EUGENE, OREGON, May 3, 2009—My friend Len says that due to the length and difficulty of the marathon race, the average runner can expect four things to go wrong in any given marathon. This is the story of how I managed to hit the average in the 2009 Eugene Marathon and have an excellent time anyway. It’s about one-quarter race report and three-quarters reminiscence and introspective drool. Read on at your peril, and don’t tell me you weren’t warned.

I had a feeling this race might be a bit of an adventure before I even left. Two days before the race, I got a voicemail from someone at the Econolodge, where I had reservations: “This is a courtesy call to let you know that your credit card on file was declined. We’ve unfortunately had to cancel your reservations. I’m very sorry. Please give me a call if you have any questions.” The voicemail had been left around noon. By the time I turned on my phone to listen to my voicemail around 7 p.m. and then returned the call, it was too late to straighten out the misunderstanding; my room had been reserved by someone else. Fortunately, my good friends Doug and Cindy let me crash on the floor of their room. Hey . . . you can’t fall out of bed if you sleep on the floor.

I slept well and awoke to picture-perfect marathon weather: 40ish, drizzly, and overcast. I had my traditional race-day breakfast (cake and coffee) and got dressed in my favorite sports bra and running skirt, and my pink camo DriFit long-sleeve. I was traveling light today—no water bottle, no Nike+, no music, not even a watch. I was here to run a race, not feel like a traveling circus. I felt fast and light and ready to go.

My one accessory was a custom pace band I had made. It wasn’t a normal pace band with numbers on it. After much reflection, I had realized that I’m not much of a numbers girl; numbers really don’t inspire me. People inspire me, and the idea of doing my best inspires me. My friend Dan had told me about an idea he

had had to dedicate one mile each of his marathon to 26 of his friends and family members. Tearing a page from his book, I had decided to fill my pace band with 26 people who inspired me and spend each person’s mile visualizing that person running with me, pacing me. Gimmicky? Yeah, a bit. But I’ve found that over the course of a marathon, my mind can drift to some fairly unpleasant places if I don’t direct it to pleasant ones, so this seemed like a worthwhile approach to take.

Mile one was for Phoebe, the old family dog. Before I was ever a runner, I used to stay at my parents’ house and wake to the sound of Phoebe’s claws clicking on the floor outside the room where I slept. Some sixth sense let her know I was awake, which meant it was time to go a mile down the road and retrieve the Lewiston Tribune from the newspaper box. I would dress quickly, in anything warm that happened to be around. No one would see me, so it really didn’t matter what I wore; a sweatshirt over my nightgown and a pair of boots often did the trick. Then Phoebe and I would dash full tilt down the snowy hill, making first tracks, just loving the way it felt to move really, really fast. Mile one was gone almost as fast as the mad dash down the road to get the paper. Phoebe would have been beside herself.

As we reached the marker, I mentally said, “All right, Doggers, great run. Here’s a treat. Run on home.” Mile two was for Erin B., my first running partner. I imagined us dashing up the big hill on our favorite route, Erin taunting me by running a few yards ahead and threatening to wait for me at the top.

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After going off course, the author hammers to make up the lost distance and time.

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This one’s for Phoebe

Like hell you will! I thought, grinning at the very idea. I thought of our doing a race together, my first, a 10K, and how she wouldn’t let me walk no matter how much I pleaded. If you only knew what you started when you invited me to go running that first time, I thought.

My friend Rebecca B. was waiting for me at the next mile marker, all warmed up and ready to go. I thought of our early-morning runs in Forest Park, the two of us charging through the still-dark woods with only the vaguest idea of where we were going. If Erin had taught me to be tough, Rebecca taught me that you can go really fast while having a lot of fun. We would finish our runs sweaty, muddy, sometimes scratched up, and always smiling and feeling like badasses.

The next mile I spent thinking about the first “real runner” I knew, Lauri T. A sorority sister in college, she kept her javelin in the corner of her room. I didn’t know how fast she was until we were out of college, and I learned that she had won a number of local races and even a few bigger ones outside of our region. What impressed me about her, though, was seeing her out in the foothills of Boise every morning, logging miles and miles, charging up and down the single track with her dog at her heels. I had always thought real runners were born fast. Lauri’s example showed me that real runners weren’t just genetically gifted; they trained their butts off.

The next mile was for Dave Ball, my high school PE teacher. I loathed him in high school, mainly because I loathed sports and had been convinced that PE existed purely to make my life miserable. Low point: the day I managed to serve the volleyball over the net, after a million unsuccessful tries, and then automatically rotated to the next position. Mr. Ball had to patiently explain that if you serve successfully, you have to serve again! A couple of years back, my mother mentioned to him that I had become a runner and had even qualified for Boston. Now, he always asks her about my running. I love the fact that he is happy for me and my enjoyment of sports, even all these years after he gave me up as a lost cause. I always like to imagine him cheering me on, the way he cheered on all of us back in high school. He was just a good guy who liked sports and wanted kids to like sports, too. After all these years, I finally understand how uncomplicated that can be.

The next mile was for Kara Goucher, who isn’t a friend in the true sense— we’ve met once, briefly, and I’m sure she would not remember!—but is a constant inspiration. She is fast, graceful, smart, everything a runner wants to be. I spent our mile together consoling her about Boston and assuring her that there is always next year—and the year after.

My friend Larisa was waiting for me at the next mile marker, wearing her trademark are-you-ready-to-kick-some-ass smirk. At least, this is how I imagined her, since she wasn’t really there! I ran too fast just imagining her with me! She is one of those people who make me a better runner just by association. And she’s

insane. And she’s fun. And she had assured me she had left lots of good karma on the course for me. (She ran an amazing time for the half-marathon there last year.) The next mile was for Kathrine Switzer, whom I’ve read all about and whom I got to meet and run with a couple years ago when she attended a Nike event. I imagined her joining me on the course, wearing one of her cute little running dresses. (Important lesson from Kathrine: You can look cute and kick ass at the same time. In fact, it’s a shame if you don’t.) I imagined telling her how her book had inspired me, detailing her long climb from that first four-something marathon to her eventual sub-three victory in New York after logging months of crazy weeks with 27-mile training runs each weekend. As I imagined our conversation, we climbed the only big hill on the course and then entered a long tunnel of screaming spectators. I lost the mile marker in the crush and imagined asking Kathrine to stick with me for another mile until we saw my next pacer. She willingly obliged.

Learning discipline from Shannon Next up was my friend and occasional running partner Shannon. If I do everything by the seat of my pants when it comes to running and life in general (and I do!), Shannon is the anti-me. She is fiercely disciplined in her training and excels in figure skating as well as running. Heck, Shannon excels in everything she takes on. She wouldn’t settle for anything less. She kept me right on pace. She is like that.

My next imaginary pacer was Ryan Hall, coming to Eugene to slum with me. I got to tell him about how his running and his faith are both such an inspiration to me, how his willingness—eagerness, even—to wear his faith on his sleeve had prompted me to start wearing my cross necklace again and to schedule my Sunday training runs around my church schedule rather than the other way around. I even imagined that we said a little prayer together, not just for me but for everyone out there on the course, before he left me at the mile marker.

Next up was my friend Julie T., with her quick smile and her endless stash of ridiculous and sometimes really impressive race stories. Julie is wicked fast, but not always. When catastrophe strikes Julie, it strikes hard; I know no one else who has run marathons with a wider range of finish times. She is unfailing in her ability to laugh at herself, whether she is tripping on a root and barely pulling off the save or whether she realizes midrun that her shirt is inside out. Julie rolls with everything that comes her way and keeps smiling through it all. And she is great company on a run, which is why I put her on the list.

Another Julie, Julie J., followed her. I don’t even know this Julie particularly well. We met briefly at the Cascade Half, and I followed her progress to and

through the Boston Marathon because she is in a similar pace range to mine. She trained hard and ran tough. She showed me what is possible for those of us who aren’t elites but aren’t slouches, either.

Getting through the half with Joe My friend Joe D. showed up to take me through the half. Joe is a very dear friend, someone who occasionally infuriates me by seeing when I’m doing less than my best and calling me on it. He is also an utter inspiration: He races every weekend, usually wins or places, and still comes out to run with his slower friends. And he doesn’t act like he is slumming when he does it. Joe and I became friends through running, but we also share an interest in baseball. As we ran, I imagined us talking about the Mariners and what a good start they have this year. As we passed the half in 1:47-something, right on pace, I imagined Joe encouraging me to keep it up and reminding me that the real half is at the 20-mile mark.

Matty was waiting for me at the next mile. Matty is an old friend, too, someone I met through my sister. He came to me for advice a year or so ago when he was trying to start running, and we ran together a few times. I’ve definitely pulled him a few miles, and I liked the idea of his returning the favor! Since he doesn’t have a car, I imagined him riding his motorcycle to Eugene, just to pace me.

The next mile, according to my band, I would be accompanied by my friend Diep. That is a nickname, not a real name, and it’s pronounced “deep.” Diep is wicked fast. He is also one of the most driven competitors I know. He knows everything I would like to know about “game face.”

It turned out I had made a good choice in selecting him as my imaginary pacer for this part of the race. As I was trotting along, lost in my own head, putting one foot in front of another and admiring the vivid green of the landscape and wondering when things were going to start getting tough—because they always do—I failed to notice that the half-marathon course had briefly joined the marathon course and had then split off again. I was on the wrong course. “

I’m just trying to keep up with you. You’re pacing this perfectly.” A voice broke into my reverie, and I muttered some pleasantry along the lines of “You’re doing great.” We made a bit of small talk about the weather and the course and then, after a few minutes, my new friend confided that it was his first marathon and he would be satisfied with anything under four but that he was currently on pace for about 3:35.

More company “Are you guys doing the full marathon?” asked a voice behind us. “Yeah,” we said in unison.

“You needed to turn way back there.” The stranger, a woman in spandex with a ponytail, gestured far off into the distance. “Seriously?” It looked so far away. “Yeah.” My mind went into a flurry of damage control as I turned and reversed course, running against the traffic. Could I make up the time? Could I at least get a 3:45, to qualify for Boston? What would Diep do?

Once we were back on course, I could see a pace-group balloon far ahead. I couldn’t make out the numbers. “What pace group is that?” I asked someone. “Three-fifty.” What would Diep do? Diep would floor it. I decided I would floor it, too. I threaded through the other runners, collecting lots of roadkill and a wicked side stitch. I nearly forgot to look for the next mile marker. I swept past the 3:50 pace group and scanned ahead to see if I could pick out the 3:40 group’s balloon off in the distance.

At this point, my pace-band strategy became less of a focus and making up distance took over. The people on my band for the next few miles—my uncle Kenny, the only other jock in the family; my friend Dan (Tex), who has done some insane number of marathons in the last year while being a dedicated family

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man with a more balanced life than many nonrunners I know; Chez, from my running club, who stacks up insane mileage by running to and from work and various errands and who once ran the final yards of the Newport Marathon so hard that he puked at the finish—inspired me when I thought about them, but I mostly thought about making up time.

My feet were starting to hurt, and there was the familiar late-in-the-marathon thrumming in my quads with each step. My left knee, sore after my last few long runs, began to throb, too. I could see the 3:40 pace group, though, and I focused only on reeling it in. I didn’t think about the fact that once I caught up with the group, I still had the hardest miles of the race ahead of me.

I caught the group and slowed down, falling into its rhythm. I pounded an espresso-flavored Hammer Gel at the next water stop, figuring it couldn’t hurt and might very well help. I was starting to hear that dreaded bonking noise in my brain, telling me I couldn’t possibly keep this up any longer.

A bridge too far I tried to hold the pace, but I could tell I was losing it. If I was lucky, I would be able to hang onto the 3:45 for the BQ, but I didn’t think it was really going to happen. My effort to catch the 3:40 group had cost me; I was just now finding out how much. “

Keep moving,” I told myself, but my legs didn’t seem willing to obey. I walked the next water stop, hating myself for it but grateful for a moment’s relief from the pain of running. The 3:40 group faded away. I knew it was out of my reach now. I blinked back tears behind my sunglasses. I am jinxed, I thought. I haven’t run a good, drama-free marathon in two years. I should be due now, shouldn’t I?

I looked back and could see the 3:50 group in the distance and picked up my pace to an arthritic wobble. I had just passed the 22-mile mark, and I remembered that when I had told Len about my pace-band strategy, he had said he wanted mile 23. I imagined him waiting for me there, wondering, “Where the heck is she?”

I picked up the pace as much as I could and tried to focus on form. It was a largely ceremonial effort, but it was something. I was moving in a general forward direction, and I wasn’t walking. I thought of the finish and, beyond that, the bottle of vitamin I in my car. My quads and knees and feet screamed for relief. I talked myself through the mile: “This is four times around the track. It’s nothing. Then again. And then again. And then again.”

I reached the 23-mile mark and kept moving. At this point I might as well have been walking, and the 3:50 pace group had passed me in the last mile. I thought about what might have happened if I had stuck with that group when I had rejoined the course, rather than sprinting to catch and then lose the 3:40 group. I probably wouldn’t have bonked quite so epically.

I was glad that I had gone for it, though. This was a race. It was about seeing what you were made of. I had wanted it badly enough to suffer for it. I thought about the fact that if I had pushed it a bit more in my training runs, maybe I would have gotten away with that surge of speed; maybe I could have hung onto it. I vowed to train harder the next time. In my mind, I apologized to Len for my pathetic pace. I’m doing the best I can.

I pulled myself together enough to vow that I was not going to be within sight of the four-hour pace group when I hit the finish. At this point, that meant I would likely hit the finish with the needle on empty, but that was OK with me. I was going to salvage what I could out of this experience: an honest, nothing-held-back effort and a PR at the distance of somewhere between 27 and 28 miles.

The final miles were for my family. I thought of them, yelling for me, just as all these spectators along the course were yelling. I thought about my parents and the fact that they wouldn’t want to think they had raised a quitter. I thought about my sister, who has dabbled in running but doesn’t really love it and was grateful that she couldn’t see me now. She would never give it another chance if she could see what it had reduced me to!

I hit the mile 25 sign. Four times around the track, and then the finish, I told myself. Easy. I decided to distract myself by counting roadkill in this final mile. One. Sorry, buddy. You look great, but I’m faster. Two. I’ll bet it’s your first marathon, huh? Awesome. See you at the finish. Three. Dang! You have got to be way older than my mom. Impressive. Well done, little gray-haired lady in the fuel belt.

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The author crosses the finish line of her first “ultra” at the 2009 Eugene Marathon.

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Salvaging what it’s possible to salvage

I rounded the final turn and could see the finish. Three people were within roadkill range. I gathered up what was left and went for it, catching two of them—3:57 something. Done. Yes, let’s have that medal. Banana? Eh, why not? No, please don’t take my picture. All right, I’m getting out of here and getting the drive home out of the way.

I like the pace-band strategy and will make use of it again. It’s a great way to focus my thoughts in a positive way while staying fully in the race mentally. I think I would wear a slightly more cushioned shoe next time.

I was on pace for both a BQ and a PR. I’ll get ’em next time. I feel that I ran well, all things considered. I’m not sorry for not taking a more sensible, measured approach in miles 18 to 20. Eugene is a fantastic course that I would happily run again. I would

recommend having a race volunteer at every point where the courses diverge and will tell the race director so. Oh, yes, the four things that went very wrong. Canceled hotel room? Check. Wrong turn? Check. No BQ? Check. No PR? Check. Things do

go wrong. Such is the nature of the marathon, and yet we keep coming back and doing it again. It is a race, after all, and in a race we take chances we wouldn’t under other circumstances. That is what makes it so wonder ful when things go right.

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And what I learned from it