What Would Another Mother Runner Do: NYC Marathon on a Broken Toe?
Would you run 26.2 on a toe like this?
In this on-going series, a mother runner lays out a true-life tale–whether it’s dislocating her hip during a marathon; forgetting to pack a sports bra for a lunchtime run; or debating running a half-marathon while preggers–then we chime in about what we’d do if we were in her running shoes before asking you what you’d do. Here are all the WWAMRD we’ve previously run, if you want to catch up on the series. Today’s entry tells the tale of Rebecca Lee.
In March, I signed up for the New York City Marathon on a charity entry; I decided to fundraise for Team Hole in the Wall, a cause very dear to my heart. This was my fifth marathon and the only goal I admitted out loud was staying injury free through my training.
That said, secretly I was focusing on a sub-4:00 PR.
My training went fine and throughout the summer and fall I felt that I was staying on track. Two weeks from NYC, I ran the Denver Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon in 1:55, while holding back and feeling like I was in good shape for the marathon. Aside from some foot pain that started the week before the race, I remained injury free and healthy.
The weather forecast for race day was grim. I was in my hotel room the night before watching reports of 40 mile/hour winds and a high of 30 degrees at the start. The biggest decision the morning of was what to wear: Do I stick with capris, as planned, or wear long tights?
Snazzy ice bucket, except when it lands on a naked digit.
The next morning, while debating the wardrobe change and getting ready to ice my foot one last time before heading out, I dropped the hotel room’s heavy metal ice bucket. It landed on my naked foot.
I knew instantly my toe was broken. I could barely walk but I somehow managed to shut down all the thoughts swirling around my brain, the pain, the doubts, the anger (metal ice bucket? really?). I told myself over and over what I have heard Dimity say many, many times: “don’t think, just go.”
I hobbled (literally) to the subway and pushed away all thoughts of “what the @&%^ am I going to do now?” The subway ride to Battery Park was a blur: All I remember were foreign accents and tucking my foot as far under the seat as possible; my new biggest fear was it being stepped on. After navigating the crowds through the South Ferry station and up to the boat, I found a seat and only then really allowed myself to process the pain.
Give me your poor, your tired, your runners with broken toes…
Once the ferry departed, I had to really focus to stop the tears from flowing: This was my New York experience! There goes the Statue of Liberty—and oh my gosh how can this be happening? Had it not been for the kindness of two strangers, I am not sure what I would have done. Instead of crying, they made me laugh and we decided my New York City Marathon was going to be one to remember.
Help at the med tent before the starting line. Would you run?
With not too much time left to think about anything, I found my way to the medical tent on Staten Island, where two nurses pulled off my sock and we had a moment of silence. My toe was purple and there was nothing I could do about it. They taped it, wished me luck, and told me where to catch the bus to the finish.
What would you do?
Dimity says: I’d keep not thinking, and just going. Rebecca was trained, so the rest of her body was ready to go. That said, in the back of my head, I’d think to myself, “If my toe gets too unbearable, I just need to make it to Manhattan, then I can find a subway and head to my hotel.” And when it got really tough along the way, I’d pray to the Toe Gods.
Sarah says: To be honest: I’m not sure I would have even left my hotel room. I might have just curled into a ball and cried my eyes out right then and here, never even making it as far as the subway or ferry, let alone the starting line. Unlike Dimity, I’ve never broken a toe, so I’m not sure how to gauge how much pain Rebecca was in or how much it would have hampered her stride. Given the toe + the craptastic weather, there’s a good chance I would have scrapped the whole shebang.
What Rebecca did: If it was any other race I might have bailed but this was New York. I decided to suck it up and dig deep for 26.2. And that is what I did! I had another (happy) cry after I crossed the finish line.
What would you, another mother runner, do?
Proud and twirly, toe notwithstanding.
And if you’ve got a running-related moment you’d like some clarity—and community impact—on, via WWAMRD, feel free to email us at runmother [at] gmail [dot] com. Thanks!
#139: How Philadelphia Marathon Was #26Strong
Kelly and daughter, Carly, looking proud and #26Strong after Philly finish.
Dimity and Sarah wrap up their involvement with the Saucony 26Strong program with a conversation with their cadets: Kelly, who completed the Philadelphia Marathon, and Alison, who spectated and cheered at Philly rather than running due to injury. Kelly recounts running the first half with Adrienne Martini by her side (alas Dimity was out due to injury as well), including a clever potty-break and reminders to stick to her run-walk pattern. Kelly gives a lively recounting of, “embracing the back of the pack,” including friends she made along the way. Dimity adds to the fun with details of cycling much of the route with Kelly’s 12-year-old daughter, encouraging signs and all. Find out how lyrics by Gorillaz featured in the party atmosphere, then find out how the race went for Sarah. (Spoiler alert: As her second marathon in six weeks, Philly involved climbing into a “pain-cave,” then pulling herself out.) Sarah’s cadet, Alison, reveals how she felt to watch a race she had trained for months to run.
Before all the Philly fun, Sarah shares details of a difficult, but important, conversation she had with her elderly parents. It felt more draining than the marathon—and there’s no finish line in sight for that journey.
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Martini Fridays: How do you spell “Schuylkill?”
Like I mentioned earlier this week, the upside to leaping into a half marathon with little time to prepare for it was that my mind wasn’t full of thousands of worries, which had had weeks and weeks to grow. Instead, I was able to focus on just one simple mantra: This Isn’t My Race.
Which isn’t to say I was completely disinterested in the result, just that I found freedom in having only one job, which was to slow Kelly down for the first half of her much longer journey. I reasoned that I could always bail at mile 12 or so if my body just gave up and Kelly would still be well set up to run on. What I failed to account for (and realized at mile ten) was that stopping before the 13.1 mark would mean finding my own way back to the hotel, without money for cab fare or, indeed, any way to find a cab in the first place.
Pre-race fuel.
Because it Wasn’t My Race, I spent far too much time on my feet at the Mother Runner booth at the Expo the day before the race. It’s not that Dimity, SBS, and company are demanding, it’s that I was having a good time talking to other mother runners. Then SBS and I got a little bit turned around on our way back to the hotel and the long walk was much longer than it needed to be — but more scenic, I contend. By ten p.m., I was stretched out in bed in a state of quasi-consciousness while Dimity and Jo organized …. something that I never opened my eyes enough to look at. Maybe it involved posters? Or bikes? No idea.
Morning dawned and I flung on my running gear, complete with a number bib that said DENISE. Because of all of the pre-race reshuffling, I was running with the bib of Denise Dollar, one of the behind-the-scenes BAMRs. I can only tell you how confusing it was to hear “Go, Denise!” on the course while people were looking directly at me. I also stuck a little note of the back explaining to any potential emergency personnel that I would answer to “Adrienne” and what my husband’s cell number was. Better to be safe than sorry, right?
After choking down a bagel and some coffee, I hooked up with Kelly in the lobby. Then, after dropping SBS off in one of the speedier corrals, Kelly and I started are long and winding path back to the Blue Corral aka The Corral with Reasonable Expectations. Another mother runner Laura introduced herself the three of us ran together. When Kelly made a potty stop around mile eight, Laura ran on and, I hope, finished strong.
Our luxurious washroom.
As for the rest of my part of the run, I did my best to force Kelly to slow down. When given just one job, I can be amazingly persistent — so much so that I was wondering if Kelly would sigh heavily at me the next time I reminded her that there really would still be bananas at the finish no matter when she got there.
I kept one eye out for Dimity, Denise (the real one), and Kelly’s daughter Carly, who we saw twice on the course, which gave us a boost each time. My Philly knitter friend Anj was camped out at mile 3.8 and cheered like the dickens when we ran past. While the neighborhoods we ran through were lovely, my favorite bit was toward the end when we were down by the Schuylkill. There’s just something soothing about running along a river. Plus, I knew that my part of this race was coming to a close, which was good because my legs were letting me know that they thought this last minute race was one of my more foolish ideas.
While it was nice to know I’d be done soon, peeling off at the 13 mile split was harder for me than I’d thought it would be. I knew Kelly would be in Jo’s more than capable hands. Still, a big part of me wanted to make sure my charge crossed the final finish line. Instead of losing my dang mind and running another 13.1, I spent the drive home checking social media — at appropriate stops, of course. I might have teared up just a tiny bit when I got word that Kelly had made it.
Another day, another medal. Ho hum.
The downside to leaping into this half marathon was the frantic schedule shifting that forced me to drive four hours back home after two+ hours of running. While I did stop to stretch every hour or so, by the time I pulled into the driveway, getting out of the car required more willpower than the run itself had. Totally worth it — but my neighbors must have wondered why I was walking like the Tin Man after a week in a monsoon.
Here’s the thing: even though my post-race re-entry into real life has been rocky, what with the holiday, sore legs, the looming end of the semester, and a wicked sore throat, I’d do the exact same thing again in a heartbeat. And seeing Kelly, who doesn’t look like what my prejudice thinks a marathoner should look like, finish her race makes me think that I might have 26.2 in me, too.
But not anytime soon. I plan to devote the next few weeks to hard-core rest. I mean it this time.
My question this week — if you’ve run a 26.2, what finally made you commit to your first one?
Day in the Life of Another Mother Runner: Stephanie Diamond
Welcome to our third look at #dayinthelifeofAMR: a day where we hand over our Instagram account to another mother runner and let her document her day. Stephanie Diamond, a mother runner in Mali, gives us a glimpse of what life is like in West Africa.
If you’re interested in taking over our account for a day, we’d love to have you. You can be training, injured, inspired, not so much, a beginner, a marathoner…as long as you want to open the door to your mother runner world, we’d love to come on in and look around. Please email us at runmother [at] gmail [dot] com.
Saucony 26 Strong: Philadelphia Marathon Race Report, Round II
Sarah, in her Saucony ViziPro pink, looking a little lost without Alison by her side.
Today is the second race report of Philadelphia Marathon, where we were lucky enough to go the distance with the Saucony 26 Strong program. The first race report is here.
Sarah: Waking up marathon morning, I am not as amped up as I’d been just six weeks ago before the Victoria Marathon. This is both good and bad: I can eat a dry bagel and banana without gagging from nerves (I still skip brushing my teeth as that would just be tempting fate!), but I also don’t feel fired up. Walking to the start with Dimity’s cadet, Kelly, and Adrienne Martini, Kelly’s running sidekick for the first half of the race, the energy of the starting area lifts my spirits some, as does high-fiving Mayor Nutter at the starting line.
The weather is ideal, with a light wind, dappled clouds, and low-40s temperature, and the crowd is spread out well enough so I don’t have to dodge many runners, yet the race is not how I had envisioned it for so many months: My cadet, Alison, isn’t by my side. Before she’d gotten injured, Alison and I had both dreamed and schemed about running her #26Strong to a 4:30 finish. Once she injured her hip and her training turned spotty, we’d shifted our expectations to five hours. Since Alison had wisely decided to take a pass on Philly, I’d debated my personal goals, ending up with: finish injury free, feeling proud and happy with my effort. I guesstimated I’d cover the 26.2 miles in 4:08-4:15.
This plan means keeping my pace between 9:30 and 9:45 during the first half. I’d run the Philly Half in 2010, also six weeks after a Boston-qualifying marathon (a fact I’d entirely erased from my brain), so I am familiar with the scenic course, lively crowd support, and two hills. Ingesting a GU or Roctane every three miles instead of my usual four due to an article I’d read, I am spot on with a 2:06 split at the 13.1-mile mark.
But then lack of spectators and my lack of purpose—I want my cadet by my side—messes with my head. After a quick out-and-back near Mile 18, I am ready for the race to be over. No such luck: Runners head further from the finish line for the true turnaround near Mile 20 in Manayunk. Instead of trying to push the pace for a strong finish, a new goal bursts into my fatigued brain: Don’t walk.
Thanks to the extra GU gels, I don’t hit the dreaded wall, but it feels like the upper half of my quads have. They hurt a lot, and walking through the not-frequent-enough water stops becomes a battle of will to resume running. The winding, riverside course is beautiful, but I’m in a pain-cave. I stupidly, literally repeat in my head, “I’m in a pain-cave.”
No longer in a pain cave; now the owner of a new marathon medal.
To pull myself out of my self-imposed exile, I summon mother runners. I repeat the names of two moms running the course trying to qualify for Boston: “Michelle. Michelle.” “Nicole, Nicole.” That gives me a bit of strength, but I need more, so I summon the two reasons I’m out here: “Alison.” And “26Strong.” Over the din of Taylor Swift and B.o.B. on my playlist, I internally repeat those two phrases over and over and over. The urge to walk is strong, especially in Miles 21 and 22, but chants of, “Alison. Alison. Alison. 26Strong. 26Strong. 26Strong,” keep my feet moving in rhythmic, running fashion. I cross the line, spent and in pain but proud, in 4:18:34.
The energetic scene at the finish.
Alison: Even though I wasn’t running in Philly, I still wanted to head down to support the AMR tribe! I am so glad that I did.Being there, actually made not being able to run a little more enjoyable. Since I wasn’t running, my husband and I decided to bring our two children so they could experience their first big race. Usually, we are both running in the race, so the kids get left behind!
We had a great time in Philly and spent Saturday visiting the city. We swung by the expo to get all of our SWAG and visit with Sarah and Dimity. Saturday night, I got to have a great dinner with a wonderful group of Mother Runners! It was a blast and Sarah and I got a chance to chat and talk about my injury and everything else that we would have discussed during our 26.2 miles (The Sopranos, wine selection, our hometown and how it has changed).
The best way for injured runners to bond: over a latte.
Whoa: is Saucony 26 Strong really over? Bummer.
Because, as we all know, the power of a mile lingers long after your feet stop moving.