I don't know if we're ambitious, or if we just don't have any sense, because Karen and I signed up for the ING Georgia Half marathon in Atlanta on March 27.
The errand I mentioned in yesterday’s blog was a trip to the Georgia Dome to pick up my and Karen’s race t-shirt, microchip for our shoes, race bibs and other random things. I like that you have to pick the packed up in person, because it gives you a chance to scope out the competition. I’m not pretending that I’ll win any races, but I like to size people up and then decide if I could beat them or not. Even if it’s all hypothetical, because I'll probably not recognize anyone the next day during the race. So that’s what I did Saturday.
Sunday morning Karen and I were up at 5:45 to catch MARTA to the start line. My initial thoughts were to take lots of pictures, and despite the early hour I did manage to get a few in. Here we are, walking through the parking lot to the train.
Now waiting for the train. A little nervous, a little excited. I may or may not have questioned my decision to run this race at this point.
Once we got downtown, it was close to the race start time but we decided [for obvious reasons] to get in line for the porta potties. The line was long, but moved quickly. You probably don’t need any more details on the porta potties, but this pit stop was important because we had to run to get to the start line.
And now a little background is needed. When you sign up for a race that is competitive, with prizes for the good runners, you have to tell them your estimated race time. The race organizers use this race time to lump you with other runners who run at that pace, and you all start in the same corral. The “elite” runners are in Corral A, and the slowest of slows are way in the back. I think that was corral M for this race. The idea here is that the fastest runners aren’t then held back by slow-moving traffic, and slow movers don’t have fast runners bobbing and weaving around them.
Back to the porta potties. We do our business and we realize we have about a minute to get into the corral. We were looking for our corral [I can’t remember our letters, Karen, can you help me out?], but weren’t sure where to go. We found the other racers, all 15,998 of them, and squeezed through the barrier to get ready to run. Next thing you know, the race has started, and the crowd slowly starts shuffling ahead. As we approached the start line I started looking around and realized we were in corral D. Oh Shi*t. Here we are, approaching the start.
These people were gonna run fast, and we were not. Once we passed under the start line and the crowd started running, Karen and I did our best to stay to the side as people sprinted past us. Some people were genuinely [seemingly] in good shape and probably ran the entire 13.1 or 26.2 miles at that speed. But some seriously big butts came barreling past us, and I would love to know if they maintained that same pace the whole race. I think not. We did get a comment or two from some fast runners who did not appreciate us "holding them up". So sorry to those folks, I'd feel bad about being an obstacle, but none of the complainers were in the running for first place, so I would have preferred they just keep running and keep quiet.
Karen and I did great, we maintained a steady pace the entire race. We had one more porta pottie pitstop at about mile 7.5, but otherwise ran the whole thing. I don’t remember the entire race, but here are a few thoughts that crossed my mind at some point or another.
The race started in downtown Atlanta. I wonder what the homeless people thought when 16,000 people came sprinting past them before sun-up. They must have thought we were crazy.
The marathon course starts with the half course, and then splits off again, and then joins again, then splits off, and we all finish together. When we passed mile 8.5 or so the winner of the full marathon lapped us. I think he was on mile 18 or 19? He was full out sprinting, and that is really the most impressive display of athleticism I’ve seen in person. When he passed us I did feel a little extra spring in my step. Then I remembered that I’m no Kenyan, and I went back to my shuffle/jog.
The guy dressed as a caveman at the cheering station at Mile 4 was hysterical. I don’t know who you are, but you kept me giggling for several miles. So did the very hung over guy at Mile 8 who was pouring himself a Miller Lite.
My sister is the only person I know that “feels bad about throwing down the water cups”, and insisted on jogging over to a trashcan to dispose of them. Keep in mind there were hundreds, if not thousands of cups all over the ground as runners grabbed water or Gatorade and disposed of them on the ground. I grabbed cups, chugged down the liquid and threw the cup down with gusto like I imagined the Kenyan doing, and added to the hundreds already littering the streets. Hundreds of cups, but minus the 4 Karen used.
Mile 9 was a struggle for me, and I cramped in Mile 11. The start of Miles 10, 11, 12, and 13 each had a decently steady hill to climb. I cursed the people who decided on this route at mile 11.5.
Thank you to the guy behind me at mile 12.8 who told his running partner that we had “about 2 minutes left” and that the finish line was just around the corner ahead. My energy was gone, I was ready to be done running, and his words kept my feet moving. The end was near!
To the guy who at that same time stopped running right in front of me. Not smart, dude. I’m barely able to run in a straight line at this time, and there’s no chance of me changing direction to avoid you. Sorry I had to run into you, but you had it coming.
No banana has ever tasted as good as the one we got after the race.
Here’s Karen, after the race.
I’m guessing that I’ll be content with no races to run for a few months. At that point I’d advice you not to have a glass of wine while in my company, or I’ll try to convince you to run with me. I can be very persuasive. Just ask Karen.
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