D-Day

I awoke around 2:30 AM, a full 30 minutes earlier than I had hoped to and immediately knew that it would be of no use to tray and drift back off. I slipped outside and checked the weather. No rain. No chill. Not much wind. 2 outta 3 ain't bad. I jumped in the shower and woke myself up pretty good, resisting the temptation to crank up the heat for fear that it would take too much starch out of my system. I ate a few bites of something and ate a few Advil. I started drinking right away. I dressed quickly and systematically, donning my new compression shorts (that I used to snicker at) and race-ready full-on skimpy split shorts (nutters, we called them) with about 20 pockets for crap (I used to snicker about these, too). I arranged my sacrifice clothes and plastic bags and breakfast and check bag just like an old veteran. I kissed my adoring fans (Robin and Jill) and headed to the lobby. In the elevator I met a young intern wearing Penn State sweats. He was sweating. I met Coach K in the lobby at 3:30 just like the previous 4 years and we made the 1st shuttle out. These 10 minutes are the most animated I see him all year. We are 12 again, riding the bus for a field trip but the bus driver let's us talk as loud as we want.

We meet up with Hunter and Bobby behind the jumbo tron like always. The pre-race awards ceremony begins. Coach K wins for best sweat pants and jacket. His 3.79 womens extra large sweat pants with the large daisy embroidered on the cuff of the right leg trumps my 4.95 childs large gray sweat pants bought on clearance at Target the year before (I had thrown these in my check bag at the last minute before the race last year and used them as my standard attire when I painted the house all winter). It was not quite raining but anything we'd set down has instantly covered with beads of moisture. It was warm already. It was 4 o'clock by now and we sat on our hefty bags in the parking lot listening to a bad band play a los lobos tune and watching several folks who must have been all nerved up as they jogged and performed striders a good 2 hours before they would be able to do anything about it. I wonder how that worked out?

We all had our bags of junk but Hunter took the cake by bringing cash along with him. We rolled around a bit about this. "What the hell are you gonna do with cash, Hunter?". " I don't know, MGM opens at 9", maybe I can get some cotton candy or something". "Shit, man did you bring your phone, too? Are you going to accost some hapless volunteer on his golf cart at mile 17 and fan your bills at him asking how much to take me to the 25 mile mark my good man?". Bobby came back from his 3rd porta-let trip and asked what we were laughing about. "Hunter brought cash!" we said. "So. . . I have some cash, I brought my phone, too!" he said. Now I don't want to give you the impression that these guys eat their way through a 6 hour marathon. They are all over the age of 50. They all train less than 30 miles a week on average and they all finish around the 4 hour mark. Not to bad for a bunch of old guys out having fun with this thing.

We finish up our trail mix, energy bar, banana, and cinnamon pop tart (mine) breakfasts and work our way through the check tent to began the 1/2 mile hike toward the starting area. I made my only porta-can visit and found the old guys sitting on a berm by a giant drain grate. For the first time we would be starting in a different corral. With 45 minutes left to start, I toddled off to my corral. I walked past a sea of corrals that stretched into the darkness and set up shop outside the snow fence about 100 meters from the start. Here is the last chance to set up for the weather. Off with the Old Navy long sleeve tee that I shouldn't have had on in the 1st place. Off with the nipple band-aids and instead a heavy coat of body glide that I'd bought at the expo. I even parted ways with my old faithful sweat pants. Somewhere today (I hope) a needy person is walking around with these beauties . . . battleship gray with tiny flecks of all the colors of my house. I've been drinking like a madman since I woke up and join hundreds of others in the pee fest taking place along the tree line outside the fence. I can't imagine this taking place at Boston or NYC but no one here ever seems to mind. The A corral racers are hardcore. Even the ladies pee standing up alongside the dudes. This would not fly anywhere else on the planet but 1/2 mile away from "Epcot" it does not raise an eyebrow.

I hope over into the corral and fidget and hop back to pee again. I stretch. I trot. This is the first time I've tried a trot in 5 days. No stabbing pains. No hot flash into the left hip. Thanks, Advil. I hop back into the corral, still feeling like I need to pee but the announcer's voice is getting more urgent about having everyone move up. I estimate a top 500 finish if all goes well and try to place myself within this realm. I don't want to get up too close to the start and get passed by everyone. I don't want to get near the pace pack balloon guys. Last year I ran the first few miles with the 3:30 pace guy. He ripped off a 7:20 1st mile and everyone said "That's OK, Scott!"(or whatever his name was) and I'm in oxygen debt already. Today I have to run my race.

I figure I'll know if I will have to drop out within the first 5 miles and I make a silent pledge to get out of this early if I'm in pain at the 5 mile point.