Happy to report, the high from Sunday night still hasn't worn off.
It's been so fun reliving all the details from the race and reading everyone's comments. Tempering that elation slightly is little Scotty, currently fighting off yet another yucky virus. Considering he didn't miss a day of school last year, he has already missed five days this month alone. In his words, "Bad germs, Mom! Stay away!"
On Monday night, he didn't eat any dinner and laid his head on the arm of the couch like a sad sack of potatoes. I chalked it up to exhaustion due to the very late night on Sunday; he didn't get to bed until well after 11pm. (Bad Mom, I know. But I firmly believe his experience of watching a big race that Momma was a part of might stick in his unconscious, one day inspiring him to want the same. If there is one thing I've learned about parenting so far, it's that kids don't listen to what you tell them, but instead, watch what you do. So one late night v. the opportunity to witness something totally out context of his small world? Definitely worth it). As he laid there, I asked to him, "Is this your mile 20, dear?" I giggled but he had no idea what that meant. He just looked at me with tired eyes. Okay, bedtime was suddenly pulled up to 6:00pm.
After hefting 40+ pounds of the little guy up 18 stairs (I counted), I checked his temperature on a whim. Shockingly, it read 103. A cool shower commenced, along with a long night of dosing. My three hours of sleep from Sunday night quickly hit me; I was going to be up multiple times over the next night, too. It's cool; the adrenaline still hadn't worn off. And this is life, right? Sometime you just do things.
His temp varied over the next 24 hours, but got scary high again by 3pm on Tuesday. 103.5. Huh? The doctor told me if it hits 104, we need to get him to the ER. Fearing the wait and co-pay more than anything, I carried him upstairs (again) for a cool bath. The fever came down two degrees within twenty minutes. Whew.
Lifting and hauling a toddler 24 hours after a full marathon is probably not advisable, but I do think it helped me keep moving. I was back at Hill Day this morning in a very limited capacity, but my legs feel great. Toes appear to be regenerating. The whip-like red marks on my back, the only place I didn't Body Glide, have settled. (note to new runners: Body Glide is your best friend. Dip your whole body in it pre-race.)
The only lingering issue is my mouth. For some strange reason, the roof of my mouth is totally swollen, almost inflamed. I have no idea how this happened. Was I clenching my jaw the whole time? (very possible). Did I run with my mouth open for 26.2 miles? (likely). Either way, eating solid foods is not an option right now, so oatmeal, scrambled eggs, and soup have become my new best friends. Here I thought I was going to go hog-wild and dig into a bag of kettle chips and M&Ms post-marathon. But honestly, if my only real side effect from the marathon is the inability to binge on bad foods, well, I'll take it.
And in the three days since the race, it's been so fun celebrating the accomplishment while reminiscing about all the crazy stuff that went down. Apparently I told Reinier I was going to throw up as we ran through Fremont? I honestly didn't think I vocalized that thought. (whoops). Also, there is a picture of me at the finish line my friend Kerri posted that I have no memory of taking. I'm smiling, but the look in my eyes is downright manic. I'm also fairly confident that the two of them are holding me up.
I also had a chance to analyze my splits. Miles 1-8 were glorious, a lovely 9:45 average. Miles 9-15 were faster than I anticipated; about a 10:30 pace. Had you asked me on Sunday night, I would have thought it was closer to 12:00 (it felt like 15:00). The real kicker came at mile 19, when I slumped into a 11:10 pace. The run up MLK and Carey just destroyed me. Mile 20 was 11:32, mile 21 came in at 12:06 (ouch), mile 22, the dreaded, awful, hateful mile, was 12:46...and mile 23 was 13:06. Hoo boy. Tough to see that in black and white. By the way, this is the exact opposite of what a negative split looks like (running the last half of the race faster than the first). I'm confident that if you looked up the definition of "negative split" in the dictionary, you'd see my face, crazy eyes and all.
To my surprise, however, miles 24 to the finish were around an 11:30 pace. I really did go a little faster? Hmph, who knew. This was about the time Reinier was yelling stuff about the super loop and mantras. I only remember being too tired to argue back. Happy to see it worked!
But now, all that pain, mania, and nausea has subsided. I'm left with a giant smile and the excitement to do it all over again. San Diego in June? Chicago in October? So much to think about!
It's been so fun reliving all the details from the race and reading everyone's comments. Tempering that elation slightly is little Scotty, currently fighting off yet another yucky virus. Considering he didn't miss a day of school last year, he has already missed five days this month alone. In his words, "Bad germs, Mom! Stay away!"
On Monday night, he didn't eat any dinner and laid his head on the arm of the couch like a sad sack of potatoes. I chalked it up to exhaustion due to the very late night on Sunday; he didn't get to bed until well after 11pm. (Bad Mom, I know. But I firmly believe his experience of watching a big race that Momma was a part of might stick in his unconscious, one day inspiring him to want the same. If there is one thing I've learned about parenting so far, it's that kids don't listen to what you tell them, but instead, watch what you do. So one late night v. the opportunity to witness something totally out context of his small world? Definitely worth it). As he laid there, I asked to him, "Is this your mile 20, dear?" I giggled but he had no idea what that meant. He just looked at me with tired eyes. Okay, bedtime was suddenly pulled up to 6:00pm.
After hefting 40+ pounds of the little guy up 18 stairs (I counted), I checked his temperature on a whim. Shockingly, it read 103. A cool shower commenced, along with a long night of dosing. My three hours of sleep from Sunday night quickly hit me; I was going to be up multiple times over the next night, too. It's cool; the adrenaline still hadn't worn off. And this is life, right? Sometime you just do things.
His temp varied over the next 24 hours, but got scary high again by 3pm on Tuesday. 103.5. Huh? The doctor told me if it hits 104, we need to get him to the ER. Fearing the wait and co-pay more than anything, I carried him upstairs (again) for a cool bath. The fever came down two degrees within twenty minutes. Whew.
Lifting and hauling a toddler 24 hours after a full marathon is probably not advisable, but I do think it helped me keep moving. I was back at Hill Day this morning in a very limited capacity, but my legs feel great. Toes appear to be regenerating. The whip-like red marks on my back, the only place I didn't Body Glide, have settled. (note to new runners: Body Glide is your best friend. Dip your whole body in it pre-race.)
The only lingering issue is my mouth. For some strange reason, the roof of my mouth is totally swollen, almost inflamed. I have no idea how this happened. Was I clenching my jaw the whole time? (very possible). Did I run with my mouth open for 26.2 miles? (likely). Either way, eating solid foods is not an option right now, so oatmeal, scrambled eggs, and soup have become my new best friends. Here I thought I was going to go hog-wild and dig into a bag of kettle chips and M&Ms post-marathon. But honestly, if my only real side effect from the marathon is the inability to binge on bad foods, well, I'll take it.
And in the three days since the race, it's been so fun celebrating the accomplishment while reminiscing about all the crazy stuff that went down. Apparently I told Reinier I was going to throw up as we ran through Fremont? I honestly didn't think I vocalized that thought. (whoops). Also, there is a picture of me at the finish line my friend Kerri posted that I have no memory of taking. I'm smiling, but the look in my eyes is downright manic. I'm also fairly confident that the two of them are holding me up.
I also had a chance to analyze my splits. Miles 1-8 were glorious, a lovely 9:45 average. Miles 9-15 were faster than I anticipated; about a 10:30 pace. Had you asked me on Sunday night, I would have thought it was closer to 12:00 (it felt like 15:00). The real kicker came at mile 19, when I slumped into a 11:10 pace. The run up MLK and Carey just destroyed me. Mile 20 was 11:32, mile 21 came in at 12:06 (ouch), mile 22, the dreaded, awful, hateful mile, was 12:46...and mile 23 was 13:06. Hoo boy. Tough to see that in black and white. By the way, this is the exact opposite of what a negative split looks like (running the last half of the race faster than the first). I'm confident that if you looked up the definition of "negative split" in the dictionary, you'd see my face, crazy eyes and all.
To my surprise, however, miles 24 to the finish were around an 11:30 pace. I really did go a little faster? Hmph, who knew. This was about the time Reinier was yelling stuff about the super loop and mantras. I only remember being too tired to argue back. Happy to see it worked!
But now, all that pain, mania, and nausea has subsided. I'm left with a giant smile and the excitement to do it all over again. San Diego in June? Chicago in October? So much to think about!
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