Last weekend, I raced the 13.1 mile distance down in Champaign at the Illinois Half Marathon, and finished in 1:15:30, (technically) a new PR. However, my official finishing time is listed nearly a minute and a half slower, at 1:16:56. How is that possible? Why the discrepancy?
Poop. Lots and lots of poop.
Needless to say, this blog post isn’t for the squeamish. (Un)lucky for you, my poor followers, I lack any sort of self-consciousness (sorry Mom), so read on at your own risk to discover why some untimely doodoo butter robbed me of a somewhat decent time and place (also needless to say, but I'll be getting as creative as possible when referring to my own excrement). Enjoy...?
~
The usual pre-race days prior to the half ensued: work tirelessly to set up, then man, the HOKA ONE ONE booth at the expo, standing for 10-12 hours the day before the dance. Of course, this would be less-than-ideal if I were in anything but the cushioned moonboots that are Hokas, so I was able to go to bed Friday night, ready and eager to solidify a new PR at the 13.1 distance.
See, my last half marathon (blog post) was most definitely short, and while I'd like to be able to say I've broken 75, that's not really the case (as I mentioned in that race's blog post, I'd put the effort at a high 1:15:XX had it been a full 13.1 and not 12.9). So in reality, anything under 80 would net me a "PR," though really, I just wanted to run hard and compete.
Waking up Saturday morning, though, I was in for a surprise. No, the poop stuff doesn't start here (although I wish it had). I opened my moth-eaten Super8 Motel's curtains to find torrential downpour. That may be an over-exaggeration, but it was definitely raining, and raining quite hard. Checking my weather app, I noticed that the 100% chance of rain would continue until about 6pm that day. Woof.
With 45 minutes before the race start, I downed a 5-Hour Energy, then drove the 10ish minutes over to U of I's campus and the start area for the Illinois Half Marathon. Because I'm lazy and hate the cold, I figured I'd save my energy for the race and forgo any sort of warm up, instead opting for the Porto-o-Potty line (and so it begins...). I didn't really HAVE to go, but I figured it'd be a good idea just in case, and a good way to kill some time before the 7am start.
However, I either got into the worst possible line, or everyone was stricken with intense constipation, because, after standing in line for 20 minutes, I realized I wasn't going to be able to number 2 before the start of the race. Frustrated, I hopped out of line, sprinted over to the gear check to drop off my rain gear, then made it to the front of the starting line, with just a couple minutes to spare. There, I found Phil (who was insanely jealous of my sick kicks - Hoka One One Tracers are soooo dope), and we nervously shivered, trying to stay warm before the start.
Phil had crushed it here last year, running away with a 1:13ish and a top 5 finish. While I knew beating him was a long shot, I wanted to see how long I'd be able to keep him in my sight. But this cold downpour forced me to throw away any sort of goal time, and after a quick national anthem, we were off!
Needless to say, this blog post isn’t for the squeamish. (Un)lucky for you, my poor followers, I lack any sort of self-consciousness (sorry Mom), so read on at your own risk to discover why some untimely doodoo butter robbed me of a somewhat decent time and place (also needless to say, but I'll be getting as creative as possible when referring to my own excrement). Enjoy...?
~
The usual pre-race days prior to the half ensued: work tirelessly to set up, then man, the HOKA ONE ONE booth at the expo, standing for 10-12 hours the day before the dance. Of course, this would be less-than-ideal if I were in anything but the cushioned moonboots that are Hokas, so I was able to go to bed Friday night, ready and eager to solidify a new PR at the 13.1 distance.
See, my last half marathon (blog post) was most definitely short, and while I'd like to be able to say I've broken 75, that's not really the case (as I mentioned in that race's blog post, I'd put the effort at a high 1:15:XX had it been a full 13.1 and not 12.9). So in reality, anything under 80 would net me a "PR," though really, I just wanted to run hard and compete.
Waking up Saturday morning, though, I was in for a surprise. No, the poop stuff doesn't start here (although I wish it had). I opened my moth-eaten Super8 Motel's curtains to find torrential downpour. That may be an over-exaggeration, but it was definitely raining, and raining quite hard. Checking my weather app, I noticed that the 100% chance of rain would continue until about 6pm that day. Woof.
With 45 minutes before the race start, I downed a 5-Hour Energy, then drove the 10ish minutes over to U of I's campus and the start area for the Illinois Half Marathon. Because I'm lazy and hate the cold, I figured I'd save my energy for the race and forgo any sort of warm up, instead opting for the Porto-o-Potty line (and so it begins...). I didn't really HAVE to go, but I figured it'd be a good idea just in case, and a good way to kill some time before the 7am start.
However, I either got into the worst possible line, or everyone was stricken with intense constipation, because, after standing in line for 20 minutes, I realized I wasn't going to be able to number 2 before the start of the race. Frustrated, I hopped out of line, sprinted over to the gear check to drop off my rain gear, then made it to the front of the starting line, with just a couple minutes to spare. There, I found Phil (who was insanely jealous of my sick kicks - Hoka One One Tracers are soooo dope), and we nervously shivered, trying to stay warm before the start.
Phil had crushed it here last year, running away with a 1:13ish and a top 5 finish. While I knew beating him was a long shot, I wanted to see how long I'd be able to keep him in my sight. But this cold downpour forced me to throw away any sort of goal time, and after a quick national anthem, we were off!
 |
| No way I'm paying $74 for this photo, even if I do look fly as hell... |
Right off the bat, I didn't feel that great. I had to essentially close my eyes
due to the rain pounding my face, and I settled into what felt like a manageable
pace, sitting in about 15th. Phil took off with the lead pack, and despite
telling myself to take it easy the first mile, I found myself splitting 5:30
for the opening mile.
Ain't no thang I told myself, settling in with two other runners. Settling in meant around 5:45-50 pace, which is what a mid-1:15 should look like, but I still wasn't feeling that great. I told myself it was due to the cold and rain and I hadn’t really warmed up yet, but it was right around mile 4 where I felt the first rumblings. Just a slight pressure on my lower abdomen, something that made each stride feel a little too jarring. Rolling through mile 4 and slowing down slightly, it dawned on me: I think I might have to poop. Maybe it was just some peristalsis, or perhaps some cereal that forgot to be digested the night before. I continued on, wary.
Ain't no thang I told myself, settling in with two other runners. Settling in meant around 5:45-50 pace, which is what a mid-1:15 should look like, but I still wasn't feeling that great. I told myself it was due to the cold and rain and I hadn’t really warmed up yet, but it was right around mile 4 where I felt the first rumblings. Just a slight pressure on my lower abdomen, something that made each stride feel a little too jarring. Rolling through mile 4 and slowing down slightly, it dawned on me: I think I might have to poop. Maybe it was just some peristalsis, or perhaps some cereal that forgot to be digested the night before. I continued on, wary.
 |
| Dayummmm, Sam. Back at it again with the blue Hokas! |
See, this is where I should have stopped. There were Porto-o-Potties every 1-2
miles, and an early pitstop would've made a huge difference, getting that out
of the way early. But, I'm an idiot, and somehow assumed I could "run
off" the need to defecate. But every step made it more and more apparent
that there'd be no way I would finish this race with my bowels full of brown
stuff.
I slowed considerably miles 5, 6, and 7 as that meme of the kid soiling his pants flashed in my mind. Would that happen to me? Would I be the face of the new racer meme who shat his shorts mid-race? I couldn't come to terms with that, and so, despite rolling with a great group of runners, stopped right at mile 8 (thankfully at a Porto-o-Potty). There's good news and bad news to this first bathroom break: it was no more than 30 seconds wasted, but it definitely left some "unfinished business." Hopping out, I saw my pack not too far away, and started rolling high-5:30 pace to catch them, feeling marginally better but bummed I'd lost the time.
However, just a mile post-pooping, I felt it again. I wasn't sure whether this
was a fart, a false-alarm, but some testing made it apparent that, no, this was
not a drill. While mile 8 felt great, mile 9 was a slog, and had I not found a
Porto-o-Potty at the mile 10 mark, someone's lawn would've been fertilized.
It was this pitstop that cost me, though it was unavoidable. I was able to completely evacuate my colon, dropping ALL the Cosby kids off at the pool, but when I emerged (what felt like 10 lbs lighter), I was roughly a minute back from where I should've been.
Maybe it was the fact that I wasn't carrying a digested bowling ball in my gut, or maybe it was the minute reprieve, but with just 3 miles to go, I felt good. I started rolling 5:30 pace, and cheering from Kyle (thanks for the pics) and Tony, as well as some pacing duties from Patrick for 1/2 mile, kept the ball rolling.
Before I knew it, there was about a mile to go, and Phil was in sight! I kept running 5:30 pace, surprising myself by how easy it felt, and ever so slowly crept up on him. With less than a 1/2 mile to go, Phil glanced back at me, and I knew I wouldn't catch him, though I was able to finish ~3 second back, finishing fast, strong, and with PLENTY left in the tank (but thankfully not my rectum).
My official finishing time had me crossing the line at 1:16:56 for 10th place.
However, having stopped my Garmin every time I used a Porto-o-Potty, my
unofficial time had me right at 1:15:30, or a 5:44/mile average. I'm not sure
what to call my PR, but I know that, had my body not decided to evacuate my
entire colon, my 1:15:30 would've put me right in 4th place. It's a tough pill
to swallow, but has me more motivated than ever to tackle some more PRs this
summer. While I don't have another race for a while (thanks to an obscene
amount of traveling in May), I'll be sure to keep you (Mom) posted on my future
escapades (just hopefully without any more poop).
I slowed considerably miles 5, 6, and 7 as that meme of the kid soiling his pants flashed in my mind. Would that happen to me? Would I be the face of the new racer meme who shat his shorts mid-race? I couldn't come to terms with that, and so, despite rolling with a great group of runners, stopped right at mile 8 (thankfully at a Porto-o-Potty). There's good news and bad news to this first bathroom break: it was no more than 30 seconds wasted, but it definitely left some "unfinished business." Hopping out, I saw my pack not too far away, and started rolling high-5:30 pace to catch them, feeling marginally better but bummed I'd lost the time.
 |
| *Not me* |
It was this pitstop that cost me, though it was unavoidable. I was able to completely evacuate my colon, dropping ALL the Cosby kids off at the pool, but when I emerged (what felt like 10 lbs lighter), I was roughly a minute back from where I should've been.
Maybe it was the fact that I wasn't carrying a digested bowling ball in my gut, or maybe it was the minute reprieve, but with just 3 miles to go, I felt good. I started rolling 5:30 pace, and cheering from Kyle (thanks for the pics) and Tony, as well as some pacing duties from Patrick for 1/2 mile, kept the ball rolling.
Before I knew it, there was about a mile to go, and Phil was in sight! I kept running 5:30 pace, surprising myself by how easy it felt, and ever so slowly crept up on him. With less than a 1/2 mile to go, Phil glanced back at me, and I knew I wouldn't catch him, though I was able to finish ~3 second back, finishing fast, strong, and with PLENTY left in the tank (but thankfully not my rectum).
 |
| Consistent, I am not... |
