Race Recap: The BAA Half Marathon

I considered breaking this into two posts. Then I realized that since I don't get paid per click, there is really no reason to hold anyone in suspense (for the record, this blog isn't monetized. I give it up for free!). I also realized that I'm documenting this as much for myself and my own nostalgia as I am for everyone else. So settle in, folks... this is going to be a long run (ahahaha get it?).

That's right: I braved the record-breaking 82 degree temperature, a brutal second half, a lack of Gatorade and a blister from hell, but I did it....

I FINISHED THE B.A.A. HALF MARATHON!

The race was both the best and worst experience of my life :)

The Lead Up
There are few things that I hate more than bloggers who go ballistic with the Twitter/blog "ZOMG GUYZ I IZ RUNNIN A RACE!" updates, but to be perfectly honest, I now loathe them a little less. I was SO NERVOUS leading up to the race that it kind of took over my every waking thought. At one point, while working under a grant deadline, I found myself wanting to fling my ever-growing pile of paper in the air and scream, "WHO CARES IF PEOPLE GET PAID FOR CONDUCTING CANCER RESEARCH; I'M RUNNING A HALF MARATHON NEXT WEEKEND, DAMN IT!"

Not exactly my proudest moment.

(FTR, I did not actually do that. I love my job and I in no way consider running a road race on par with finding a cure for cancer; there is no comparison. I just have a flair for the dramatic.)

Despite my nerves, I woke up at 5am Sunday feeling remarkably calm. This could have been related to the fact that I have never seen that time from the perspective of waking up before, but I like to think it was because I felt prepared. After all, how could I not with all of this shit?!

We ate (peanut butter toast with sliced banana, half a cup of coffee and a liter of water), hopped the T to Back Bay, transferred to Forrest Hills and then finally to the shuttle to the starting line. We checked our bag, slugged back some melted popsicle Gatorade Prime and did some light dynamic stretching. Yet somehow, despite my meticulous pre-planning, we still ended up caught in a port-o-potty line 20 people deep ten minutes before gun time. With six minutes to spare, I finally decided that if all of the other people booking it back to the woods behind the pottys had no shame, neither did I.

Nothing says, "I am now a bona fide runner" like peeing in the woods with a hundred of your closest competitors.

With that little initiation complete, we headed over to the starting corral. The waaaaay back of the starting corral. Seriously, out of 5,500 runners, there were only about 100 of them behind us. After the requisite announcements about it being unseasonably warm, to seek medical attention if you were experiencing issues, the locations of the water/gato/gel stops, yadda yadda yadda, the horn finally blew and the crowd surged forward. Six minutes later, with "Ya'll Ready For This?" blaring in my ear, I crossed the mat and my journey to 13.1 began.

The Race
I've only run two other races, both 5ks, and based on those experiences I knew that my biggest hurdle was going to be maintaining a manageable pace for the first few miles of the course. I did all of my training based on this challenge, even building my walking warm-up into that first mile time. I knew I was in trouble as soon as I passed the 1-mile marker and realized I'd run it in less than 11 minutes. 11:02 was my ultimate DREAM pace going into this, and based on my training I knew it was extremely unlikely I would be able to sustain it over 13.1 miles. The course lends itself to a fast first half as it is; the first five miles are on a pretty major decline. I managed to settle in to a 13 min/mile pace somewhere around the 5k point (where I spotted Erin on the sidelines!), and despite having 90% of the runners pass me on their way to mile 6 as I jogged past mile 4 (including my totally rad coworker/running buddy, KJ), I felt pretty good through the first five miles, even hamming it up for the photographers at the official mile 5 checkpoint/turnaround.

Then came mile 6.

You see, there was a tiiiiny snafu in the week leading up to the race. In my over-cautious attempt to limit any strain on my lower legs, I wore flats every. single. day. Which would probably be fine for a normal person with normal feet, but as we all know, I, unfortunately, am/have neither. As a result of said stroke of genius and lack of proper arch support, I ended up hobbling myself with killer shin/calf pain and spent the five days leading up to the race sporting a sweet ace bandage, rotating ice packs and that classic 9-5 staple, sneakers with skirts.

I know, I know; I should probably consider making the leap to fashion blogger now.

In the end, though, the joke was on me. I ended up with no pain in my left leg during the race... but developed a sweet blister on the bottom of my foot RIGHT at mile 6, which also happened to be the beginning of a seven-mile climb to the finish. I slowed down my already slow speed for the hydration station, downing a tangerine PowerGel and grabbing an extra cup of water. As I rounded Jamaica Pond, I ran/walked at a decent pace, but definitely noticed my overall mile times drifting upward as I hit mile 7.

By mile 8, the temperature had soared to a scorching 78 degrees and the blister on the ball of my foot was becoming increasingly painful with each step. With the help of the theme from Chariots of Fire and Mama Mia, though, I powered back across the unforgiving, shadeless overpass and back into the park. I even managed to pass a few people, which is quite a feat when you're literally staying a few steps ahead of the dreaded street sweeper. By the time I crossed the mile 9 marker in 1:56:52 (GPS time, not official time), I had given up on trying to make the 2:30 "official" end of timing, but I still had a shot at finishing under 2:45.

And then all hell broke loose.

While the rational part of my brain knows it had to have been, the emotional three year old inside of me maintains that there is no way in HELL that mile 9 was only one mile. It was, without a doubt, the single hardest physical and mental event through which I have ever suffered. The pain threshold and mental toughness that my "bad" training runs were supposed to create flew right out the window when faced with the actual event. I assume it was the half version of the infamous Wall that marathoners endure around mile 20, and I have to say, if I had heaps of respect for endurance athletes before, I bow down before them now. Each step felt as though it were rattling the very fibers of my soul, and I thought that the seams holding me together might unravel at any minute.

The road wound on and on, with no sign of the vaunted 10th mile marker in sight. At that point, I had slowed considerably, walking a good majority of the way and only jogging when one of the two targets I'd set seemed to be getting too far away from me. Andrew passed me going in the opposite direction at that point and I'm happy to say that a race cop riding behind him almost fell off his bike laughing when I screamed, "THIS IS THE LONGEST F**KING MILE OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!". Some kind soul took pity on me and let me know that the mythical 10th mile was just over the next hill, which bolstered my hopes and sent me loping towards it with wild abandon. Seriously, though.... I probably looked like some kind of crazed zoo animal on the loose. Even with the heavy amount of walking going on, I crossed the 10 mile checkpoint a full 15 minutes faster than I ran that same distance the week before. I hammed it up for the official photographer, and somehow, the journey back didn't seem quite as torturous. I punched the 11-mile marker hard when I passed it.

Multiple fist-pumps, some cheering and possibly a few air punches ensued. Hey, I was basically by myself at that point, so it's not like more than a handful of people were witness to my adrenaline-induced antics. After slugging some more water, I rounded the corner to (what I thought was) the last hurdle of the course: a giant, mothereffin' hill. I wish that I had taken a picture to remember it by, but I'm not really the type to whip a camera out mid-race, even if a turtle IS passing me. Just trust me that it was one of those enormous, never-ending inclines where you can't even see the top.

As I tossed my water cup into the pile being swept away, I tried to muster up both the mental and physical strength to start running again. The Rocky theme came on my shuffle (strategically planted, actually), and I started to pick up the pace. I jogged probably a tenth of a mile before the pain under my foot became unbearable -- I was totally fine with the general discomfort in my body after 2.5 hours of strenuous exercise, but with each step, I could feel that little pocket of fluid bulge a tiny bit more. I also realized that ironically enough, my RIGHT calf/shin was starting to ache; because it hurt so much to plant my foot straight down, I was compensating by landing on the outside edge of my sneaker. I tried to correct that, but it just didn't work. I walked up the majority of the hill.

About a half mile later, my friend KJ and her family passed me going in the opposite direction. It really was a blessing; she had already finished (beating former Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi by over 5 minutes!) and came straight over to jog with me down the other side of the hill, shouting encouragement the entire way. As much as I wanted to kill her for both getting me into this mess and forcing me to run when walking was so much easier, I really appreciated having her support. Not to mention her post-race water, which she very generously donated to my cause so that I could dump it over my head. As I made the turn back into the park, she left me to go back to her family, promising I was doing great and was into the home stretch.

I think I might have been a little bit delirious, because I was SO HAPPY to see the majestic banner and balloon arch looming ahead that the fact I had never passed the 12-mile marker didn't even cross my mind. I sprinted towards the timing mat with everything I had left... only to realized that I was re-crossing the starting line on my way to mile 12.

WHAT KIND OF SICK PERVERT FORCES THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE JUST RUN 11.75 MILES TO CROSS BACK OVER THE STARTING LINE?! 

In all honesty, the twelfth mile was kind of a blur. The fact that I was running through a fucking zoo notwithstanding, that last tiny push of adrenaline seemed to anesthetize the pain so that I could run again. By that point, I just wanted the mothereffing race to be over and I kind of just zoned out. I heard there was a giraffe and a zebra and some other random animals, but the only thing I remember is a camel and having the vague notion that it would be really funny if an alligator escaped and ate me during the last mile of my half marathon.

After passing through the starting line AGAIN (!!), I turned onto the path leading to White Stadium. There were adorable little signs saying stuff like, "Only 800 more meters!" but hello, I'm American and clearly don't know what the fuck that means. One lap? Two? I gave up trying to do the mental math and decided to focus on catching this girl who passed me at mile 8. She ran with a limp, so I thought that I at least had a decent shot at climbing one rung on the from-the-last ladder. Ignoring the squishy-burning feeling under my foot and sucking air as fast as my little lungs would let me, I powered on and pushed past her with the entrance to the stadium in sight. I could see the gates and the balloons and felt an overwhelming surge of relief and satisfaction. I just wanted to grab the closest passerby and hug them, squeezing their guts out and screaming "Victory is MINE!"

... until I realized that the same sick bastard who had fooled me once before had decorated mile 13 to make it LOOK like the finish, and that I still had to run halfway around the stupid track to ACTUALLY finish. Then I just wanted to kick someone's ass.

Because I'd used up my residual energy sprinting to the 13 mile marker, I power walked Grandma-style around the short side of the track, picking up into a sprint again for the straightaway. Since I was, again, ALONE, I had the announcer's attention all to myself, so it wasn't much of a surprise when, "And Caitlin will be finishing in just a few moments -- 26 years old and making allll of her dreaaammssss commmmeee trueeeeee!!!" came bellowing across the PA system.

My official time was 3:02:10.

The Aftermath
After a few puffs of my inhaler, a hug from Andrew and a quick brush with the Grim Reaper (I kid), I managed to collect myself enough to get my medal and wheeze the word, "water!". Thankfully, the BAA did a fantastic job with the post-race setup, so I was able to properly hydrate and FINALLY drink some nectar of the Gods, aka Gatorade (both of the stations on the course were out by the time I plodded through, which sucked, considering that I trained with Gato and we are now old friends). A few photos with my man and our medals (he finished in 2:47), a brief stint collapsed on the grass and the collection of our tshirts later, and we were on our way home.

Reflections
It's taken a few days to collect my thoughts and process all of the emotions that this whole experience produced. Obviously, first and foremost, I'm extremely proud of myself for completing a half marathon. I'm also a bit shocked, actually; I've always been honest here, and I don't think it's a secret that I have a history of setting goals and not following through. I'm amazed that my body, which I've had my share of battles with, did something so intense.

In the interest of full disclosure, though, I'd also be lying if I didn't admit to being a tiiiiny bit disappointed with my time. Not because I don't believe I did my best on that given day, but more because I'm annoyed that elements outside of my control prevented me from running the time I knew I had somewhere inside me. At the time, I didn't feel as though the weather had much of an impact on me, but I know that biologically it had to (and my sausage fingers proved it). I hydrated as best I could, but I have a really finicky water/salt ratio and I'm sure it had an effect. Similarly, there's nothing I could have done to prevent that blister from forming; I wore the exact same socks and shoes that I trained in with no problems at all. It might have been a function of running at such a steep downhill at the beginning, but it might have been totally random. After perusing the Runner's World forums, I know that it's something that can just happen. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

Overall, I'd say that finishing the race was one of the best accomplishments I've made in my adult life. That might sound extreme, considering that I'm a college graduate and all, but I actually feel as though running 13.1 miles was just as important as receiving my diploma -- maybe even a little bit more. School was always easy for me; running (any physical activity, really) is not. Likewise, setting a goal and achieving it is an accomplishment in and of itself, and I'm extremely proud of myself for having the guts to decide to do something hard and then to actually follow through and do it.

Most importantly, though, I am thankful. Thankful to my body, for allowing me to complete such a feat; thankful to my mind, for screaming just a little bit louder than my legs when they told me to quit; thankful to my friends and family, for offering all of the advice, encouragement and understanding that I could ever need; thankful to my boyfriend, for undertaking this journey with me, and thankful to YOU, my readers, for all of your comments, tweets, emails and general support, from the moment I posted my crazy idea straight up until after I crossed the finish line.

It truly meant the world.