The Broad Running Broad

A warning: we’re talking about bodily functions up ahead. If this isn’t your thing, you might not want to read today’s post. If this is your jam or you’re thoroughly desensitized to what I post on here, then read on.

You know how I mentioned all the stupid ailments that were interrupting my training plans for the marathon? I already knew going in that I wasn’t going to make any great time goals, so I told myself that I was going to run the race at my most comfortable pace, listen to my body, and take the “cowabunga it is” approach to the marathon. A finish is a finish, right?

I figured running at my most comfortable and conservative pace would have me finishing somewhere between five to five and a half hours, which is the time I was going for. Emotionally and mentally I was at peace.

Then something happened on Saturday night. If I were a betting woman, I’d say it was the CrockPot chicken and noodles. I’ve made them before, and on cold or rainy days they are a wonderful choice. I also tend to eat richer foods before races with no problems the following morning, as I get up early enough to take care of my business at home or in the hotel. This is a firm ground rule: I do not leave until I’ve gone to the bathroom.

Sunday morning at home started off like usual. I woke up. I slathered my feet in gobs of Vaseline before pulling my socks on. The tube of BodyGlide discovered the locations on me that I’m pretty sure my OB/GYN hasn’t found. So I was nice ‘n lubed up all over, with no chance to chafe (spoiler: I was wrong. My neckline from my shirt and sports bra line got it pretty badly.)

But I still hadn’t gone to the bathroom. Specifically, I had only emptied one chamber. There was the other one that needed to unload.

So I was doing air squats and stretching out at home, doing my damnedest to awake the beast from its slumber. I was chugging my electrolytes, partially to get my body ready to run, but also because those do the job when I’m not touching coffee with a ten-foot pole. The race starts at 7:30, and I like to be parked by 6:45 at latest to give myself time to get to the corrals and not have any more stress on the ol’ system.

It was 6:30. I was finally able to go. Then I had to do the mad dash to get myself to the car, get downtown, and get parked. At 7 a.m. I took my energy gel and was feeling great.

At 7:30 we were off.

During the first hour I felt great. I was running strong and even though I wasn’t racing, it felt like that first hour went pretty quickly. Around Mile 5 I had the urge to go, and I was able to hold on until Mile 7. Thankfully Columbus has plenty of port-a-Johns along the course, so I hopped in one at Mile 7. I didn’t think I had to go that badly, but I did and surprised myself. Then I was off again.

Miles 8 through 12 weren’t bad. I slowed down at the areas I knew I would slow down through, and at the same time I started experiencing the pressure. The beast wasn’t awake, but it was stirring and stressing me out. It’s a joke among runners that peeing or pooping your pants on a long run is not only normal, but a rite of passage. Truth be told, if I were on a long training run in the woods by myself, I wouldn’t mind running back home missing a sock.

But this was race day. I suppose a little pee in my pants wouldn’t kill me, but there was no way I was pooping myself in public and then running the rest of the way like that. I had to get to a port-a-John.

I hopped in one at Mile 13 and tried. Nothing happened. All the pressure, none of the release.

Miles 13 through 20 consisted of run-walking to try to make my time goal, and then having to stop and take walk breaks when the pressure got too painful. I was trying to keep myself focused ahead – right up ahead is Ohio State, then we’ll run around the Shoe. Just focus on the Shoe and seeing the Patient Champion.

When I was running I was able to maintain the pace I trained at, which I took as a good sign. But the pressure continued to grow. I made another stop at the Mile 20 port-a-John. Nothing happened.

I wanted to enjoy Miles 20 through 25. I did my damnedest with run-walking. Finally around Mile 23 I had to admit to myself I wasn’t going to make the time I wanted, which was disappointing. Here I was thinking it would be the hip that would give me trouble, and instead, it was the one part I thought I had a good grip on.

At Mile 25 I had enough. Thankfully nobody was in the port-a-John and I got right in there. I decided there was no way in hell I was doing a run-walk-waddle of shame across that finish line, and if I had to stay in there until the chambers were emptied then I would spend all frickin’ day in there. (Side note: my mom has heard this story and died at this part.)

I gave my body a NSFW pep/tough love talk and finally, after three hours of pain, the beast decided it was time to awaken, go terrorize the villagers and come out of the cave.

And once I was done, Reader-friends who have stayed with me up to this point, I felt pretty damn good. Reinvigorated and re-energized. I ran, tearing up those last hills and feeling like I could actually slay this dragon.

As I have every year before, I had tears in my eyes as I ran down Spring Street towards the finish line. I heard spectators cheering my name and I knew I had made it. This particular race may have sucked, but Columbus will always be magical and emotional. This is my city, and these are my people. Columbus was my first half in 2016 and my first full in 2017. In 2018 and 2019 I raised funds as a Children’s Champion. I get to see the 24 Patient Champions on their respective miles, as well as run along the previous Patient Champions on the Mile 10 Encore Mile. And I can’t help crying a little whenever I run Mile 11, the Angel Mile and read the signs in memory of the angels who finished their race and their brave families.

My final time: 5:51:18. Not at all what I was expecting and admittedly, I am disappointed in myself. It wasn’t my day, for one of the crappiest reasons why.

So Marathon #11 is done. I originally thought today’s post was going to be a story in letting go of expectations and just going, celebrating the fact that I can even run in the first place. A true model of “cowabunga.”

What would up being the moral of Columbus 2023 instead?

Shit happens. Own your shit, get rid of the shit, and then go slay some dragons.

I appreciate all of you who have stayed through this crappy recap. I hope you all have a wonderful week ahead.

Yours in running and life,

Allison