Jack and Jill's Downhill Marathon (King County, Washington)

Once again fans, it's race day . . . and once I again, I feel ill-prepared for the task before me. Today, I will run my second full marathon or perhaps, die trying. I had originally signed up for this race last year, but accepted a deferment when the pandemic hit. After discussing with a few running friends, we decided to meet in Seattle and make a weekend out of it, which we have definitely been doing. That said though, I'm really don't think my body is ready to run the 26.2 miles required of me this day, even if it is almost entirely downhill.

My friends and I rise at the bright and early hour of 4:00 AM to begin our preparation. Knee braces, running socks, body-glide, etc. is equipped and applied before we head out to meet our other friends in the parking lot and head for the starting line on this brisk Washington morning. Luckily, our friend that is driving ran the half-marathon yesterday (and set a personal record in doing so) is rested enough to hall the rest of us to the marathon start this morning. Four of us will be attempting to run this long distance along an old railroad line.

When we arrive at the starting line, myself and one other friend decide to wait in the truck where it is warmer (we are the slower runners of the group), while the other two decide to go out and do a little warm up run (these two are regionally competitive runners and will likely finish in half the time I do). As the sun rises, the ambient temperature starts to climb to a more reasonable level outside and I decide to get out and start stretching a bit. 

As the race start time approaches, we all head toward the starting line and await the gun. The organizers ask that faster runners (like my two friends) line up a the front and go with the first gun, while others hang back and start with a later wave and respective starting gun. I'm fine with that, but as the third wave prepares to launch through the starting inflatable arch, I feel the urge to hit the bathroom again. I thought I had taken care of that just a few minutes ago, but perhaps all of the water I have consumed this morning in trying to hydrate for the race is just running through me. Too late though, I can't make it to the port-o-potties before the gun for the last wave. And so, after the gun and my wave takes off, I make a quick detour to take care of business before rejoining the group. 

My slower friend has gone on ahead, but I manage to catch up to her in the tunnel, and then go a little past her. The tunnel? Yes, about a half-mile into the race course, we enter a long, straight, and pitch black railroad tunnel carved into the mountain. There are no lights, though the organizers did mandate that everyone should have either a handheld flashlight or headlamp with them for this section. And I find that it's very necessary, as it is incredibly dark in here. The fact that I'm wearing my prescription sunglasses probably worsens that effect. I decide to remove them and try to run by the light of my handheld. Unfortunately, my vision is poor enough that I can't see a couple of puddles in this low light and manage to splash down right into them. I finally decide to find a runner that is near my pace and just follow her exact same track through the darkness. When she swerves to avoid something, I swerve as well. It works out pretty well for me. Far off in the distance, I see a light, which I assume is man-made, but as I approach it, I realize that is actually the exit from the tunnel. It speaks volumes to the straight nature of the tunnel that I could see this exit from nearly two-and-a-half miles away. Finally, I reach the light at the end of the tunnel and take a quick water break.

I'm feeling pretty good so far, but my friend hasn't caught up with me yet. Eventually, I'm sure she will and so, I push forward. The trail from here is a tightly packed gravel road. It's dusty, but a great surface for running on. I'm making pretty good time and doing better so far than I thought I would. I have been training as much as possible, but between work, rain, and the unbearable heat and humidity of Georgia, I've only been managing to run a couple of times a week, with my longest recent run being only around nine miles. I'm sure I'll pay for that soon.

The views are fantastic from up here. The course starts 2,000 feet above the finish line and ever-so-slowly gives away that elevation as we run down the mountain. It's only about a 1% grade, but even that small downward slope is appreciated by my body, as I don't really have to work to much.

Along the course, I encounter a number of smushed frogs and slow-moving ground slugs making their way across the path. The slugs are thicker, but just as long as the banana slugs of northern California. These have a dull gray color though, as opposed to the bright yellow of their cousins to the south.

As I near the half-way point, my friend texts me that she sees me in the distance and is catching up. I slow down a bit and wait for her. That might have been a mistake though, as she quickly catches up and continues to build a lead on me. I'm starting to struggle a bit. The views remain fantastic, but my get-up-and-go seems to have got-up-and-went. While my knees, which are often a source of pain during races, seem to be behaving themselves, I just feel a lack of energy. A couple of gels and I'm back at it though.

Around mile seventeen, I catch back up to my friend, but soon she once again leaves me in the dust. I'm hurting at this point. Nothing specific, other than my feet, but they are hurting badly enough to require me to alternate between running and walking. I do calculations in my head to ensure I can finish before the cut-off and then cycle through stages of inspiration and disappointment as I continue my relentless push towards the finish line. 

Running below Rattlesnake Ledge, I remember that I hiked up there on my last trip to Seattle about four years ago. I hadn't really paid attention to the location of the race enough to realize that I have been here before, but it was a nice surprise. With the finish line only three or four miles away, I try to strengthen my resolve and push for the finish line.

Eventually, I reach the final turn and see the row of state flags leading me to the finish line. My friends have walked part of the way up the course to greet me on my way and I feel obligated to put on as much of a show as I can muster. I summon the last of my strength and push hard for the finish line. Crossing it provides a sense of elation and accomplishment. I'm quickly met with a volunteer placing a finisher's medal around my neck and an EMT offering me water and a wet towel to help me cool off. I find my 'slower' friend sitting just beyond the finish line. She had crossed it a few minutes before me and so, I guess I'm the 'slower' one this day. I rest for a few minutes, but in that time think back on the beauty of the course, the pain my body now radiating, and the fact that I just ran 26.2 miles in 5:53:19. That's not a great time, but before you judge, ask yourself about the last time you ran a full marathon. At one point, I thought I might be able to beat the time of my previous marathon, but I'll settle for just finishing. That's two full marathons for me and I'm registered for yet another one in November. Perhaps, I'm crazy, but as long as my body holds together, I'm going to keep pushing myself. For now, I'm going to go crash and then eat . . . . or maybe the other way around . . . I'm not sure.