RMRR member Greg Frederick recently ran his first marathon. Below are his thoughts on training, much of which he did at Barr Lake, and the race itself. For those members who have finished a marathon, his thoughts must strike a chord; for those who haven’t run a marathon yet, this should inspire you to get out there and train for one.
Congratulations to Greg from all of us, on training for and finishing his first marathon.
Training at Barr Lake
The parking lot at Barr Lake was still empty on a Sunday morning in early January when I took a last drink of water and crossed the bridge over the canal to start the 8.8-mile loop around the lake. I methodically worked my way through the southern portions of the trail, came out of a meadow near the train tracks, and turned headlong into the cold wind. By now, my fleece shirt was soaking wet on the inside and slightly frozen on the outside. As I was making my way along the coal black strip of trail, a train was heading south towards me. As the locomotive passed, the cold head wind was temporarily transformed into a thawing, warm Chinook. With this run, I officially started training for my first marathon.
I am a very much an average runner. I’m well accustomed to being entrenched in the middle of the pack during races, and my commitment and dedication to running has waned on many occasions. I have been running on and off for about ten years and have been contemplating a marathon try the last few years. This is the year that I finally made the commitment.
I decided on Barr Lake for my long training runs because it is a fairly solitary place. On a typical day, I might encounter one other runner on the entire loop; the lake is mostly frequented in the spring by bird watchers patrolling the east side with notepads in hand and fisherman who sneak in through the southwest corner of the park and cast their lines from the rocks below the trail on the west side. This relative solitude was the right environment for me to train and learn how to extend the distances week after week.
In February, I watched as the camouflaged fowl hunters entrenched themselves in the blinds during my long weekend runs as I tried to pick out the best line on the rutted washboard trail running below the dam on the north end of the lake. During these long runs, I like to think about the stickers affixed to the treadmills at our neighborhood family center. They read, “Please limit workout to 30 minutes.” The corners of these stickers have been slowly picked away at; one of these days I will finally get one of them off and keep it with my other running souvenirs. My wandering thoughts were interrupted by the thud of gunshots ricocheting off the dam wall, causing me to duck and cover my head. During the February loops around the lake, I also became a learned man in the ways of chafing.
March kind of sucked. The long runs in March were filled with painful toes, a sore ankle, and ill-advised breakfast choices. I hunkered down, pushed on and made it through the weekend runs with a little bit of walking when my mind and legs were spent. Late in the month, I came across a group of mule deer as I neared the end of an 18-mile day and I saw something in their eyes. I could see fear in their unblinking eyes. It was the fear that I could at any second break from of my tortured, tired gait into a dead sprint and run them down.
In April, I started to feel stronger and the runs got better; I finally conquered the 20-mile training run, completing the long, slow loops around the lake. The same way that I enjoy the sight of the parking lot as I close out a run, I also delight in the sight of the sign for the Tomahawk truck stop on Hwy 2 as I near the reward of soda and chips. If I make it through the marathon, an appropriate finisher’s medal would be made from a chain of pop-tops and the lid from a Pringles can. I’m still a little intimidated by the thought of running those 26.2 miles, but I’m absolutely looking forward giving it my best effort trying to persevere through the difficult miles.
Race Day.
I stood among the anxious mass at the start line as the sky was brightening and switched my watch over to the timer. I stared at the time on the screen and thought for a few moments about that last race before resetting the watch back to zero. I was still mentally in a slumber when the race started and I mechanically followed the people in front of me as the river of runners wound through City Park. The large numbers of people in front of me spilled out onto Colfax, spreading out onto the wide boulevard.
My body was warmed up and my legs were finally loose as I made the turn west and started the long, lumbering trip down the boulevard. Ahead in the distance, the elite runners were leading the way and charging through intersections. As I passed the Irish Snug, a wee man came running out of the bar hollering with a Guinness in hand, which one of the runners eagerly grabbed and took a draw from.
I settled in and slowly worked my way past all of the old haunts of Colfax as my long shadow shortened with each mile. The onlookers and water station volunteers cheered heartily and there were loud shouts of encouragement from the tunnel of relay runners at each one of the exchange points. I was running right on schedule as I circled the loop on the west end of the course, turned east into the warm sun and hit the halfway point. I left each aid station with the taste of salt in my mouth as I poured water over my head and down my neck to keep cool.
Around mile 20 I started to slow a little and my mind was fatiguing as well. I kept plugging along thinking about all of the training I had done to get ready for this marathon. The shade of the tall downtown buildings provided a welcome respite from the sun. Mile 22 was the toughest to make it through and I kept thinking about the picture I came across of my grandmother a few days before and how much I miss her.
When I came to 17th and Pennsylvania, I saw a line of people that stretched the length of the block waiting for Bump & Grind to open. I checked my watch and saw that it was 9:50 a.m. I smiled and thought about how I’ve been in that line before, waiting to get in where the tall, unshaven waiters in drag serve up empenandas while singing along to 80’s pop music. I passed the 23-mile marker and realized that I was going to make it. I had slowed down, but I knew I had three more miles left in me.
After mile 24, I passed back into City Park and started the seemingly endless series of loops and turns. A girl in front of me was carrying her shoes and running barefoot, jumping up onto the grass whenever possible. I closed in on the tents and passed by the crowds lining the road when the finish line finally came into view. My wife jumped out to run along side me for a few steps and give me some words of encouragement.
My first thought when I crossed the finish line was that I was just happy not to be running anymore. I grabbed whatever free snacks they had in the tents along with a couple bottles of water. I sat in the shade with Julia and ate one of the best tasting meals of my life. After a few minutes, I took of my shoes and socks to check out my feet. The only damage was a blister on one toe. It was a magnificent clear blister and the sun shone through it like a prism.
This race was a very personal, lonely, and solitary challenge, but it was the help and encouragement of family, friends and strangers, along with the memory of those who have passed, that helped me make it through to the end.