no jetpack

the chronicle of one girl's ill-advised decision to run a really, really long way

19.6.06

(so i wrote this Saturday, and i'm posting today, and i'm disappearing into alaska now for a few days. more soon.)


5 a.m. Nik's alarm goes off. I shimmy into my gear: sneaks and little socks, black bike shorts, purple jersey, sunglasses, and Goo belt - a black elastic waistband that, holster-like, holds my energy gel and assorted other race needs. Five is not usually my time of day, but the early sunlight helps my mood and I feel awake and alert, but calm. We munch bagels, bananas, and pretzels, and bus to the start line with the rest of the Oregon team.

Bags are checked, water bottles are filled, and songs are loudly sung by the Oregonians, to the nervous surprise of the other teams. Turns out that our crew of 20 or so Portlanders and Eugenians is just about the most joyful raucous bunch amongst the 3,800 racers stretching and sighing and pacing about wearing trash bags.

We go to the start line. We sing We Are the Champions. And then I run a marathon. And though I am writing this from my post-cold-bath, ibuprofen-laden, immobilized-in-bed position, dare I say it was - fun? Or if not fun exactly, at least not as horrible as I expected? And there was a moose at mile two!

The course wound through woods and over streams, on pavement and dirt gravel trails, and for quite a while by the highway. The crowds were sparse but cheerful. The hills were numerous but thoughtfully spaced, and the other runners came in all ages and styles. The weather was perfection, 60s and partly cloudy.

I ran half way without music, listening to the footfalls and the wind in the trees and the well-intentioned cheers of sideliners misreading my jersey, Go Jean Go! My goal became: run a whole half marathon without walking. My body felt strong and my mind felt clear and there I was at mile 13.1, popping in my new earbuds and cranking up the mixes that my friends had made. The music, like all the other things I tried for the first time today, worked like magic. I just kept running, downing water and sports drink at each two mile station, squeezing foil packets of frosting-like gel into my mouth every four miles, and adjusting my pace to the ground and the beat.

My body creaked and groaned at times - sore toes, tight shoulders, swollen fingers - but most things either passed or were wholly ignorable. All the things that might have gone wrong didn't. My stomach never churned, my sides never stitched, my knee never stabbed.

The miles ticked by. For some I watched the changing terrain, the green and the streams and the distant mountains, or the other runners - their gear and their form and the dedications written on their jerseys. Other miles I spent in my head, thinking about friends and plans. And more miles than expected I spent wholly but happily in my body, relaxing shoulders, holding up my head, pumping my arms straight. I repeated a million times glide glide glide and it all felt like it was supposed to feel, and the surprise of that buoyed my mood. I expected serious pain, nonfunctional legs, and quiet desperation. But at each mile marker I thought ecstatically, It doesn't feel like shit yet!

Since it kept feeling good, I kept running. I decided to run for as long as I could. The uphills were slow and full of panting, and the downhills were slow and full of caution. I think my legs were tired, but as long as I kept moving they didn't feel it fully. The music and the cheering were a constant feed of energy. It felt almost automatic. Fuel in, motion out.

The last four miles were long. Long. But I was so happy to still be running, so high on the long list of unlikely circumstances that conspired to provide a good run, that I was equal parts spent and thrilled. I ran around the lake, and up the much lamented bluff, and around the West High track. And I crossed the finish line, and an announcer read my name, and the clock said 4:11. Works for me.

So there it is, whatever that means. I ran a marathon. I'm going to think about it some more and add these thoughts in a few days.

Until then, congratulations to all the Oregon runners and walkers and run-walkers, especially Nik, Emilee, Courtney, Jamie, Emily, Jane, Amy, Rachel, Ashely, and Vicky; and superhuge thanks to Traci from TnT and kickass Portland coach Priscilla. Many more thanks to follow.

(Next day p.s.: Traci called from the airport to say they put the top 100 men and top 100 women finishers in the Anchorage newspaper and holy shit! I just made it in at 98. Yeehaw.)

7 Comments:

  • At 19.6.06, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    Be a fuckin' warrior your arm read in bold black sharpie-- I swear that phrase bled into your blood and Warrior you became. Who would have thought a couple of bananas and a prom picture later- we would be DANCING to celebrate the completion of our 26.2 mile journey? (Stay tuned for those photos!)
    You kicked ass-SERIOUS ASS! but more importantly you helped remind me that I had once said it didn't matter if I had to crawl...I was going to finish. THANK YOU, because finishing, although gimpy and cross eyed in the end, was in fact what I did! CHEERS!
    Emilee

     
  • At 20.6.06, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    UnBELIEVABLE!!

    Your first marathon and you made the paper (and not because you were pulled off in a stretcher!). Maybe in another life, you could've been one of those Abington jocks. But then we wouldn't have been friends. So I'm glad you are figuring this out now...

    Hurray!!!! La

     
  • At 20.6.06, Blogger TNTcoach Ken said…

    ‘Go Jean Go’, you are Amazing! Where did a 4:11 come from? After all of these weeks of reading and you run a 4-hour marathon! From all of the fathers and runners out here, we’re proud of you.

     
  • At 20.6.06, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    Crazy AWESOME!!! heck girl! you did that F-A-S-T. someone was holding back on us, huh? you were BORN to run!

     
  • At 21.6.06, Blogger Mademoiselle Caroline said…

    Congratulations! Sent you good vibes.
    See you soon?

     
  • At 23.6.06, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    You are a damn ROCKSTAR, Miss Jenn! I'm so deeply, deeply impressed -- not to mention glad that you documented the experience in your usual articulate, thoughful and beautiful way. I tell you: Freakin'. Rock. Star.

     
  • At 1.7.06, Blogger runliarun said…

    Hello, Tortaluga, in Wallis or Futuna, wherever you are. Nice run, and nice team to support you here. I am jealous - no comments on my site. So what's with those weeks of reading that preceded the marathon? Are you going to run a second one some time, or are you content?

     

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