CIM, according to Kyle

Preparations for CIM have been underway for some time.  We registered quite early this year, participated in a bi-weekly training group from from August to December, and spent the better part of Saturday putting things in order for the big race.  This included the pinning of the bib and fastening of the time chip, the filling of the fuel belt, the packing a both a pre- and post-race bag, and the cutting to size of the tube sock-turned-arm-warmer.

After all that excitement, the following transcript constitutes what I recall from the day of the CIM.  Please note the ways in which time, miles, and blocks all serve as markers of time and progress.


3:28 a.m. Despite the fact that the alarm was set for 3:45, we stirred around 3:00.  I hit the floor near 3:30, fired the water for coffee press and oatmeal, and counted the hours of sleep acquired since 10:00 pm the previous night.  Stephanie followed shortly after, rising with the alarm and falling into a pre-run routine.

4:51 a.m. Thanks to the Zooks, we had a ride to the shuttle stop at the Embassy Suites by the Tower Bridge.  Not only did they wake at an unbelievable hour, but they arrived two minutes early and greeted us with a video camera and enthusiastic support.


6:21 a.m. Our ride to Folsom, a school bus donated by the Elk Grove Unified School District, left the hotel around 5:10.  It inexplicably avoided the freeway in favor of circling certain areas of the grid to caravan with other buses up the hill.  Our bus finally arrived and parked in huge, yellow line.  We departed, thanked the driver, and headed for the next line: the bathroom.

6:56 a.m. After a barely-audible overview from the 3:10 pacer, a bunch of strangers and I clumped near the gates and observed the singing of the national anthem.  At the conclusion, a gun fired, and the pack started moving.  My initial goal was to stay with the 3:10 pace group, as the finishing time would qualify me to run in the Boston Marathon.  I set off with two mates from my training group, and we quickly agreed that the pace felt slow, the group burdensome, and the race constrictive.


mile 1 GPS watches all around me beeped the distance, but by my clock the pace, set at 7:15 minute splits, was 7:42.  I broke rank, making a move to the right, and ditched the sock-gloves near the second aid station.  I cruised the next couple of miles in isolation.  The pack thinned along with the crowd, and I tried my best to absorb the pastures and fog of the morning.  I'm too excited at the absence of rain.

mile 2 Stretching out from the pack also means I've strayed from Scott and Astin, my two training mates.  It means I am running most of this alone.

mile 5.5 The first race marker, and huge relay exchange, came just after a huge left turn near mile 5.  I spent most of this stretch looking to the right for my brother Chris, who awaited a relay exchange.  My search was interrupted by screams of support from my principal and a colleague, also there for relay purposes.  This unexpected morale booster carried me into the next miles.

mile 6.5 Around the 6th mile I started to wonder about the strength of my knee.  The previous Sunday I experienced significant pain in the iliotibial band on my left leg.  After a serious physical therapy session and ample rest and stretching, I began the race in doubt that I'd make it far enough to test my recovery.  Nearing the 7th mile, I noticed discomfort and started contemplating exit strategies should the pain increase.

Aside from those concerns, it was during these boring miles that I continued to realize how lovely a morning we'd been given, weather-wise.

mile 11 The knee concerns a fading thought, I focused on finding my mother and step father, who explained they'd find a place near the eleventh or twelfth mile.  As I crossed the associative intersection, I heard a miniature vuvuzela squealing above the cheering fans.  My mom and step dad appeared on my right, cheering mightily.  I said, "Don't I know you?" to which she replied, "I love you!"  I smiled so forcefully that my jaws hurt; it lasted for the next quarter mile.  She later told me that it was as exciting as cheering for my little league games, rec. basketball teams, or football dashes.  My step father was amazed at the supportive environment.  He found Stephanie when she passed, despite the large pack and conspicuous outfit.  They've vowed never to miss another race.

13.1 I cruised through the half marathon checkpoint at a cool 1:33.  In October, I ran 13.1 in 1:28 with considerable struggle.  On Sunday, my mind rejoiced at the idea that a mere 5 minutes could produce such a different feeling.

mile 15  By this point, the marathon becomes a faster version of one of the longer training runs we endured in the fall.  Unfortunately, it's still 11 miles from the finish line, a long way from the grid of midtown, and a desolate place for fans.  This all led to the realization that a marathon is a long freaking run.  I forced myself to focus on the prospects of seeing more supporters, and perhaps chatting with my coach.


mile 17 Just before hearing my splits at 17 I met up with my favorite Fleet Feet coach Ryan.  He patrolled the oncoming line on bicycle and carried a California state flag.  He told me I looked calm and strong, and we chatted about odds and ends.  I told him to check on Stephanie, and he told me to focus on hitting my splits from miles 18 to 21.  "After 21," he told me, "the thrill of finishing among all those people will carry you through."  I felt great. 


miles 18-21 My pace didn't slow.  Just as Ryan advocated, I maintained 7:08-7:10 splits through these crucial miles. 

mile 21  As I neared Lohman's Plaza ("The Wall," they call it) I saw a woman on the curb, folded over in tears.  Her partner (husband, boyfriend?) could not comfort her as she cried into her CIM bib.  "This is crazy," I thought.  Just then, I saw Christina Abshire, my close college friend, cheering me from the median across from Lohman's Plaza.  I thanked her, cheered loudly, and pressed on through a throng of supporters.  Here, I was offered beer in blue plastic cups, fives and handshakes, and plates of oranges.  I declined all, eager to find Ben and abandon my fuel belt.


mile 22 This stretch is famous for it's poppy incline and subsequent grid running.  I found the hill up to the H Street Bridge to be nothing special.  Crossing, I focused on finding my brother-in-law Ben.  I wanted to see a familiar face, but I badly wanted to shed my empty (and tightly fastened) belt.  As I descended the bridge, I saw him approaching on the right, and violently unvelcroed my fuel belt.  He said, "Good job.  Good luck."  And that was that.

Fabulous 40s Having finished my last gel fuel without water, I felt heavy and sluggish moving into the 50-block of East Sac.  I moved slower, my calves and hamstrings tightening, and scanned the horizon for an aid station.  At this point, I felt like I was grinding myself into the asphalt.  (Coincidentally, later that evening I watched The Kitchen chef Noah Zonca grind wasabi root into sushi accoutrement and imagined myself as the root).  I developed significant pain in left hamstring and right calf.  Near Mercy (no pun intended), I was passed by the 3:10 pacer I'd ditched long earlier.  Apparently making up for lost time, he seemed to be running negative splits in the second half of the marathon.  At any rate, he passed me like I was standing still; although, he led a significantly smaller group of runners.  I checked his splits, and they were, in fact, nearly negative for the later miles of the race.  He finished at 3:09.

I started to rely not on the mile markers, but on the street signs.  The 30s meant only 20 or so blocks until the end.

16th Street Moving at a crawl by this point, I heard my former credential colleague Sarah cheering me on.  After finishing the first leg for her relay team, Sarah set up shop between 20th and 19th streets to cheer on the final participant.  Needless to say, her presence had a powerful impact on my morale.

9th Street Just before Frank Fat's I hit the mile 26 sign.  The pacer was long out of sight, but I held out hope that somehow he'd gone too fast, and that I'd cross with a time worthy of qualification in the Boston Marathon.

Left on 8th Street The crowd grew enormously.  I turned a familiar corner and joined a number of other, slowing runners focused on crawling across the finish line.  I took another left, finishing in front of the Capitol in 3:12:15, one minute and 16 seconds over the Boston qualifier time.

Post-race Immediately after crossing, I saw Beverly Zook mirroring my steps.  She held our post-race bag, and offered a congratulations and a concerned look.  I immediately took to stretching my calves, wrapped myself in a martian blanket, and posed for a photo with my finishers medal.  I picked up my pre-race bag, lying on the grass in front of the capitol, and sought the pancakes offered to finishers.  My body felt shredded; I cramped up in the food line, and hobbled to the curb like a drunk Frankenstein.  I heard from Beverly that Ben has called, and Stephanie is advancing to the grid.  I'm told it'll be around 50 minutes.  Things are considerably better since my time in the changing tents, and I've traded my shorts for sweats and a free Kaiser beanie to focus on Stephanie's finish. We found her at the corner near the 4:09 minute, looking strong.

After the dust settled, the braincells restored, and the baths taken, Stephanie and I set off for a celebratory dinner at the The Kitchen.  Everyone's a winner with wine flights!