Unto The Breach

It is marathon time again this Saturday morning. I’ve staged a mental taper intervention and now it is time to get this thing on.

Unfortunately, the weather forecast appears to be uncooperative. I have run in rain. I have run in wind. I have run with snow falling. And I have run in nice, perfect 50 degree weather. On all of those occasions, the runs have been strong and true.

However, like most, my body does not react well to heat. There is ample evidence testifying to my lack of running acumen above the 70 degree threshold. (I hope I do not go to hell for I would have to become a cyclist.) Saturday’s race is calling for heat. Sure, they say low of 57 and high of 80 on race day. That means, it’ll be 57 degrees at approximately 3 am and 70 degrees by 7:00 gun time…and rising. It’ll be a warm one so I’ve already adjusted my carefully plotted race day goals.

Goal #1: Survival.
Goal #2: Attempt to BQ under 3:21.
Goal #3: Do not deliriously hallucinate…unless it helps obtain goals #1 & 2.

It’s a shame, really. All of this awesome training seems destined to be blown to smithereens by weather whimsy. I will do my best to control pacing at the beginning – to refrain from racing against the rising mercury – to prevent overheating, blown gaskets, uncoiled springs, and flying nuts and bolts at the 20 mile mark like a demented cartoon jalopy.

There is a distance to cross. A breach to conquer. Like Indiana Jones during his Last Crusade, I must choose my path wisely before a misstep sends an over sized table saw blade through my race.

My apologies to Shakespeare:

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

Or close the road up with our spiritless runners.

In training there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of a race gun blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest runner.

Whose blood is fet from fathers of races past!

Runners that, like so many Prefontaines,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought

And sheathed their shoes for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your Garmins; now attest

That those whom you call'd marathoners did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to race. And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made on roads and trails, show us here

The mettle of your spirit; let us swear

That you are worth your training; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry ‘Let’s race! Ready, set, go!’

On second thought, clearly Shakespeare owes me the apology. I should have been his editor.

See you post-marathon, after the 26.2 mile breach, dear friends, once more.

Happy trails.