A Calf, a Quad and a cup of Joe

The first time I faced the Chicago Marathon, my goal was to finish under four hours. I accomplished my goal and learned a great deal about expanding my pain threshold, too.

This year, I ran Chicago with a different goal: getting back in the saddle after taking a year and a half off from marathons. I learned some new lessons as I finished this race. They, too, had a lot to do with pain and determination.

I spent the summer working my way back into marathon shape, one long run at a time. It was a hot summer, and the 100 degree-plus weather continued through the third week of September. (That will be important later…) Grueling runs in Texas heat – what could make for better preparation?

In July, I posted a particularly poor time in a 5K race. As I stood in the finish area drinking Gatorade and contemplating my performance, I decided that I had way too much left at the end. I vowed that in the next race, I’d run hard enough and be tired enough when I finished to be sure that I’d left it all out there. I needed to know what my best time could be.

The next week, I shaved more than a minute off my 5K time and finished completely spend. Satisfied, I grabbed a Gatorade and sat on some stairs to catch my breath. When I stood up, I felt a little twinge in my left calf.

Damn, I thought. Smack dab in the middle of a marathon training effort is not the time for a strained muscle.

I rested the muscle for two weeks – the outer limit of time off that I could reasonably take without seriously compromising my training for Chicago.

I was frustrated. In my long runs, I was already up to 18 miles – way ahead of schedule. My plan had been to train right through 26 miles and beyond, so I’d be more than ready to tackle Chicago. The two week setback, however, forced me into a different training trajectory that would end up at 23 miles being my longest run.

No problem, I thought. That’s what most training programs recommend anyway. Going beyond 26 was just feeding my fantasy of training for a 100K race next year. Like any good professional athlete will tell you, never look past the next game. Maybe, I thought, this is nature’s way of emphasizing the importance of that bit of advice.

For those two weeks, I was cagey, too. You see, the human body adapts quite readily to new circumstances, and my body was adjusted to running four times a week and biking one or two more. My metabolism was revved up, so being sidelined without an outlet for all that excess energy was making me crazy. I could hardly sit still.

So I did something I had been talking about for a while. I joined the YMCA, so I could lift weights and swim. I’ve always wanted to do an Ironman Triathlon, and swimming was standing in my way. Being sidelined with an injury that kept me from running or biking made it seem like the perfect time to start learning how to swim long distances.

Swim training was tough, but it did fill the physical activity void. In fact, I really enjoyed it. The idea of doing a triathlon become more attractive, and I exploreed the idea of doing a Team in Training triathlon fundraising/training program.

The two weeks flew by, and I got back to running. Everything went well for a week, and then the calf muscle started hurting again. It wasn’t bad, but it was definitely a problem.

Having booked my flight and paid my entry fee, I just wasn’t willing to give up on Chicago, so I had to go with plan C. I embarked on a somewhat absurd and certainly unique marathon training regimen. I would do my long runs on Saturdays - as planned - but skip my shorter weekday runs until the calf got better. To make up for the missing cardio workouts during the week, I began swimming three times a week.

The calf improved, but never really healed. Even on my last long run before the race, the calf bothered me. It didn’t hurt enough to affect my pace. It actually loosened up while I was running and didn’t hurt at all for most of my long runs. It hurt more the two days after running and continued to keep me from doing shorter runs during the week.

I pressed on, though, and finished out my long runs in the sweltering Texas heat. I didn’t have a single run with the temperature below 90 degrees all summer. For two months, I ran once a week and swam to keep my cardio workouts going.

Then along came Chicago, and I was nervous. Not in the way I was nervous for my first couple of marathons. After my previous visit to Chicago, I had learned enough about myself to know that barring severe injury, I would finish. I was nervous about my training, though. I had no idea how fast I could run. It was a full 50 degrees cooler than any day I’d run in Texas on the day of the marathon in Chicago. I’d just have to run and see what happens.

And that is precisely what I did. I ran comfortably and found myself close to a 4 hour pace when I hit mile 11. My calf didn’t hurt at all – oddly – so I decided to press a bit harder and make up some time on miles 12 and 13. I wanted to get as close to 2 hours as possible at the halfway point.

At mile 13, I felt strong and confident. Long strides, deep breaths. Everything was going well. I began to believe that I might just finish under 4:00 again, even after my sabbatical from running.

I settled into a slightly slower pace that would put me right around the 4:00 mark. The mile 14 marker came and went. My spirits were high.

Then reality paid me a visit at about 14.5 miles. Suddenly, my knees began to tighten up. Odd, I thought. I’ve never felt THAT this early in a race.

I sped up a bit, hoping to stretch out the ligaments and tendons around my knees. It seemed to be working, until I hit mile 15 and my quads started to tighten up, too.

Uh, oh, I thought. This ain’t good. I still have 11 miles to go, and my quads are already getting sore.

I hoped that it would pass. Perhaps a bit more Gatorade at the next refreshment area would help. After all, I thought, I am a bit dehydrated after that cup of coffee this morning.

Well, the Gatorade didn’t help. The reality of running another ten miles with aching legs began to sink in – and I do mean sink. I was mildly frustrated with the fact that it was my knees and quads that were the source of my growing agony and not the calf that had plagued me the better part of the summer. But mostly, I had that sinking feeling in my gut.

I wish there was something fun or inspiring to tell about the last ten miles of that race, but there just isn’t. My legs just hurt more and more with each stride. Then came mile 20.

It was there, with the crowd holding signs and chanting the traditional slogans of mile 20: “Break through the wall!”
“There is no wall!”

Well, they were right. There is no wall. But there sure was pain, and I got to know it real well over the next six miles.

During those grueling miles from 14-20, I had managed to maintain a pace that kept a 4-hour finish within reach. I was determined not to let a little pain slow me down.

Around mile 20, though, my left quad began to quiver. First a little twitch, then two. Then an all out tremor that nearly stopped me in my tracks.

Crap! I thought. My leg is about to cramp up!

I stopped running to stretch out a bit. It helped in mile 23 of the Rock and Roll Marathon in San Diego after a long incline left my legs really tight. With a little stretching, I finished those last three miles strong.

This time, the stretching hurt, but not nearly as much as hobbling from a standstill back to a run. I was facing an uncomfortable fact: if stretching didn’t help, there was nothing but more pain ahead for me.

My last fleeting hopes of a 4 hour finish were vanishing as I failed to maintain the pace I needed. It was an odd feeling. Everything other than those quads and knees felt great. My breathing wasn’t the least bit labored. My shoulders weren’t aching like they usually do 20 miles into a race. I’d even eaten a rather tasty gel pack that gave me a boost of energy.

But every time I tried to speed back up to a 9 minute mile pace, my left quad would start it’s painful dance. First a little twitch or two, then a quiver.

After slowing down a third time, I thought to myself, Maybe I can just run through it. I waited about a minute before speeding up again, and tried.

Bad idea. The quiver became a quake that jolted through my leg like a shockwave. On sheer instinct, I slowed down – immediately aware that if I held that pace for one second longer, I’d have a full blown cramp in the largest single muscle in the human body.

I wasn’t even past the mile 21 marker yet.

And that is how the race played itself out. I’d run somewhere between a 10- and 11-minute mile pace for a couple of minutes before convincing myself that I felt a bit better. Then I’d try speed up just a little bit, and the little quad dance begin all over again.

By mile 22, I knew 4 hours was no longer a possibility. I set my sights on finishing under my slowest time: 4:20.

By mile 23, the quiver was visiting more often. I had to pound on my quad with my fist to get some blood to rush into the area and prevent a cramp.

I was miserable. My legs were just two rods of burning pain. Every stride was agonizing, and the only thing that kept me running was the fact that it hurt almost as much to walk. Even in my increasingly pain-clouded state of mind, I understood that walking meant experiencing pain for twice as long.

I passed an aid station around mile 24. There were runners there, resting in the shade and getting their legs massaged. A shuttle waited, a sweet, painless chariot ride to the finish. It is hard to put into words just how tempting that sweet chariot ride was. As I approached the aid station, my mind divided into two warring factions.

One side said, “Stop, you fool. You aren’t going to finish under 4:00. Hell, this will probably be your slowest time EVER.”

The other side was too tired to reply.

“And this is the last aid station. Your leg is about to cramp up. You can’t possibly finish. Better to stop here and catch a ride than to find yourself laying on the curb at mile 25, praying someone will come and pick you ass up off the ground.”

The other side, not feeling nearly as chatty, murmured:

“Quitter.”

“Who are you calling a quitter? I’ve finished 7 marathons! I had an injured calf for most of the summer, that damn coffee this morning dehydrated me and I haven’t run a marathon in a year and a half!”

“Quitter.”

“I can always register for the Rock in December. What’s the harm in waiting a couple of months before finishing another marathon?”

“Quitter!”

“You are just being stubborn. You might injure yourself! What then? You might not be able to run for six months if you pull that quad muscle!”

“Shut up, loser!”

Ouch. Not the “L” word.

“OK, OK, fine. Keep going. You’ve obviously got something to prove.”

Fighting against the pain, my split mind merged back into one. Amazing how pain provides focus.

As I lumbered along past the 24 mile marker, I remembered a bit of wisdom from an old marathon vet: “There will be races where you achieve your goals and there will be races that you are just glad to finish on your feet. Both make you a better runner.”

Knowing 4 hours was no longer possible, knowing I couldn’t run faster than a 10-minute mile without cramping, I embraced the wisdom of finishing on my feet instead of on a stretcher. I continued my delicate dance with my left quadriceps. Pain, twitch, quake, pound, slow down. Speed up a bit, then pain, twitch, quake, pound, slow down.

As I passed mile 25, I looked at the clock. I still had a chance to finish under 4:20. I begged my quad to cooperate as I grabbed my last cup of Gatorade. We sped up the dance – moving dangerously close to a cramp every 15 seconds instead of every 30.

Somehow, I made it. I crossed the finish line at 4:19:00 and raised my arms into the air.

There will be no quitting today, I thought.

The old runner was right. You can learn something from the races you are just glad to finish on your feet.

The Aftermath

The race was over, but my tribulations were not.

You see, the Chicago Marathon is a big race: 40,000 registrants, 32,000+ finishers. That’s a lot of runners, marathon staff and anxious family members crammed in one area.

I staggered through the medal line. I was honestly more concerned with getting my foil wrap that my metal. I had only been walking – or hobbling as it were – for a couple of minutes, but I was already freezing cold.

I continued through the refreshments area. I picked up two bottles of water and passed on all the food. I was too nauseous to eat.

I hobbled another 100 yards, following the signs pointing toward “Massage Tent.” When I arrived there, a line of about 50 runners was there to taunt me.

I stood in that line for less than two minutes before I realized I couldn’t stand anymore. I sat down in the grass. Then I laid down. Then I curled up in a fetal position to stay warm, and I closed me eyes.

“Are you all right?” A kind but urgent voice asked me.

“I guess so. I just couldn’t wait in that line.”

My teeth chattered a bit.

“I think you are dehydrated. Let’s get you into the tent to warm up.”

If not for his help, I’m quite certain I could not have stood up. It felt like the muscles in my legs were tearing as we lifted my weight back up on them. My new friend led me into the tent and sat me down in front of a fan blowing warm air.

“Drink your water,” he said, pointing at the bottle in my hand.

I didn’t respond. I just obeyed.

He left to help someone else; I lingered in front of that warm air drinking water for another five minutes.

Amazing how much better I felt in the warm air. I’ve heard tales of post-race hypothermia. When you are running for four hours in shorts and a tank top and you suddenly stop, your warm body meets the 50 degree air and the results aren’t always good - particularly if you are dehydrated.

After warming up and finishing my water, I staggered to the runner bag check area to fetch my jacket and some more water. Then I found the big “C” sign under which Kellye and I had agreed to meet when she finished the race.

I sat down and hoped she had a better time of it than I did. Then I laughed out loud at the fact that with all the pain in my legs, my calf didn’t hurt a bit.

Why did that race go so poorly?

That was one of the first questions I asked myself over dinner. As I ate and began to regain some semblance of normalcy, I realized that there were many failure points.

Training once a week in the extreme Texas heat had meant that I hadn’t run at a quick pace since I sustained the calf injury in July. You see, when it is 90-100 degrees out, you simply cannot run as fast as you do in 40 degree weather on race day. My long runs prepared my legs for the distance and my lungs and heart for the cardio work, but my quads were not ready for the sustained speed. With no shorter, faster runs to stretch my muscles out, I just wasn’t ready for pace. That’s why my lungs felt good even as my legs tightened up early in the race.

Coffee: I’ve read a number of articles extolling the virtues of caffeine on race morning. They all warned me to be careful of the dehydration coffee causes. I drank a lot of water and Gatorade, but not nearly enough to compensate.

That combination was a recipe for cramps, and I’m pretty lucky I didn’t wind up with one!

The good news is this: I got that race you’re just glad you finished out of the way. Many runners have told me the day would come when things don’t all come together just right and you find yourself completely thrilled just to finish. Your time goal is just an afterthought on days like those.

Chicago II was that race for me.

I staggered around Chicago for three more days, more sore than I’ve ever been in my life. Stepping off a curb into the street cause me to wince. Stairs were not even an option.

And yet, even as I suffered the effects of my most painful marathon, I began wondering which one I’d run next. After summoning the will to finish this one, I realized how much easier it will be to push myself toward a better time on a better day.

Perhaps this race was just the thing I needed to prepare for a triathlon…