Sports editor gives firsthand account of running the SLO marathon
J.J. Jenkins
sports@mustangdaily.net
“You need some energy gel?”
Until I hit mile 20 of Sunday’s SLO Marathon, I never would have thought those words would save me. After cranking through most of the course at a 7:30-minutes-per-mile pace, an ugly side-cramp forced me to stop and stretch out my midsection in a feeble attempt to get back into my groove. Luckily, a kind woman walking the half-marathon asked if she could help.
Unless I wanted to finish the race crawling, I was out of options, so I accepted her offer despite never having consumed the substance in my life.
Then she pulled it out of her sports bra. I immediately had second thoughts.
“It’s nice and warm for you,” she said.
But, like I said, I was shit out of luck. I tried to open it with my hands but eventually caved to my last resort — teeth it was. Thank God it was worth it.
Now, rewind five hours.
Though my alarm was set for 4:30 a.m. in order to be at San Luis Obispo High School for a 6:00 a.m. start time, I bolted wide awake twenty minutes early. The body has a strange ability to gear up for big events.
So I rolled out of bed and climbed into my running attire for the day: a T-shirt, spandex, shorts and my Hoka One One running shoes. The simplicity of running always appealed to me; you don’t need much equipment to hit the road or trails, no matter the distance.
The last thing I wanted to do at four in the morning was eat, but I knew I’d pay for it later if I didn’t, so I scarfed down every runners’ secret weapon, a banana, in addition to some toast with honey. That was the pre-race meal for my father, who ran in six Boston marathons and in the Olympic Trials, so I figured there was something to it.
There, sitting in the pre-dawn darkness, I flashed back to a credo he recited to me since I could understand spoken language. Even before he knew I’d follow in his footsteps and take on the task of running 26.2 miles, he told it to me over and over.
“You know, there are two halves to a marathon,” he’d say. “The first 20 miles and the last 6.2.”
Those words were echoing through my head as ultra-marathoner and Cal Poly alumnus Dean Karnazes gave the marathon mob a brief speech before San Luis Obispo mayor Jan Marx squeezed an air horn and sent the group on a 26.2 mile journey.
The plan was simple, hang with a pace group that would average eight-minute miles throughout the race (translating into a 3-hour-and-30-minute finishing time), then break away from the group midway through the race and start clocking in low seven-minute miles to the finish.
Patience has never been my strong suit, and watching a hoard of runners burst down the city streets and duck out of eyeshot put my desire to pass people to the test. I mean, when you don’t catch the dude running in a gingerbread man costume until mile five or the barefoot runner holding a mini-boombox until mile eight or the guy rocking massive Beats by Dre headphones and swinging his arms at his side until mile 17, it can weigh on a competitor.
“It’s a long race, it’s a loooong race,” I repeated in my head over and over. “I’ll catch them later.”
So step after step, the race churned through the rolling hills of Edna Valley and the runners who once disappeared over the next hill slowly reappeared then disappeared behind me.
Paradoxically, I was probably feeling too good during the midsection of the race. Each runner who I caught and each mile that slipped by faster than expected gave me a renewed confidence that I’d finish the race without a hiccup.
And not wanting to mess with my vibe, I continued passing aid stations without grabbing water or food. I tried drinking once but ended up choking on the water and coughing for the next 200 yards. I didn’t want to give it another go.
But as the crowd of runners thinned out between miles 19 and 21, a headwind picked up and the rolling hills that I once climbed with ease turned into mountains. The smile I sported while passing supporters on the roads turned into a grimace.
As my father predicted, I was entering the true second half of the marathon. And when I needed the boost, my aforementioned friend handed me her boob-sweat coated energy gel that got me to the next water station on the run. Another energy goo got me back into a rhythm as the course headed back down Johnson Avenue where a group of supporters had set up a table of Dixi cups with a sign reading “Beer.”
Having already experimented with the idea of eating and drinking while running and not wanting to introduce a new substance to my confused system (and not wanting to get carded), I declined their Pabst Blue Ribbon and continued on the homestretch.
I don’t remember too much of the final four miles, other than just repeating how long I had left over and over in my head and dodging grandmas finishing the half-marathon, but at long last I finished the final hill climb at the base of Cerro San Luis and let gravity pull me to the finish line at the Madonna Inn.
I’d like to tell you, dear reader, that the feeling of hitting the finish line after 26.2 miles in 3 hours and 23 minutes, and after hundreds of miles of training, was some indescribable emotional high. But that wouldn’t be true. It hurt like hell.
But it’s the type of hurt that was worth every step and stumble. It’s the type of feeling everyone should experience, even just once.