My Virtual Dilemma
And why haven’t I run a second race?
I was completely beside myself the other day with news of the Boston marathon possibly being run on October 11 this year. Beside myself with hopeful joy, not because I have a BQ (I don’t) and I’m chewing my nails hoping it happens; but because I’m chewing my nails hoping London happens as a result of Boston.
As difficult as that kind of scheduling must be for the best in the world — when it rains it pours, right? — the BAA (Boston Athletic Association) announcement offered a glimpse, at least, into a world that appeared normal. In the time it took me to read it, slack-jawed and full of hope, every ounce of me was stirred with excitement. All of us together? Racing? In the fall? Fantastic! Then came news that ALL SIX majors were going to possibly happen squeezed into a six-week window, a veritable smorgasbord of marathon frenzy. Crazy!
I’m also completely confused as to MY status and today is ballot results day in London. I was a lucky one, able to run the 2020 virtual as well as push my spot to 2021 for the real race. Now, pandemic-be-damned, Virgin Money is hopeful we can all pull off 100,000 runners-strong race with 50,000 storming off Blackheath and 50,000 others around the world bursting forth off a phone app.
But am I in the race? And what is my motivation now?
With October so far off and I suppose still so unlikely, I fear my goals may not be as lofty as in the before times. My faith may be growing dim as new strains and harsh realities invade us all. I’ve also got a sneaking suspicion I could be punted to London’s virtual field any second, and that just evokes a replay of my October 2020 suffer-fest in a sideways wind. It makes me want to quit. I never quit.
I had chosen an almost perfect 8k loop around my house. A gently rolling combination of road and gravel, deep in the country with almost no cars and a custom-built aid station beyond compare: my house. I would go for 4 loops and then switch over to two loops of my normal 5k route. Spare shoes, clothing, drinks and food were all laid out perfectly in the mud room off my garage. When I woke up full of vim and vinegar, raring to go, I added a bunch of towels to the stash, because it was pouring.
And it was 34 degrees (1C). I briefly wondered if a nice country drive in my Jeep would fool the VMLM app that would be tracking over 40,000 of us. Fool being the operative word. I’d never do that. But I thought it.
My wife decided to throw in her support by doing the first loop with me, “Slowly,” she said. “Of course. No problem,” said I. We bundled up and set off, positive and cheery. We remained all rose-colored for that loop mostly because we walked it. Or wogged as I like to call a walk/jog. Hey, just warming up, right? After hammering out 15:18s for the first loop I headed into the aid station where I misplaced my wife, changed my top and forgot to drink. Off I went.
After a cheery ‘normal’ 6th mile of around 10:30, I began to actually warm up and gradually got quicker. In the light and not-yet-howling headwind I swung in with a 49-minute lap. I quickly calculated if I could stay on 10s, I could still go berserk in the last bits and maybe bust 5 hours.
Then it started to rain. Like for real this time. Like have you seen The Wizard of Oz? Or A Perfect Storm? Stay on 10s. Yeah, sure. I changed shoes, guzzled my special hydrating stuff, ate 4 jellybeans and headed out for lap 3. It was on this loop that inspiration came, as the pre-recorded cheering crowd on the app interrupted my pounding trance beat. Here was Paula Radcliffe’s supportive exuberance bringing the “race to life” as I virtually roared across Tower Bridge near halfway. This is actually fun, I thought. It’ll be slow but it’ll be great, I thought. I checked the pace on my watch as I imagined pounding toward Canary Wharf.
11:08/mile, it said.
I started walking as a demoralizing sense of loss swept over me. That sense snickered, as I dropped into an abyss of What am I doing? I had still expected some kind of performance, of athleticism and gusto, and I knew it’d be a tough day with no “race” around me. But this? This was like a funeral. The techno beats in my ears became a dirge.
My neighbor joined my wife and I for the last 3 one-mile loops around the block, and her husband was waiting at my finish with a Murphy’s Stout. I complained that it was Irish and that we were “on The Mall for god’s sake!” I demolished it, taking in as much rain as beer in my guzzling.
But it’s not all Debbie Downer for this mid-packer. My ‘recovery’ from the ‘race’ was very quick, understandably, and I began to draw some positivity. My workouts in the subsequent weeks became more up lifting. I signed up for a base maintenance plan with my McMillan Running Team and with less pressure to ‘perform’ in the workouts in terms of hitting splits or cooling down properly or doing my prehab exercises, I found my treadmill suddenly relaxing, a place of Zen. I know, I know, but it was!
I do believe that since I always run alone, I may have been mentally tougher for the virtual London slog. Would I have quit way earlier if it hadn’t been for some sort of strength from solitariness? Some weird power brought from the lack of fellow marathoning souls? If that is the case, then I am super excited to feel that vitality and zip from those souls when I’m in the corals at Blackheath. Now let’s all cross our fingers, stay safe and enjoy the run.
See you at the finish.
