Whidbey Island- part I

They say marathons are like childbirth. That you have to forget the pain before you could possibly trick yourself into repeating the whole ordeal. And for the record, if I do happen to have a baby and its birth is anything like my first marathon, it will have to be knock-your-socks-off cute and exceptionally well-behaved for me to even consider growing another one.

And yet, yesterday at 6:40 in the morning I found myself rumbling along in a big yellow school bus through the winding back roads of Oak Harbor to the start of the thirteenth annual Whidbey Island Marathon. Since we’re on the subject of babies, let’s just call this one my little accident. I ran the half there last year, and it was exquisitely beautiful. What can I say? I am a sucker for the rolling hills, the mountains on the horizon, the sprawling, greenish bodies of water almost everywhere the eye falls. Isn’t this how most surprises happen: a proclivity towards persuasion by loveliness and a real ability to forget?

So there I was in my sweats, shivering next to heat lamp on a dock, sucking down a foil packet of chocolate flavored vegan agave, actually feeling quite good about my prospects.

My longest continuous run for this training, twenty miles, had been manageable, even kindly, and since a friend gave hers to me before she moved away (-but I would give it back in a second just to have her around again!), I’ve been biking to the preschool on Fridays. And there’s the occasional recreational ride when I’m not working or running or busy watching box-set television. My legs have just felt better, and my mind feels better, too.

And, okay. There’s this confession to make: I ran it with an iPod. Yeah. Okayokayokayokayokay. I know I said “I don’t believe in iPods.” And I don’t! Well, to the extent that they become isolating or a crutch or try to trick you into forgetting the task at hand. There’s just so much: the quietness of your mind despensing lovely, blockish exposition like ice cubes, or brimming over with frustration, or the occasional thrill of a new idea strolling across the marquee of your movie-theatre brain, making you worry what other things you haven’t run far enough to realize.

But, here’s the thing- you’ve just got to forgive me, because running a marathon is really pretty tough. I know in the age of ultra-marathoners and the Tarahumara outrunning gazelles, I sound sort of last-decade, and I’m sure if I ever become Western States material (more on this later), I will give up my (borrowed) iPod. But as we know from studying (and believe me, there has been some studying) my previous failures [read: panic attack at mile 19 that shrunk my airway to the size of a coffee stirrer] there is a teensy problem with my mind. It has some short-comings, okay, and if you run far enough you will find yours, too. So, in conclusion, I did not attempt to stifle the task and I made my small talk like always, but I needed a guide, some non-linear alternative to the grueling miles banging by, constantly reminding me how far I had to go.

I listened to choral music! Who could blame me? It was soft, and layered, and looked good on the mountains and with the gorgeous sun that streamed down. I accidentally ran a 9:30 first mile, and an 8:45 (!!) number two, and I knew, even then.