Marathon 4:43:32

Words  2288; pictures

                       

            This is my outfit.  I thought I was going to be unique in the fact that I was wearing a rainbow t-shirt and a rainbow bandanna.  I wanted to show solidarity with gays, who may be feeling some discrimination in this country.  It was a great big no comment.  My get up wasn’t anything to shout about either, because there was one other guy who had a full rainbow body suit.  It was as if he were a walking dead man in a tie-died body bag.  Every bit of him was covered.  As he ran by me during the first mile, he put his arm around me and said, “My brother,” then he ran on. 
I guess he was running 10K because I never saw him again.  I continued to plod my way down the street. 

            Yes, I already felt like I was plodding.  Visions of failure danced in my head, brought on by the queasy feeling in my stomach, and my worry about coughing fits.  The first medical station was at the 15 km (9 mile) mark.  I was pretty sure I could do 9 miles—then, if I was coughing too much, maybe some doc would help me with oxygen or a respirator !   I didn’t WANT to quit, but if it became necessary, I wanted to do my Boy Scout imitation and BE PREPARED.  As it turned out, I didn’t need any medical attention—didn’t even see the medical personnel. In the tent afterwards, though, a young lady DID come up to me and ask me if I was alright.

            She, «Как себе чувствуют?» (How do you feel?)

            Me, «Нормально.» (Fine.)

            She, «Точно?» (Are you sure?)

            Me, «Да.  Что? не выгладишь?» (Yes. What? don’t you [I] look like it?”

            She, «Нет.»  (No.)

            Honesty...always the best policy.  It may have been my facial expression that brought me to her attention—because most EVERYONE was moving like old tortoises.  When I answered her question that I was from the US, she got a misty look in her eye and said, “Oh, I love America.”  It’s nice to know this sentiment still lives out there somewhere.  Her statement reminded me of my co-worker at the organic farm, Steve.  Whenever I told him I was planning to go to Moscow after the summer, he’d get a misty look in his eye and say, “Oh, I’d love to go Moscow.”  Maybe I should get these two youngsters together.

Not long before the 15 km mark, we ran by the American Embassy.  In the picture, I had to circle the flag.  A subtle marker rather than the normally outlandish labels on most American stuff.

Uncle Karl has popped into my life several times in the last week.  This statue of Karl Marx was in the paper alongside an article about gay culture in the Soviet Union.  Such statues were the meeting place for gays during the days of the FSU.

Music

            4.75 hours is a long time.  I began by listening to the latest episode of Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me.  Then I went to my Running playlist—4.5 hours of music the like of Journey, .38 Special, Barry Manilow and Lady Antebellum.   The running playlist is supposed to jolt me out of my quagmire of self-pity and constant pain into the world of happy runners who prance around like cat-nip infested felines.  During this run, however, as my legs, ankles, stomach, and sides began to complain, I couldn’t care less about the music.  Even the Romantics could not inspire me to leave my misery.  I switched to Car Talk—trying to get my mind off my pain—Oh!  See the depths to which we reach!

The statue of Pushkin at Pushkin Square

Dancing

          As the bit about the person who was concerned about my health shows, I was not in great shape afterwards.  My friend, Sasha, was the lone supporter out of four who said they would come to watch.  He searched for me while I lounged in pain under one of the tents.  All I could say into my phone was, “Я здесь.  В палатке.  (I’m here. In the tent.)”  I hadn’t the energy or the desire to make even a tiny effort to find him.  Luckily, he persevered and eventually brought be some water. 

            The very early start time, 8 a.m., may have been part of the reason fewer people came to see me.  But it was also the reason I was already back to my room at 2:30.  This apartment has a huge bathtub and heaps of hot water.  Perfect for a post-marathon soak.  Then, even though I begged for a massage, a friend suggested dancing.  “What?!?  How can someone who is whining about pain after running 26 miles be thinking about dancing?!?”  Well, invitations don’t come along everyday; and after a nap and a self-massage with the landlady’s Ben-Gay type cream, the pain abated (I’m helping a 16-year-old prepare for the SAT test) quite nicely.  THIS dancing was perfect for marathon recovery.  Not Jive Dancing, not Square Dancing, not Waltz, not Boogie-Woogie, not Disco.  Unpretentious improvisation, and completely free-style.  No one was drinking or smoking or trying to make moves on each other.  I could stretch my muscles in any direction and people would simply think that I was trying a new dance move.

All along the route were police.  Before Sunday, I read some comments about the race.  One said that the greatest number of people watching might be the police.  It was true.  About half the time, the police were stationed with their backs to the runners.  I suppose this makes sense—the only threats might come from those who are trying to harm the participants, running with buckets of acid or red paint (I guess).  It was raining all the time, so the cops were often dressed in these huge, black coats and hoods.  They looked like Andre the Giant in the movie, “A Princess Bride” when his partners dress him in a huge black coat and pass him off as a monster. 

Running  

           Now, down to the running.  Someone told me it is awfully boring to read about someone else’s training program.  Maybe reading about the actual event is more interesting.  All that stuff about finishing the race being the main idea—yeah, well, I have to swallow it whole. 

            When I began to seriously train for the race one month ago, I downloaded the Nike running application for my iPod.  I had resisted the Nike App because I don’t like the way Nike forces themselves into every sporting event imaginable and into every country of the world.  For a few months, I had been using other apps that were not giving accurate readings about distances.  I was turning in times that would make Roger Bannister proud.  So I began to use the Nike App and I thought it was doing a good job.  This means Nike is even worse than the others because the other were OBVIOUSLY incorrect.  Nike was close, so I didn't know that something was wrong until I logged a LONG run.  As you can see below, the app thought I ran over 30 miles.  When the app told me that I was half finished, I looked around for some kind of marker; I expected people to be cheering in some way.  Nothing.  Good thing I didn’t make a fool out of myself and do some kind of unilateral celebration like Miley Cyrus. 

            After the race, I was feeling pretty good about my performance until I sat down here and figured out exactly how bad it was.  Throughout the race the app told me I was keeping a pace of 9 minutes or so.  I knew that wasn’t right, but I thought I was somewhere near, like maybe 10 or 10.5.  But when I began this article, I calculated that I ran nearly 11 minutes per mile!  I thought the OTHER running apps I have were incorrect (and they are), but I thought Nike—the great Satin—at least figured out how to do it right. 

            Though the running app did not give an accurate appraisal of my pace, I figure that I will probably be able to COMPARE the different times to each other.  Hopefully, they are all inaccurate to a similar degree.  During my training before hand I was happy with the consistency I showed in my runs.  During one 8-miler (what I thought was 8 miles) each mile was no more than 4 seconds faster or slower than any other until the last mile—which was the fastest by 8 seconds.  A quick examination of the marathon “mile” times below shows that I was anything but consistent.  Part of this is due to the fact that I was stopping to take pictures, part because I was drinking water or some kind of sports drink.  I also sucked a couple tubes of carbohydrate that was supposed to replenish that which was being taken from my body while I was forcing it into the torture chamber that is a marathon run. 

            When I think of the AVERAGE pace being nearly 11 minutes per mile, I am forced to the realization that some miles must have taken me 12 minutes, if not 13!  How humbling.  Several times, I would look around me and I would note that the only people I was passing were the ones who were walking.  Such temporary satisfaction!  Yes, I, myself, walked for probably about 100 meters spread out over several quick interludes.  To walk terribly dissatisfying--the relief is only minor, you don't cover as much ground, and the pain returns immediately when you begin to run/jog/stumble again. Sometimes, though, the screaming from the legs overpowers my better judgment.  Three times, I stopped in the middle of the street to bend over to stretch my hamstrings behind my thighs.  Then I squatted—the best way I thought to stretch both quadriceps at the same time (and something I could not do at all 6 years ago).  At one point, a runner saw me and had pity on me as she said something like, “Hey, man, keep moving.  You’ll be OK.”  She smiled and gave encouragement as she moved on. She was within sight for the last 5 miles, so she was running faster, but not much. 

A "selfie" with St. Basil’s in the background.  Quite anti-climactic.

marathon 15 Sept
“mile” 1	08:13
2	07:56	-0.18
3	08:28	0.33
4	08:06	-0.22
5	08:18	0.12
6	08:14	-0.04
7	08:08	-0.06
8	10:01	1.53
9	08:55	-1.06
10	09:15	0.20
11	08:31	-0.44
12	08:33	0.02
13	08:07	-0.26
14	08:43	0.36
15	08:16	-0.27
16	08:04	-0.13
17	08:40	0.37
18	08:08	-0.32
19	08:29	0.20
20	09:03	0.35
21	08:17	-0.47
22	08:37	0.20
23	09:01	0.24
24	08:15	-0.46
25	10:01	1.45
26	08:10	-1.50
27	08:51	0.41
28	08:31	-0.20
29	08:50	0.19
30	08:36	-0.14
31	09:12	0.36
32	08:42	-0.30
33	11:06	2.24

The final split time of 11:06 is so much bigger because I didn't stop it.  It's just an estimate.

Reasons for a less than stellar performance:

1.  5 years of running for 30 minutes every other day does not prepare one to run a marathon.

2.  running app made me have a false sense of accomplishment that was shattered when I realized I wasn’t doing as well as I thought. Mental tragedy.

3.  my illness, which consisted of almost exclusively of a dry, stupid cough.  During the two weeks before the race, at night, I would wake up after a couple hours and I couldn’t stop coughing for 10 minutes.  After an hour, I would finally fall asleep again. 

            During the run, although I did hawk up a some nastiness, and I did expel some fluid once with a thumb-assisted tissue-less blowing of the nose, I ran most of the time without breathing problems.

The building in which I completed my CELTA course last year—giving me an internationally recognized qualification to teach English.

Food

            For some days before the race, I was worried about my diet.  I needn't have been.  My diet is pretty much a runner’s diet all year ‘round.  I eat almost exclusively buckwheat and fruit.  During the run, I saw evidence that volunteers had been passing out bananas.  By the time my fellow 4:45-ers and I came around, there was nothing left but peels.  There were, however, some trays of raisins. I had read reviews of the Moscow Marathon that said they offered sweet tea to the runners.  Not so on Sunday.  The organizers were right on the ball.  Luxuriously, after the race, some people were giving out bread and buckwheat to anyone who happened to be in the area. 

            I feel like a big weight is off my shoulders, because at least for the time being, I don’t have to think about food.  It’s back to beer for breakfast, McDonald’s at noon, and three scoops of Ben and Jerry’s before bed. 

Finally inside the Luzhniki Stadium.  This is where the 1980 Olympics were held—the ones the US boycotted.  Although my legs were killing me, I loved to enter with my hands in the air and a smile on my face.  When I was training, I was even thinking about sprinting the entire last mile.  My thought was  that since I had already run 25 miles, the last one would be a piece of cake.  In 1997, in Pittsburgh, I actually DID sprint at the end.  This time, when I saw the 300 meters-to-go mark, I was not happy.  Even at 100 meters, I had more than a football field to go.  Soon, though, the adrenalin did, in fact, kick in and I was able to move a bit faster than crippled snail. 

How nice it was to run down monstrously wide streets completely devoid of all traffic, knowing that I was inconveniencing exhaust-belching automobile traffic.  I took a picture of the huge dump trucks parked bumper to bumper to shut off the 12 lanes of the Garden Ring, but it didn't come out.  It felt special--like I was one of the most important people in the city.

Here is a photo of Uncle Lenin.  It’s the statue that still stands at Oktyaberskaya Square.  It’s my favorite because this is what I call my first home in Moscow—I lived here, above the Oktyaberskaya Metro station in the dormitory of the Institute of Steel and Alloys in 1992.