Location: Carrabassett Valley, ME
We stood, packed like sardines under a white tent. There was really nothing to do but stand there, nervously shake out our legs to stay warm, make small talk, and hope that the rain would stop soon. It was about 30 minutes until the start of the Sugarloaf Marathon and I was so ready to just get this thing started already. My race plan rolled around and around in my head. I’d studied the elevation map countless times. There would be a net elevation loss of nearly 1,000 feet(!) in the second half. That was why I chose this race. Like my last one, the Steamtown Marathon, I wanted to see how fast I could finish when the course conditions were in my favor. But the first half made me nervous. Although there would be some elevation loss, there would also be a few non-trivial hills, including a nearly two-mile long incline around miles 8-10. I knew I would have to hold back on those inclines, and holding back in the first half is not my forte.
Besides the downpour, the weather was essentially perfect for a marathon. 45 degrees and no sun in sight. With about 20 minutes to go, I bit the bullet and headed out in what was now more of a drizzle to the porta potty line so that I’d have enough time to drop off my bag at the bag check. The woman standing behind me in line had run the race before and assured me of what I’d read: “in the second half you feel like you’re flying!” Even after running 13 of these things, “flying” in the second half of a marathon was a pretty foreign concept to me.
5 minutes to go. It was time to hand my bag off, but I was faced with a dilemma: rain jacket or no rain jacket? It was only sprinkling at the moment, but who knows what could happen in the next 26.2 miles? I decided to keep it. I can always take it off. But I can’t make it materialize if I’m suddenly caught in a downpour.
Before I knew it, I was crossing the start line. The first few miles were a nice gradual downhill. I let gravity carry me and made a point to hold back a little. I can’t emphasize enough how difficult that was and how intuitively wrong it felt. My legs wanted to go faster, and so they were in a constant war with my brain. But I’d been working on mental training and my brain was winning out. I wasn’t going to make the mistake of starting out too fast like I did in Steamtown.
As grateful as I was for the overcast sky, I couldn’t help but wish it were sunny for just a minute, to bring out the beauty of the valley. The entire course winds through the Carrabassett valley, and it seemed we were always running toward a wall of mountains. Whenever there was a break in the trees, it would reveal that we were in fact surrounded by mountains. Not a bad view for 26.2 miles.
When I reached mile 8, I knew it was almost time for THE BIG ONE. The hill that would make or break my success in the race. It would start with a relatively steep uphill followed by almost two miles of gradual incline. Once I reached the top, I would be home free. But it wasn’t just about pushing through to reach the top. How I tackled it would be crucial.
I rounded a bend, and spotted the hill ahead. This is it. My heart sped up in anticipation. Just breathe, you can do this. Stick to the plan. In theory the plan was simple: don’t push it. Don’t look at your watch. Run how you feel. So that’s exactly what I did. Though I wish it really was as simple as it sounds.
Up until this point I had maintained a pace of about 8:15 on average, which meant I was on track for a finishing time of 3 hours 35 minutes. 3:35! A time that I once thought I could only achieve in my dreams. Because until last fall, that was the time I needed to qualify for Boston. Alas, the qualifying times just got tighter (3:30 for my age group now), but the significance of a 3:35 finishing time didn’t change one bit for me. So you can imagine how every fiber of my being would want me to try and maintain the pace to stay on track for that time. But I had to stick to logic. I had to keep the whole race in mind. If I paced this part correctly and I didn’t go too fast, I might have enough left in the tank to have a shot at keeping my pace up for the entire race, or even negative splits (running the second half faster than the first half). In all my 13 marathons so far, I have not once kept up my pace toward the end, let alone achieved negative splits. But this course – with all the downhill parts in the second half – was my chance. If I didn’t screw it up right now on this ascent.
Those were all the thoughts swirling around and around in my head. And so, despite the screaming fibers of my being, logic won out. And I actually stuck to the plan. For the entire two miles, I kept my effort even, I slowed down, I focused on efficient uphill running form, and not once did I look at my watch, because I knew it would freak me out (and it would have – mile 9 turned out to be a 9:15 time). I crested the top feeling more powerful and in control than I’ve ever felt during a marathon.
And so I started the descent. My porta-potty line friend really had described it perfectly. I felt like I was flying. But I still had to rein it in a little and make sure I kept a reasonable pace and good form. There were 16 more miles still to go after all.
Around the halfway point we passed Sugarloaf Mountain, the popular skiing destination and the race’s namesake. I cruised through the next few miles, barely even noticing the rain, which had started to pick up again. I was in the zone and I was in control, flying at an average 8 minutes per mile (my fastest was 7:44!).
Somewhere around mile 16, I picked up a race buddy. Another woman around my age and I had been yo-yoing past each other, so eventually we settled in to run next to each other. It was nice. No expectations, just company on what had become a rather lonely run, now that the field of roughly 800 runners had thinned out. After a while she asked, “are you going for it too? 3:35?” My voice caught in my throat for a second and my mind started racing. Was I? Was I going for it? Until that moment, I hadn’t really let myself admit it out loud. Because it was still so ingrained that 3:35 was an unattainable time for me. That no matter how good I felt right now, I would bonk in the last miles. That no matter how much I wanted it, I just wasn’t fast enough. And saying it out loud would make the inevitable failure real. But who better to tell than her? My new running partner that I would probably never see again.
“Yes,” I finally said. Then a bit taken aback by my conviction, “I mean, I’m hoping to.”
She smiled encouragingly. “I think we can do it.”
We. And just like that I was a runner for whom a 3:35 marathon time was attainable.
A couple miles later the course flattened out and we encountered some small rolling hills. My pace slowed to compensate, but my running mate continued on at her same pace. We exchanged good lucks as she ran ahead. I kept her in my view for the next few miles, but I wasn’t trying to catch up – this was my race and I needed to run what felt best for me. I reached mile 20 and I couldn’t believe how I was feeling. Sure, my legs were tired and definitely feeling the impact from so much downhill running, but I wasn’t feeling the general suck I usually felt this far into a marathon. I was now closer to 8:20 per mile and amazingly I managed to hang on to that pace through mile 24.
Two miles to go. The suck had arrived in full force by now. I pushed my way through mile 25 using pure grit. I felt like I was slogging through mud. It was pouring now. I looked at my watch and was amazed to see that my total time so far was about 3 hours, 29 minutes. I knew I wouldn’t be able to finish the next 1.2 miles in 6 minutes to hit 3:35, but that really didn’t matter anymore. I was just in awe of what I had accomplished so far today.
Spectators were starting to dot the edges of the course so I knew the finish line was getting closer. I spotted Jin’s orange car before I saw him. He had to be miserable standing out in the rain but I was so happy to see him. I think I shouted something incoherent that was supposed to be “I’m about to get a huge PR!!” He shouted back to finish strong. I turned onto a long gravel drive that would take me to the field where the finish line waited. I saw the blue arch up ahead but instead of the feeling of desperation I usually have to cross it so the race will be over already, I wished I could make the moment last longer. Moments like this don’t come often and I wanted to savor it.
I ran under the arch and tears welled in my eyes – or was that the rain? I had finished in 3:38:48 – a new personal best by NINE MINUTES! And guess what? Turns out I had actually run negative splits. I staggered around in a daze until I finally had the sense to find shelter from the rain and wrap myself up in my soaking wet jacket.
Every time I look at my new wooden medal hanging on the wall, I remember that feeling that I had wanted to savor just before crossing the finish line. I am so proud of my finishing time, but it’s about much, much more than that. Because of this race, I finally believe that I can do it. I can be the runner of my dreams. I can qualify for Boston. And I’m not afraid to say it out loud anymore.
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