Kiawah Island Marathon, South Carolina

People say that the third time’s a charm. They also say that bad things happen in threes. As per usual, I’m somewhere in the middle.

My first marathon a few years ago went much better than I expected. I had carefully planned out my training and for the most part completed everything I had set for myself. I chose a pacer, stayed with them through almost mile 15, had my family to meet me at prescribed stops, and asked my son to run with me the last 2 miles. All things went to plan. At the finish, I was proud of the accomplishment and surprised by a finish time of 4:41:02. I think I may have even shed a tear. It was faster than I had hoped for my first time at that distance. That running afterglow would last for days. I was a beast. I completed a FULL marathon. I am Wonder-freaking-Woman. So, as us runners would do, I signed up to do the exact same one the following year.

Marathon #2 would not be the same experience. I had not been as diligent with training and in fact had probably over-trained a bit by dipping into the trail running scene too close to race day. That year would also see a myriad of personal life experiences which would take up more of that precious stored energy than I anticipated. Race day would begin with warmer temperatures than predicted, and, to my own demise, I went out way too fast. The pacer, who was jacked up on Starbucks by her own admission, was supposed to run a 10:30 pace. We went out at about 8:30. By the time I realized that my watch wasn’t reading wrong near two miles in, it was too late. I had expended too much too soon and would pay for it by mile 14. It was the kind of race that might make a newbie give up on running altogether. It was a special kind of awful those last 12 miles. That race would clock in at miserable 5:15:06. I spent a few days pouting, thinking about what I had done wrong and what I could have done differently for a better outcome. And true to the form of any stubborn runner, I signed up for marathon #3.

This time would be different, I told myself. I would be careful with my training again. I would sign up for a race that SURELY would be nice and chilly. I would not trust the pacer completely. I was going to do better. I would have my redemption.

Yeah…nope.

This time I planned to go north. I thought to myself: I’m going to almost ensure that temperatures will be cool, if not downright cold. I still aimed for a December marathon and race choices were pretty slim. I needed to be able to drive since the family would be along for the ride. Kiawah Island, South Carolina fit the bill. And then, life happened. Training plans? What training plans? I spent the fall season caught in between all the things my life asks of me and all the things I willingly sign up for. I struggled to find balance. Running couldn’t come first. I caved in to the demands of other things, sometimes rightly so. This time around, I would be seriously undertrained.

I took two days off at work and booked a nice little place to stay in downtown Charleston. It ended up, after quite bit of rearranging, that the kids had to stay home. The oldest had a last-minute soccer game and the youngest had a chorus concert she insisted she had to attend (even though I recall signing a paper to say she wouldn’t be there months before). We sorted all that out and the hubs and I made our way to Kiawah without them.

For the most part, pre-race activities went as planned. We arrived at Kiawah and picked up my bib and shirt. Then, we made the 40-minute drive to Charleston during which time the rains began. The weather was predicted to be cold and rainy throughout the weekend. I packed a variety of clothing options not knowing what I should wear. I’ve run in cold. I’ve run in the pouring rain. But I’ve not run in both. We dropped our stuff in the room and scurried a few soggy steps down the block for dinner. We landed in a delicious little place called HoM. I ordered my ritualistic fried pickles; they did not disappoint. I followed it up with a burger and fries. We really didn’t want to drive out in the rainy mess to the grocery store for breakfast foods. So, we asked the restaurant for extra bacon to go (genius, right?!?). I then ran a block over to the Starbucks and picked up a few pastries. Breakfast was ready.

I had some trouble sleeping that night. Maybe it was the weather, maybe the stress of the week before, maybe the worry of being so-not-ready for this race... who knows. But, race morning arrived and off we went. The drive to Kiawah in the wee hours was fine until we were a mile and a half out from the island. Traffic came to a stand still. There’s only one way onto the island, and pretty much only two roads to get you to that entry point. I think it took nearly 30 minutes to make that 1.5 miles. My husband took a nap. I nibbled at bacon and a blueberry scone. I wasn’t very hungry and only managed to finish half the scone and two pieces of bacon. It was chilly and although the rain had mostly stopped, it sprinkled off and on throughout the drive.

We parked in a muddy field just outside the island with everyone else and hopped a tour bus to shuttle us over to the start line. The bus dropped us off about a half mile from the start. Although we’d spent extra time on the drive stuck in traffic, I still got to the corrals with about 20 minutes to spare. Time to do the last-minute prep.

Besides the lack of training mileage, I would not have the support of the family at all on the course. When I originally picked this race, I didn’t know that you had to shuttle over. This meant they couldn’t drive the car and meet me at different points to restock fuel or give encouragement. Once it became just my husband coming along, we thought we’d rent a bike and he could ride to do the same. But then there was the weather. He might have been pretty miserable riding around in the cold rain so we abandoned the bike idea. It ended up that I would carry my trail backpack and I would be on my own. So much for nothing new on race day.

I loaded up the fuel, ditched the fuzzy jacket and Batman pants, and found my spot in the corral. My headphones were on and the music cued up. Apple Watch was poised and ready to track my pace. A quick picture or two and I was off. My modified plan was to stick with the 4:30:00 pacer as long as possible. I knew I could keep that pace for quite awhile. Since I had zero expectations of success at this point, I figured let’s just see how far I can take it. That’s what I usually do when plans have been foiled, I just throw caution to the wind and go for it.

I was on the pacer’s heels out of the start, feeling comfortable and ready for this challenge. And then, only a half-mile in, my sports bra hook popped. WTF. Like, seriously. What was that?!? It took me a second to realize what it was because I was wearing the backpack, everything felt kind of different anyway. I thought for a moment, do I need to stop and fix this? I mean, I’m neither blessed nor cursed with a pair of ladies that need tie-down straps to keep them in place so...could I get away with just continuing? Begrudgingly, I stepped out of traffic, took off the pack and refastened the bra. I reentered the race and set my sights on catching back up to the pacer.

I made quick work of catching the pacer and stayed with him for about a mile before passing. The pace felt slow, so I went ahead. The miles began to tick by. The course - although pretty - is uneventful. The island is basically just a large community of homes. Very expensive ones. Along the course, houses are tucked into wooded lots and painted with soft, muted tones that blend in with the surroundings. Even though the homes I passed in the first 7-10 miles were clearly grand in size and price tag, you had to really look in order to see any detail through the trees and natural landscaping. Later in the race I would see homes that existed in the “mansion” category, thousands of square feet regally perched out on the edges of the salt marsh.

The first 16 miles went great. I maintained a 10:15-10:25 min/mile average pace throughout. The skies had been overcast and the temperature was perfect for running, low to mid-fifties. I was able to run and fetch hydration and fuel from the pack without even stopping. I was munching down a Clif-Blok every 2 miles. My tunes were jammin’ in my ear. I ran in a nice, steady groove. I remember thinking that this race might turn out better than I thought. Maybe I can stay under 5 hours.

And then my watch glitched. I looked down and saw a pace of 5 minutes and something. I kept running. I looked down again, same pace but now I was at 28 miles. What? I had been doing so well, but the weird numbers were now in my head. What was my pace? How far have I gone? What time am I at? Later, my husband would tell me that the RaceJoy app which he was using to track me had lost my signal for a minute or two during the race. I wondered if that had coincided with my watch wigging out. Had I run through the Bermuda triangle of Kiawah Island where runners pass through some sort of time warp? Maybe I had gone to some other earthly dimension and had run some extra miles… Nope, just a technology hiccup that would toy with my mind. Even though this race had markers at every mile and clocks at nearly the same, I suddenly felt like I needed my own stats to get me through. And even though I had felt confident the mile before, doubt crept back in. The wheels began to fall off.

From here to the end went downhill. Every mile got slower. Ankles and feet suddenly began to hurt. I was hungry. Loneliness set in. It’s hard to tell how much of the challenge in those last 10 miles was mental or physical, but I imagine it was just a perfect combination of both. My husband was waiting at mile 21. I fought the urge to cry when he reached out for a hug. I told him that my feet hurt and I was lonely, but I didn’t stay long. He offered to take my jacket or the backpack but I declined and kept going. If I had stayed there any longer than the 30 seconds I had, I might have decided to quit. I needed to keep going exactly as I was. I had to finish.

The last mile took me over 18 minutes. It was a long, cold 18 minutes. I kept my head down because I didn’t want to see others passing me by. I crossed the line in 5:09:39. Redemption would not be mine this time.

I made a beeline for the food tent. I put my fuzzy jacket back on and wrapped myself up in the Mylar blanket. They served cold pastas and a warm bean soup. My brain was clearly not firing on all cylinders as I started to chow down. Within 10 minutes, I regretted the decision to inhale the pasta. Too heavy, too quick. I was sweaty and cold so we didn’t hang around the finish area too long. I longed for a hot shower and a cozy nap.

Marathon #3 would not be the glorious “third time’s a charm” I had hoped it would be, but I can’t say it was a failure either. At the end of the day, I finished it. Without the proper mileage on my feet, with a busy life that pulls me in a hundred different directions, and with probably less than 1,000 calories of fuel from start to finish - I completed a marathon. All 26.2 miles. All me. That’s something to feel good about, regardless of the finish time.

There are so many things I could have done differently that might have changed the outcome of my race. But, like so many middle-of-the-pack runners, we live lives that ‘include’ running. We aren’t elites whose lives ‘are’ running. The only real competition we have is with ourselves. I understand very clearly that success does not happen upon you, you make it happen through hard work and the choices you make.

My watch still believes that I ran an ultra, with more than 39 miles at an average pace of 7:50 per mile. Perhaps my watch believes in me more than I do. Maybe someday I could go that distance. Someday.

Until then, I’ll keep plugging along. It’s time to set some new goals for 2019 and do the work to make them happen. The middle is a wide place, my running friends, there’s room for everyone on this journey. Let’s get going.