Houston Half Marathon & Olympic Trials - Wendy

I’ve never been a big half marathoner.  I’ve raced one (in 2009, in 1:34) and run two (while pregnant).  It’s not that I have a thing against the distance.  In fact, I clearly remember, in my last marathon, that I REALLY wished the 13.1 mark had been the end.  In my very short running career, I’ve just never had the chance to run many halves.

The Houston full and half marathons are annual events.  I’ve never really considered attending/running either since I live in Indiana and don’t seem to get to Texas on a regular basis.  It wasn’t my fault that I ended up signing up for a race in Houston.  It was Sara Jane’s.

Sara is a good friend of mine.  She reminded me, way back in May, after I had just completed my first marathon, that the Olympic Marathon Trials were going to be held in Houston, TX in January.  She decided that we should go to spectate.   That sounded like a marvelous idea, but I couldn’t justify the trip unless I was actually participating in something.  I didn’t want to do a full that close to Chicago, so I opted for the half.  Tim, of course, would come along, too.

If you read my last race report (Chicago marathon), you won’t be surprised to find out that I took a long time off after that race.  I didn’t run a step for almost three weeks.  After that, I resumed running VERY slowly—20 minutes at a time.  I wasn’t even thinking about the Houston half—I figured if I wasn’t trained then I could just run it for the experience.  Also somewhere between Chicago and Houston, I made the decision to focus on an ultramarathon as my goal race for the year—a trail one.  This is not like me.  But I decided to change up my experiences a bit, and the Land Between the Lakes 60K (which I will run in March) became my goal race.  I also began being coached by Scott Breeden, trail runner extraordinaire.

Since Scott was training me for the ultra, he might as well train me for the half. We didn’t have much time, and my body was coming off of a major beating, but I decided I wanted to race Houston.

Pre-Race/Olympic Trials

Tim and I headed down to Houston via a direct flight on Friday afternoon.   We arrived there and met up with Sara Jane.  I had accidentally and unknowingly booked our hotel room at the Olympic Trials headquarters thinking it was the normal marathon headquarters.  This turned out to be an AWESOME mistake.  All of the athletes competing in the trials were staying at our hotel as well.  Upon arriving at the hotel and spotting Frank Shorter, I immediately forgot that I had a race to run.  We headed to dinner with Sara, and she told us all about all the famous runners she’d already seen.  “It’s running geek Heaven,” she said.  She was right.  She had already seen the editor of Runner’s World 10 times in the elevator.

Over dinner, we devised our trials spectating strategy.  We would arrive at the trials starting line very early so as to get a good spot.  We studied the course, and figured out we could stay in one place and they would pass by us four times.  We were out the door by 6:30 the next morning.

To our surprise, there were hardly any people on the bleachers next to the starting line.  We easily got a front-row seat just meters from the start/finish area.  We were freezing, but we were happy.  We could see the runners warming up just south of the start line, and were mere feet from Joan Samuelson, Frank Shorter, and other Olympians who were at the start line.  We were given a box of American flags and told to pass them out because “NBC wants to see flags waving!” 

Before we knew it, it was time.  The men lined up.  Right there in front of me—Meb, Ryan, Ritz, Abdi, and others.  I almost fell over.  And I was far less interested in that race than the women’s.  The ladies lined up after the men finished their first 2.2 mile loop.  Kara, Desi, Shalane, Deena, Amy, all of them…right in front of me.  We did a “1, 2, 3 KARA!” scream.  Sara is personal friends with Kara, as they have known each other since high school.  We later found out that Kara heard and saw us.

Photo: David J. Philip/AP

Before this turns into an Olympic Marathon Trials spectating report—let me just say that watching that event was one of the most fun/interesting/inspiring things I’ve ever done.  We were thrilled with the results of both races, though I admit my heart aches for Ritz who was barely edged out of the team.

Many hours after the trials were over, I remembered I had a race to run the next day.  I needed to do a shake out run.  I needed to pick up my race packet.  The trials were a wonderful diversion, but it was time to prep for the race.  After lunch with some friends (some of whom I was meeting in person for the first time), we expo’d, where I bought a new pair of compression shorts and arm warmers.  After that, it was back to the room to relax.

And then, that evening, it happened.  Not only did I MEET Kara Goucher, but she sat across from me and talked to me for 10+ minutes.  I met her mom, her sister, and her son Colt.  Kara has long been one of my running heroes, and I was shocked at how normal she is.  She was clearly relieved that her race was over and she’d made the team, but was also really interested in MY race.  She asked what time I had to get up the next morning, what was my goal, how old was Rowan, etc.  We got our picture with her, and I asked her to sign my race shoes.  She bent forward to do so and said “Oh, if you don’t mind, could you take that off?  I can’t bend over.”  Even elites get marathon soreness.  Thank you to Sara Jane for making it so that we could spend time with Kara.  This was definitely the highlight of the trip.

While there, I also met Desiree Davila, and saw Deena Kastor, Amy Hastings, Abdi, and Meb at our hotel.  Magical!  As an aside—they are all, apart from Ryan Hall, extremely tiny human beings.  Miniature.

While Sara went to celebrate with the Gouchers, Tim and I went to bed early.  I slept well.

Race Morning

I woke up feeling about as rested as possible, considering it was 5:15 in the morning.  I stretched and got out of bed.  Ouch.  What was that?  My toe.  My toenail.  On my left foot.  It was hurting as I walked.  That toenail had fallen off (a common occurrence for me) a couple of days before, and it had actually been a relief of some pain I’d been feeling there for a few weeks.  It was sore the day before, but I only noticed it if I touched it.  Now, it was hurting to walk.  In the bathroom, I looked down and saw an incredibly red toe.  It was swollen and hot.  I couldn’t do anything about it, so I put a band-aid around it and figured that would keep it from bothering me during the race.  After all, it was just a toe.  And it was just a half.  I slipped on my Kara-signed shoes.

I had a gel for breakfast, and we were ready to head out the door.  On the way to the elevator, my toe hurt.  The elevator dinged, and I said to Tim, “Go back and get another band-aid.”  I knew it was hurting, but I couldn’t believe I couldn’t just fix it with another band-aid.  Tim did as I asked, and we headed downstairs.

I could think of nothing but my toe.  With each step, it was excruciating.  I stopped several times to reposition my shoe and sock, but nothing helped.  I was beginning to panic, but truly thought that it would go away once I started running.

As we neared the corral, reality began to sink in.  My toe could prevent me from running this race.  I tried a couple of strides.  It was a no-go.  It wasn’t something that was going to go away once I began running.  It was something through which I couldn’t run, much less race.  I limped on in stunned silence, not knowing what to do.  I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.

We found a bench where I sat down and tore off my shoe.  Tim looked closely at my toe.  We were trying to figure out why it was SO very painful.  I determined that a portion of the fallen-off toenail had remained reattached, but had then ingrown.  I could feel the sharp edge of it.  But what could we do about it?  Tim offered to use his teeth to try and pull it out.  I just gave him a look, as I knew that wasn’t going to work.  It was clearly infected, and any pressure on it whatsoever caused extreme pain.

I continued to the corral, flashed them my bib to get in, and started crying.  Then I said to Tim “Scissors.  I need scissors.”  I explained to him that if I could cut away part of my shoes, as well as my sock, I might be able to run.  Getting the pressure off the toe was the only option.  We must have asked 10 volunteers about scissors.  No one had any, and the closest medical tent was a quarter mile away.  And the corral would be closing soon.

Tim hopped into a port-a-potty and I removed my shoe once again.  I made futile attempts to tear open the shoe with my hands.  Then I saw a spectator who looked like a grandpa who might have a pocket knife.  I asked him, and he said, “Yes,” and reached for his pocket.  A huge sigh of relief was about to exit my lungs, when he said “Oh, wait, no I don’t.  Sorry.”  I was about to lose it.  I had flown all the way here, and I wasn’t going to get to race because of my toe.

I could feel everything spinning out of my control.  And then I remembered, I can’t control everything.  I bowed my head and prayed.  I asked God to please solve this problem for me.  To take care of it.  I opened my eyes, and in front of me was a policeman.  I waved at him.  “Do you have a knife?”  He did.  A big ole knife.  I silently thanked God, and told the cop I needed it.  He looked at me as though I were kind of nuts, so I tried to explain that I just needed it for my shoe.  I immediately took the knife he offered and began cutting my sock.  I cut it in half.  Just then, Tim arrived.

He proceeded (much to the amazement of the policeman) to carve away part of the shoe.  I put it on.  Nope—still pressure on the toe.  I took it off, and he carved a bigger hole.  Finally, we had it right.  And we had about four minutes to get in the corral. 

I had no idea how this was going to go.  Half of my foot was hanging out of a shoe, I didn’t have a sock covering most of my foot, and cutting away the shoe didn’t take away ALL the pain.  But this was the only shot I had.  We weaved our way through an extremely crowded corral toward the front.  I stopped by the sign that said “1:30 half marathon time.”  I was hoping that, if everything went well, I could break 1:30.  It was hard to imagine things going “well” when I was standing there with half a shoe on one foot (it just so happens it was the one Kara signed L ), but I still intended to go out at that pace.

One thing I really liked about this race, and the trials the day before, is that they had prayer immediately before.  As the minister prayed, I bowed my head, slightly extended my hands in front of me, palms up, and prayed with him.  As the prayer ended, I opened my eyes and took one last look at that stupid shoe.  My last thought before the gun went off was “I bet those ragged edges are going to cause a problem.”  And then, bang!

The Race

My biggest fear had been going out too fast.  However, at this point, my biggest fear was my left foot and shoe falling apart.  Tim ran with me the first quarter mile to ensure I didn’t go out too fast.  And I didn’t—it was far too crowded to do so.  He took off at his own pace and I did my best not to dodge through people.  I was happy that, while I could feel the toe, it was so much better than it had been before the shoe surgery.  What was bothering me is that my foot kept sliding around—almost out of the hole.  Nothing to be done about it.

I hit mile 1 at 6:58.  About 6 seconds slow, but that was fine given the crowd and the overpass that was in the first mile.  I settled into a rhythm.  The next couple of miles clicked off right around 6:48.  Perfect.  Then, I began having a problem.  I started puking.

I didn’t feel nauseated, not at all.  I just had fluids flying out of my mouth.  I have had this happen once before, during a very hot long run, but never during a situation like this.  Every time I drank, it would just come right back up.  I have a hiatal hernia, and I’m guessing this is why this has happened to me.  I decided about four miles in that I was just going to stop drinking.  I wasn’t worried about that, as it was only 50 degrees.

I can look back and say that I felt “good” until just past the 10K mark.  Four things happened—I got really thirsty, my foot began to ache and was bleeding, I noticed the first twinge of fatigue in my quads, and I hit an unexpected patch of uphill.  A 3 mile patch.  They were not huge, steep hills.  But it was 3 miles of gradual uphill from miles 6-9.  I think it was worse because they were completely unexpected and came just at the tough patch of a half.  I said to a guy next to me “Did I miss a turn?  I’m running the half.”  I figured that maybe I had missed the turn off and was running with the full marathoners.  “No, your turn is at the end of this hill, around mile 9.”  That is when I realized it was 3 miles’ worth of hills.  “I thought it was flat,” I blurted.  “Everyone says that.  It’s flat except this part.”  And he was gone.

I struggled with what to do.  I knew I could power up the hills and stay on pace, but I had a feeling that would cost me dearly later.  I decided to keep the effort even and try to make up the time on the way back into town.  But I really needed a drink.  I drank some Gatorade, and it started the puking again.

I actually did stay on pace through mile 8, despite the hills.  The last mile of hill, though, my pace slipped to 6:59.  10 was a 6:58.  I was still puking, my foot felt like it was going to fall off, there was a rock in my shoe, I was working really hard, was about to lose my goal, and I really wanted this to be over.  At the 10 mile mark, I tried to wake myself up.  I didn’t want to give up.  I could still push.  I began fartleking—I’d pour it on to an intersection, then ease back a bit.  I did that for a mile, and it got me a 6:54 split for mile 11.  Still 2 seconds slow, but an improvement.

I couldn’t bear to think about running two more miles, so I kept telling myself just to make it to 12.  I thought I was holding pace, and then I saw another (very slight) uphill coming.  At that point, the hill looked like a mountain.  I slowed down, and mile 12 was a 7:06 pace.  Way, way slow.  I was bleeding time with one mile to go.

In that last mile, I actually began to pass people.  I tried surging again, but my surges were getting shorter and shorter.  For some reason, I had convinced myself that I was on track to break 1:30 (even though I had known a mile before that I was not.  This is what distance running does to you).  I thought all I had to do was run a 6:58 mile.  I was holding 6:55.  It was taking all I had, but I was holding on.

Within a half mile, reality set in and I realized that I was not going to break 1:30.  But I still hung on and pushed as hard as I ever have.  Then I saw the finish line.  There it was.  I kicked.  I gave it all I had.  And when I reached the line, I realized it was not, in fact, the finish line.  There was a left turn, and the finish was still almost a quarter of a mile away.

Having sprinted, I had nothing left, and it was all I could do to maintain some semblance of running.  I crossed the line, totally spent, in 1:31.  As soon as I stopped, I felt my foot.  It was bloody and mangled.  I was immediately disappointed in my time.  I spotted Tim and told him how I did, and he shared that he got a small PR.  It was then that I realized I had just run a 3+ minute PR while puking and wearing half a shoe on one foot.  At the end of the day, I was happy with how I’d done.  But I know I can do better.

My left foot, as you can imagine, is not in very good shape.  The jagged edges left by the cop’s knife dug into my skin over 13 miles.  The shifting of my foot resulted in massive blisters, and the toe is clearly infected.  I’ve drained the toe myself using a needle, but I may have to break down and go to the doctor.  My quads are almost as sore as post-marathon, and I think it has to do with wearing 3.0 Frees and fighting to keep my foot in a shoe that was only half-there.

In retrospect, I wouldn’t have done anything differently in terms of cutting my shoe and sock open at the last minute.  It seemed like a rational decision at the time, and it still appears rational to me.  My races, no matter what, are always an adventure.  I can only imagine what shall happen when I set out for 37 miles (60k) at Land Between the Lakes in March!

Psst- Wendy chronicles all of her running adventures in her blog. Stop by and see what she's up to! (And make sure you check out the other runners on her must-read list!)