Don was pacing 3:15 and was far ahead of me, and a guy I recognized from Modesto ‘16 was pacing 3:25, too far behind me — but a bigger part of it was comfort. I was happily chatting with other runners who were in my surroundings (including a guy from Alabama who had come to run SF as his 35th marathon) and just taking in the experience. When we were still in Crissy Field, I tucked in with a group of guys to help block some of the wind, but by the time we made that double-back near the bridge our group had disbanded. It was fine.

SF runners/racers have strong opinions about the bridge and running on it. The novelty of it is neat, sure, especially if you don’t live in the Bay Area, and when the race announced that only full marathoners were going to be running on it, many people online seemed livid. I totally understand it from a safety standpoint, and truth be told, I felt safer running on the sidewalks (which are a bit elevated from the cars and have some pretty significant barriers between them and the roadway) than I ever have on the road.  

The thing about the bridge, however, especially in the early morning hours, is that it’s often foggy, rainy, windy, or all three, and that can spell disaster real quick when you’re trying to run fast. My one and only goal for the bridge was to avoid stepping on anything metal or shiny — slip hazards like hellllllllllllll — which often meant that my footing felt more like prancing and less like actual running. Added to that was having to periodically duck around the support beams that line the outside of the bridge (and being startled by seeing a random cop just hanging out there!), making my hips kinda get more plane-of-motion activity than they showed up for that day.

Once we got off the bridge in Marin, around mile 8, we ran through the vista point’s water station as we’ve always done but then ducked around the vista via a literal dirt path. Doing so would essentially allow runners to go under the bridge and then re-enter it, on the southbound side, via a paved access road. Again, as far as I can tell, this access road was the same one we climbed circa mile 1-2 of ATB12k in June, that good ol’ long ascent that everyone hates so much. Virtually at the top of that access road was mile 9, and we thus began our trek back over the bridge, on the southbound side, which somehow felt like it had far harsher conditions than that on the north. (I actually thought to myself over there, well, I haven’t had a cold or blustery marathon in a while; it’s probably time). The wind was whipping hard enough, and it was sufficiently foggy and wet, that I actually felt cold while running in a singlet for probably the first time since moving here. That’s the bridge for you!

As we exited the bridge, circa mile 10.5, we had just a few more course changes to maneuver. In years past, when you exited the bridge, you’re right back on the road and begin making your way up and then fiercely down Lincoln, a paved road. This year, when we exited the bridge, we were diverted to another dirt road with another climb before eventually merging over and hopping into Lincoln around mile 11. Once there, we began the screaming downhill as we inched our way closer to GG park. We had more dirt in this year’s marathon than ever before, which, with it being SF and all (and home to some of the most world renown trails) was actually kinda cool, if not a bit unexpected.

I had been feeling good, had been running pretty consistently, and had been doing my nutrition like clockwork: an SiS gel every 4 miles and alternating among one with 75mg caffeine, one with electrolytes, and one that was “just” a gel. I grabbed water and horrible-tasting orange nuun at the aid stations and pace wise probably felt the most comfortable that I ever had in this race. Everything was good and fairly predictable, aside from the few course modifications.

For some reason though, it was around mile 11 that I was beginning to feel off, as though I were working much harder than I actually was. I tried not to dwell on it — if you’ve run a marathon, you know that how you feel can vary tremendously from mile to mile, somehow oscillating between euphoric joy and catastrophic, existential depression (just me?) — and I figured it was some moment that’d surely pass. I redirected my thoughts and focused on trying to open my SiS with very wet hands, getting it all over my shorts in the process, and rode out the long downhill before climbing into the park. Focus on the task at hand was the only thing on my mind — take the SiS, use gravity on this descent, stay strong, remember that nothing is catastrophically wrong –and again, I just waited for the random wow this feels really hard today sentiment to pass. It had to; I still had two hours of running ahead of me!

Into the park, with one more change

Virtually steps after I entered the park, around mile 13.5, I saw who I thought was Lisa in the distance (facing runners around mile 17.5) and I heard an ERIN! and saw Janet on her bike. I was thrilled to see her because it was probably seconds before that I had begun fantasizing about how today felt like a better day to run a half than a full due to the weird off-feeling that had manifested and just wasn’t going away. I may have even mentioned something to Janet as I passed her, something along the lines of this may be a rough one for a while. Again, I was trying not to dwell on the feelings for too long, but it had been nearly a 5k since those thoughts first surfaced, and they still hadn’t passed. I was beginning to get a little nervous.

 

In years past, the park was always a twilight zone for me. We marathoners drop about a 10k in there, zig-zagging and going across nearly the entire thing, and it typically gets boring fast and makes me lose my entire sense of direction for some reason. As I was trying to get out of the funk that appeared at mile 11, I told myself that there’d be enough ascents/descents in the park to keep things interesting and that maybe that was all I needed to get a second wind and out of mental purgatory. Instead, for some reason that’s still inexplicable to me, my left glute felt like it had completely shut down, making me feel like I was dragging ass (literally, I guess). I had noticed that my left hamstring felt weirdly tight earlier in the race but chalked it up to nothing, just a weird bodily feedback I got thrown mid-race, since I haven’t had any issues with my butt or my hammy at all for many years. I wasn’t cramping or anything like that, and my stride didn’t feel completely horrible; my body just seemed like it was having an off day and that my butt decided it didn’t want to show up to party for another 13 miles. Cool!

I had some decisions to make. Nothing felt catastrophically wrong; nothing was broken, breaking, torn, or ripping; I wasn’t having some existential crisis; I didn’t feel like I was mentally checking out; I just felt off. I did the only thing I thought I could do, which was drag my ass along for the ride and try to hang. I used gravity when it was advantageous, didn’t clock watch, tried not to dissociate, didn’t dwell on it, and simply went. Somewhere in the park, probably around mile 15-16, I’m pretty sure I slapped my own ass (#classy) to see if I could wake things up a bit; mid-race, any strategy is a good strategy, right?

Soon after my body was making it clear that it felt off, I ran into a sea of runner humanity whom I definitely wasn’t expecting. More of the changes to this year’s race included different start times for the half marathoners: 6:30 for the first half and 6:45 for the second half. Because of the way the full course overlapped with the two half marathon courses, it meant that faster full marathoners would run into the 2:45 HM runners. I went from having virtually the entire road to myself in GGP to having to zig-zag and Frogger-style run through virtual rows of HM runners and walkers five-plus across. Talk about serendipity; if I were having the race I had trained for, I would have pretty pissed to have to dodge and weave incessantly. I still did, don’t get me wrong, but I tried to take the momentary pace reprieve as another opportunity to regroup and wait for the redirection to manifest (again). In doing so, I ran into Bertrand doing the half (a nice surprise), near my mile 17, and slowly began working my way through the various day’s HM pace groups, starting with 2:45.

Knowing that I had another 9 miles to go, with climbing and descending for 7 of those, was mentally exhausting to think about as I was waiting for the funk to pass. My butt still wasn’t feeling like it was showing up for some reason, and while quitting sounded attractive, there was no way I’d do it in the absence of a real, warranted reason. Slowing down significantly wasn’t going to help, either. I did the only thing I could do, which was simply to keep going, staying HERE as the scribbles on my left hand reminded me to do, and trust that the funk had to pass eventually.

Much to my surprise, after I had passed 2:45 and then a faster HM pace group, and after the 3:25 marathon group passed me (shit!), we popped out of the park around mile 19. For the first time in my four years of running SF, we didn’t loop around Stow Lake! Apparently I had completely overlooked this omission from the course map. For once, I felt like the GGP portion of the marathon flew by. Sunny was right at mile 19, near Haight, right when we exited the park, and her darling self was a welcome sight to behold. I knew that I’d see Erin soon, near Haight/Ashbury, and I told myself that a huge descent awaited me and that maybe the funk would fiiiiiiiiiinally lift.

Haight-end and just hanging

Hope sprang eternal from mile 11-onward. I heard Erin around 19.5 before I saw her, and as always, it was so great to see her (and Stella’s) friendly face, even if I wasn’t feeling too hot. Shortly after I saw her, I came upon the Biofreeze-themed aid station this year at mile 20 — an obvious nod to the race’s new title sponsor for the next three years. This huge Biofreeze station had several volunteers out literally spraying (or rubbing?) down runners’ affected body parts, which seemed really peculiar (or awkward at best and dangerous/precarious at worst, especially if they got the Biofreeze on the roads). I get it, but…

With the adjusted start times for the half marathons, what usually would be a pretty empty and open Haight Street was much more crowded than usual, which of course has its own set of advantages and disadvantages over the final 10k of a marathon. I tried to use all the people around me as a distraction and as something to focus on — pass that person, then go pass that person, and that girl up there? You could probably pass her — instead of fixating on wondering why I was feeling so off. Haight presents runners with a barreling downhill, so aside from chasing people down, I tried to focus on using gravity advantageously, and when I was redirected off Haight, to stay steady on the ascents. My nutrition was still running like clockwork every four miles, and in the few times that flats presented between ascents and descents, I tried to open things up a bit, though I was still running fairly exclusively by feel.

Somewhere around mile 22 or 23, I began doing poor mental math and some bargaining. I was still feeling pretty off, try as I might to turn things around, and I knew we would be climbing through about mile 24. Ok, so if I run 9 minute miles, or maybe even 10 minute miles, that means that I could finish in  … yeah. That conversation. I considered the merits of purposely slowing things down and maybe just shooting for a 3:30, or maybe even a 3:35, or my new BQ time since I’d be aging up in November, though for the life of me, I couldn’t remember if it was 3:40 or 3:45. I’m proud to say that I dug my head outta my ass and just kept going, continuing to pass HM runners around me, and stayed the course by running on feel. For whatever reason, I apparently wasn’t going to have it in me to run the time that I was capable of running that day, but the more I lollygagged, the longer it was going to take me to finish, which wasn’t a desirable option. This wasn’t an issue related to mental toughness or lack thereof, poor fitness, or bonking; it was just a stupid off day that happened on the wrong day that week. boohiss

Aside from my usual nutrition every 4 miles, in the back ~5k or ~8k of the marathon, I took advantage of the random opportunities for real food that unofficial aid station tables offered: orange slices, pretzels from a PBR station, and watermelon. In fact, I’m pretty sure I didn’t chuck that last piece of watermelon until about mile 25.9 or so. Words can’t describe how wonderful the pretzels and watermelon tasted, though I admittedly had to turn off my head telling me I was going to contact a norovirus. So far, so good…  

And finally, after we cleared the last hill around mile 24, the Strava table brought the energy just like they did last year, and seeing Gregg in a unicorn suit around mile 25.5 was awesome (and his high five just perfect). Probably seconds after seeing Gregg I saw Janet on her bike again for the first time since the park, and the last thing I remember her yelling was “you’re so close!”. I tried to continue digging and picking it up as much as I could muster, and the green finish line arches crept ever nearer, slowly but surely.

 

And like that – it was over. A high 3:26, just a little slower than last year’s SF, my slowest marathon that I’ve raced in many years, but damn, one of the most meaningful.

We done!

Happily — enthusiastically, really — I can say that the new full course measured much closer to 26.2 than the old course (coming in around 26.3, which is understandable, instead of 26.6+). Shortly after I finished, a woman from NY came up behind me and said that she had been hanging with me since the park (which was forever ago!) and that I kept pulling her along — so much so that she wanted to thank me! —  which made me smile. Solitary sport, my ass.

It can be really frustrating to have an “off” day, but of course, they happen. We marathoners hope that they don’t happen on race day simply because we aren’t presented with many opportunities to go race this behemoth distance all that often — what, with taking a proper amount of recovery and all — but it can happen. It’s kinda part of the gamble. The nice thing is that this distance easily lends itself to giving you the opportunity to have an A, B, C … Z goal, so even if you don’t realize The Big Sexy Goal, you can still realize something, which is satisfying. I had an off day on race day — maybe because I had raced W2W the week before? Maybe because I was tired or needed to taper better? Maybe because I took the front half too aggressively? I got nothing — which is annoying, sure, but it’s ok. Again: it happens.  

While SF 18 is my slowest marathon in years, and that’s frustrating to me because of all the obvious reasons about the shape I believe myself to be in and yadda yadda yadda, honestly, I finished the race really, really happy. Promise. I know I put in great training, and those effects aren’t going to simply vanish overnight. The prospect of continuing to build this fitness is kinda exciting, to be honest. I still have five months left in 2018 and the rest of my life to build on this stuff! Extra exclamation mark needed for emphasis!!

At the VIP party, as I was talking with my teammates about it, I said that I’ve been doing this stuff long enough to know that I’ll be let down/upset/angry more often than not if I tie my happiness or satisfaction up into my race time. I absolutely wanted to race faster, and I believe that it’s in my wheelhouse to do so right now, but it didn’t happen on Sunday, and that’s ok. Races unfold in weird ways sometimes; no pity, tears, or sorrow is necessary. It happens. We can analyze and dissect to the ends of the world — and sometimes, doing so is necessary to unearth something more nefarious or detrimental at play, like iron issues or simmering injuries or whatever — but sometimes, I think the best thing we can do is shrug and say eh.   

When the race got strangely tough beginning at mile 11, I reminded myself that I was the happiest person on the course, that no one was happier to be racing in the streets of SF than me, and I completely believe it. Six months ago, my life was very different. Text messages post-race from friends that talked about how far I had come this year brought me to my knees because it’s so true; I can’t talk about this year’s SF race without also acknowledging the very important Bigger Picture that has been this year. At SF, I felt like my fitness was there for a much faster race and for a sizable PR — neither which happened — but it’ll come. Until then, I’ll just keep putting in the work and be grateful as hell for whatever I can do on the day.

Typically, mid-race at SF, I always question why I train so hard to run such a hard marathon course, but honestly, it’s so fun — even when I don’t feel great, the time flies by — that I kinda can’t imagine *not* doing this marathon every year. This year’s SF marathon — my fourth iteration of this marathon, my 32nd lifetime marathon, just shy of 6 months after having my stroke, and my 20th Boston qualifier — was incredibly special to me on levels that are hard to comprehend and explain.

I couldn’t be more ecstatic to be able to do this stuff. The last six months have been very hard, but I’ve come far.

I am so, so profoundly lucky.

Thank you. 

32nd marathon – 20th BQ – 3:26 – 5/292 AG – 417/5300 OA – 36/1713 F

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Postscript:

• Is it hilly? Obviously. My Garmin had over 2,000’+ climbing for the full. Strava leans closer to 1,300-1,500’. It would behoove you to train on hills. Everything is runnable, however.
• What’s the weather? It depends. Early in the marathon, it’s often overcast, foggy, and windy, if not also raining. By the time you make it into and out of GGP, the sun has usually come out. It’s almost 100% better weather in SF in late July than anywhere else in the country at the same time of year. Post-bridge, the weather was pretty overcast and cool (hello, race day perfection).
• Can you BQ here? Sure, if the course plays to your strengths. I think there were about 320 runners who qualified this year (out of the 5,000+ who ran), so it’s not a BQ factory in the same way that CIM or Chicago is, but it’s not impossible.
• Why is it so expensive? Because it’s SF. Everything is expensive.
• What are the runner premiums? Typically, a medal, a long sleeve tech tee, and maybe free pictures, depending on the year. Otherwise, the normal stuff, *plus* a well-organized urban marathon.
• What haven’t you told me yet about your race? That I had The Greatest Showman soundtrack in my head incessantly for most of it. We are glooooooooooooooorious!
• Should I do it next year? Yup. c u there