Though I signed up for this particular race on a fluke and with a touch of flippancy, this turned in to one of the most incredible and humbling experiences of my life. Shortly after registering for the race, I found out a team had been formed in honor of a friend of mine, Kate Voth. Kate has been battling cancer for far too long, and at far too young of an age, yet she does so with such vibrance, faith, and a ceaseless smile. She truly is inspiring and had influenced my running in innumerable ways. Naturally, I immediately joined Team Kate Voth and began fundraising while training.
With something, and someone, to run for other than my own pride and for myself, the drive toward race day was much different than in races past. For example, I was much more careful when various joints began to ache or IT bands began to bark back at me. While I can stomach not making a trail race here or there (perhaps not well, but I'll stomach it), I did not want to miss this race. If Kate Voth can wake up every day with heart and soul to boot, there should be nothing keeping me from running the LIVESTRONG Marathon. Though I had to bow out of Rocky Raccoon 50M a few weeks prior, my IT band surprisingly bound back and felt as though it had never given me issues. My pace had become slower over the past few weeks, but I knew it didn't matter how long it took me to finish the marathon. The important part of this race was the challenge and dedication I put into it, pulling Kate's name to the finish.
By race day, Kate's influence became striking. Not only had Team Kate Voth become the largest LIVESTRONG team in the foundation's history, it also raised the most money in foundation history. In fact, LIVESTRONG CEO, Doug Ulman, joined Team Kate in time for the gun and donated an incredible amount of money to the team as well. As we all posed for a team photograph in front of the Texas State Capitol, my adrenaline pulsed and the butterflies began to stir. Today was they day we ran the race Kate much rather would be running; today was the day we ran for Kate and with Kate.
While I knew the distance was surmountable, I was nervous because I hadn't had an opportunity (or the physicality) to run longer distances in some time. Further, I'd been battling some awful GI issues due to stress over the weeks prior. Regardless, I listened for the gun, began my start line shuffle (Feel like you're going slow? Slow down even more.), and started the day's journey.
One thing about trail running is the distinct lack of noise, spectators, and outside energy and buzz. I tend to find this fantastic, drawing on small and discrete amount of energy from aid station volunteers as I make my way through the course. In fact, my tendency toward quiet and solitude made me nervous about the guaranteed high energy and massive crowds lining the LIVESTRONG course. As an introvert (one who is physically drained by extended human interaction; not one who is shy or who is anti-social), this could be devastating on a four hour test of endurance, both mental and physical. To compensate for what may have been a negative, I focused inward and thought about random nothings. Get into the zone by zoning out; as I was not running trails, I knew I could just occasionally watch for an errant pothole or similar. Just run, I told myself. Just run.
Unfortunately, my GI issues weren't ready to stand aside for race day. This meant I was scanning the sidelines for restrooms for, I kid you not, the entire first eleven miles of the course. In fact, I'm sure I would have finished well under my goal had I not had this issue. Regardless, when nature calls... (Alright, all you squeamish roadrunners, I'll stop talking about body functions.)
GI issues aside, the first eleven miles were glorious. The race started with temperatures in the high 40s, perhaps the low 50s, and with little to no winds. The spectators were sleepy-eyed and gave just enough to keep me charging south on Congress. I distinctly recall recognizing how much easier it is to run in Austin. Perhaps it is the atmosphere, the lesser amount of pollution, or simply the fact that it's Austin, but running feels much smoother there. With this in mind, I remembered to throw a glance over my shoulder and take in the view of the Capitol from the South Congress bridge. As always, it was stunning.
The race took us down South Congress to Highway 71. A brief right turn, then another right turn dropped us onto South First and back toward downtown. One of my tactics on longer runs is to break the route into manageable chunks. The idea of running from downtown Austin to Highway 71 was a bit for me to stomach as the start of a race, so I labeled the South First section the second "chunk." Finishing each chunk is a small, but powerful mental and psychological boost and is incredibly helpful with mental endurance, as opposed to trying to swallow the entire distance in one gulp.
South First looped us onto Cesar Chavez. I was looking forward to this portion because of the infamous "Yellow Mile." I had no idea what to expect (in fact, I could say this about the entire race because I'd failed to study the map more than ten or fifteen minutes total; I just knew I was running in Austin, which was all I needed to know). However, I knew exactly what was coming as I rounded the corner on to Cesar Chavez and could hear the cheers of the "Yellow Mile." I don't think the yellow-clad spectators or volunteers spanned a full mile, but their enthusiasm more than made up for it. I ran down the line of them, catching each of their outstretched hands. I'm sure my face portrayed the dumbstruck look I felt. "Who are all of these people? This is incredible!" It was a very powerful moment to see so many people so jazzed to be there cheering on me, and every other runner! Rather than being drained by the spectacle as I'd feared, this portion of the race doubled my energy.
The next few miles of the race slogged. We dropped down to Lake Austin Boulevard for a moment, then turned on to the access road for Mopac South. The sights weren't so inspiring. A few hills, which I relished, to take us to the half-marathon/marathon split. I scanned the nearby runners to see whose face betrayed their impending fear of the infamous half-marathon hill. Though I love running hills, I was happy to turn left at the split and get in the full marathon, rather than staking my claim on the so-described "ball buster."
It was at this point in the race--around mile 11--when my GI issues ceased and I was able to pound out the miles as usual. The sun was heating up, but there were plenty of trees along Exposition to find shade. I was getting nervous about this part of the race, however, because this was the portion I really didn't know. Well, I knew the area and I knew I'd love this portion of the race because I would be running in my old neighborhood and along my old running routes. However, I didn't know exactly which portions I'd be running and how long each portion would last. For me, I'm able to swallow those above-described manageable "chunks" only if I have a solid idea of what they look like. I knew generalities, however, so I stuck with those: we're not going further north than Anderson; we run parallel to Mopac for a god-awful amount of time; once you turn on to Woodrow, you're headed south to the finish.
I had my first bite to eat around the half-marathon mark, just after the 13.1 sign. This was a nice shot to the energy levels and mental stamina, especially as I crossed the Mopac bridge at 35th Street and saw just how far in the distance downtown was, which I had to return to within the next two hours. Off I trotted...
Miles thirteen through, oh, around nineteen or twenty were strange. I returned to the beginner's tool of "just run to the next corner" and, once I'd arrived at the next corner, "okay, just to that speed limit sign." I hadn't resorted to this technique in as long as I could remember, but I found myself using it nonetheless.
By the time I got to mile nineteen, the sun was much warmer and I could sense dehydration looming. I'm not a huge eater or drinker during races. (In fact, I ran this race on two Diet Dr. Peppers, one Lara bar, half an orange, and some water) I'm not sure why, but it is what it is. Regardless, I needed something BRIGHT and I need something with some liquid. There they were, bright and dripping with juice: ORANGES. I grabbed a wedge and dug in; it was the most delicious orange I have ever tasted. As someone who eats oranges by the buckets, this is quite the compliment. The break in the running also clued me in to my need to get some water, so I downed about two cups of water and kept moving.
It was around this time that I began to play cat-and-mouse with the guy who ran with two tires strapped to his shoulders. I kept thinking this guy must have gone through some hardship and is proving to himself, or someone, of his toughness and resolve to power through whatever may be ahead of him. I offered help when he seemed to need it, though he never took me up on it. For these reasons, when he crossed the finish line ahead of me, I didn't feel too bad for being beat by the guy who ran with tires. I later found out he did it just for fun; I now feel bad the guy with tires strapped to his shoulders "for fun" beat me. Anyways...
As I ran down North Loop and meandered toward Duval and San Jacinto, I began to realize--and take heart in the fact---that I'd run this before, twice in fact, if not more times. This portion of the race is lifted straight from the 3M half-marathon course. I took stock and realized I felt better at mile twenty three than I did at mile ten or eleven during my first running of the 3M half marathon. This gave me a bit of a boost and a touch of heart to pull it in to the finish line.
I was drained though, nearly empty, with the fuel indicator falling swiftly. As the finish loomed, the orange-bearing spectators dwindled in favor of waiting at the finish line. I kept trudging, waiting for that moment when something would trigger my legs to kick it, as I call the phenomenon. The first time I experienced this was during my first 3M half-marathon. I saw some folks walking around with their medals and I wanted one more than I could believe. Suddenly, my legs felt fresh (-ish) and off I sprinted to the finish line to claim what was mine. In each Cactus Rose 50M finish, I've suddenly been imbued with energy from places I didn't know it existed, most notably during my 2012 finish. My finishes tend to look like the strongest parts of my races, or so my imagination leads me to believe.
I can't recall when that moment occurred during the LIVESTRONG Marathon, but I know it was fueled by the fire and tenacity of Kate Voth. Throughout the race, in my lowest of moments, I drew on her passion. She and I have talked on numerous occasions about her passion for running, and how sad she is to thinks he may never be able to run again. This kept me running, in spite of pain, fatigue, or simple sheer boredom. Suddenly, my legs took off in a sprint I had never known myself to be capable of. I turned the corner and there was the finish. I felt my arms shoot up like the winner's do at every major race. And yes, the tears began to well up in my eyes. I'd finished a race that meant more to me, and more to someone else, and I was so proud of it. I'd finished the run for Kate Voth. Yet somehow, what I perceived as me doing something for someone else, suddenly became Kate Voth doing something for me: she gave me perspective, a renewed passion, and an unbreakable drive. How does she do that?
The LIVESTRONG Marathon was a race for the ages. I cannot wait to run it again next year, again in Kate's honor. I pray daily she will be able to join us next year, this time with a race bib and timing chip. Thank you Team LIVESTRONG, Team Kate Voth, and Mrs. Voth, herself. An absolutely amazing day...
Austin LIVESTRONG Marathon
Austin, Texas
4:24:13
With something, and someone, to run for other than my own pride and for myself, the drive toward race day was much different than in races past. For example, I was much more careful when various joints began to ache or IT bands began to bark back at me. While I can stomach not making a trail race here or there (perhaps not well, but I'll stomach it), I did not want to miss this race. If Kate Voth can wake up every day with heart and soul to boot, there should be nothing keeping me from running the LIVESTRONG Marathon. Though I had to bow out of Rocky Raccoon 50M a few weeks prior, my IT band surprisingly bound back and felt as though it had never given me issues. My pace had become slower over the past few weeks, but I knew it didn't matter how long it took me to finish the marathon. The important part of this race was the challenge and dedication I put into it, pulling Kate's name to the finish.
By race day, Kate's influence became striking. Not only had Team Kate Voth become the largest LIVESTRONG team in the foundation's history, it also raised the most money in foundation history. In fact, LIVESTRONG CEO, Doug Ulman, joined Team Kate in time for the gun and donated an incredible amount of money to the team as well. As we all posed for a team photograph in front of the Texas State Capitol, my adrenaline pulsed and the butterflies began to stir. Today was they day we ran the race Kate much rather would be running; today was the day we ran for Kate and with Kate.
While I knew the distance was surmountable, I was nervous because I hadn't had an opportunity (or the physicality) to run longer distances in some time. Further, I'd been battling some awful GI issues due to stress over the weeks prior. Regardless, I listened for the gun, began my start line shuffle (Feel like you're going slow? Slow down even more.), and started the day's journey.
One thing about trail running is the distinct lack of noise, spectators, and outside energy and buzz. I tend to find this fantastic, drawing on small and discrete amount of energy from aid station volunteers as I make my way through the course. In fact, my tendency toward quiet and solitude made me nervous about the guaranteed high energy and massive crowds lining the LIVESTRONG course. As an introvert (one who is physically drained by extended human interaction; not one who is shy or who is anti-social), this could be devastating on a four hour test of endurance, both mental and physical. To compensate for what may have been a negative, I focused inward and thought about random nothings. Get into the zone by zoning out; as I was not running trails, I knew I could just occasionally watch for an errant pothole or similar. Just run, I told myself. Just run.
Unfortunately, my GI issues weren't ready to stand aside for race day. This meant I was scanning the sidelines for restrooms for, I kid you not, the entire first eleven miles of the course. In fact, I'm sure I would have finished well under my goal had I not had this issue. Regardless, when nature calls... (Alright, all you squeamish roadrunners, I'll stop talking about body functions.)
GI issues aside, the first eleven miles were glorious. The race started with temperatures in the high 40s, perhaps the low 50s, and with little to no winds. The spectators were sleepy-eyed and gave just enough to keep me charging south on Congress. I distinctly recall recognizing how much easier it is to run in Austin. Perhaps it is the atmosphere, the lesser amount of pollution, or simply the fact that it's Austin, but running feels much smoother there. With this in mind, I remembered to throw a glance over my shoulder and take in the view of the Capitol from the South Congress bridge. As always, it was stunning.
The race took us down South Congress to Highway 71. A brief right turn, then another right turn dropped us onto South First and back toward downtown. One of my tactics on longer runs is to break the route into manageable chunks. The idea of running from downtown Austin to Highway 71 was a bit for me to stomach as the start of a race, so I labeled the South First section the second "chunk." Finishing each chunk is a small, but powerful mental and psychological boost and is incredibly helpful with mental endurance, as opposed to trying to swallow the entire distance in one gulp.
South First looped us onto Cesar Chavez. I was looking forward to this portion because of the infamous "Yellow Mile." I had no idea what to expect (in fact, I could say this about the entire race because I'd failed to study the map more than ten or fifteen minutes total; I just knew I was running in Austin, which was all I needed to know). However, I knew exactly what was coming as I rounded the corner on to Cesar Chavez and could hear the cheers of the "Yellow Mile." I don't think the yellow-clad spectators or volunteers spanned a full mile, but their enthusiasm more than made up for it. I ran down the line of them, catching each of their outstretched hands. I'm sure my face portrayed the dumbstruck look I felt. "Who are all of these people? This is incredible!" It was a very powerful moment to see so many people so jazzed to be there cheering on me, and every other runner! Rather than being drained by the spectacle as I'd feared, this portion of the race doubled my energy.
The next few miles of the race slogged. We dropped down to Lake Austin Boulevard for a moment, then turned on to the access road for Mopac South. The sights weren't so inspiring. A few hills, which I relished, to take us to the half-marathon/marathon split. I scanned the nearby runners to see whose face betrayed their impending fear of the infamous half-marathon hill. Though I love running hills, I was happy to turn left at the split and get in the full marathon, rather than staking my claim on the so-described "ball buster."
It was at this point in the race--around mile 11--when my GI issues ceased and I was able to pound out the miles as usual. The sun was heating up, but there were plenty of trees along Exposition to find shade. I was getting nervous about this part of the race, however, because this was the portion I really didn't know. Well, I knew the area and I knew I'd love this portion of the race because I would be running in my old neighborhood and along my old running routes. However, I didn't know exactly which portions I'd be running and how long each portion would last. For me, I'm able to swallow those above-described manageable "chunks" only if I have a solid idea of what they look like. I knew generalities, however, so I stuck with those: we're not going further north than Anderson; we run parallel to Mopac for a god-awful amount of time; once you turn on to Woodrow, you're headed south to the finish.
I had my first bite to eat around the half-marathon mark, just after the 13.1 sign. This was a nice shot to the energy levels and mental stamina, especially as I crossed the Mopac bridge at 35th Street and saw just how far in the distance downtown was, which I had to return to within the next two hours. Off I trotted...
Miles thirteen through, oh, around nineteen or twenty were strange. I returned to the beginner's tool of "just run to the next corner" and, once I'd arrived at the next corner, "okay, just to that speed limit sign." I hadn't resorted to this technique in as long as I could remember, but I found myself using it nonetheless.
By the time I got to mile nineteen, the sun was much warmer and I could sense dehydration looming. I'm not a huge eater or drinker during races. (In fact, I ran this race on two Diet Dr. Peppers, one Lara bar, half an orange, and some water) I'm not sure why, but it is what it is. Regardless, I needed something BRIGHT and I need something with some liquid. There they were, bright and dripping with juice: ORANGES. I grabbed a wedge and dug in; it was the most delicious orange I have ever tasted. As someone who eats oranges by the buckets, this is quite the compliment. The break in the running also clued me in to my need to get some water, so I downed about two cups of water and kept moving.
It was around this time that I began to play cat-and-mouse with the guy who ran with two tires strapped to his shoulders. I kept thinking this guy must have gone through some hardship and is proving to himself, or someone, of his toughness and resolve to power through whatever may be ahead of him. I offered help when he seemed to need it, though he never took me up on it. For these reasons, when he crossed the finish line ahead of me, I didn't feel too bad for being beat by the guy who ran with tires. I later found out he did it just for fun; I now feel bad the guy with tires strapped to his shoulders "for fun" beat me. Anyways...
As I ran down North Loop and meandered toward Duval and San Jacinto, I began to realize--and take heart in the fact---that I'd run this before, twice in fact, if not more times. This portion of the race is lifted straight from the 3M half-marathon course. I took stock and realized I felt better at mile twenty three than I did at mile ten or eleven during my first running of the 3M half marathon. This gave me a bit of a boost and a touch of heart to pull it in to the finish line.
I was drained though, nearly empty, with the fuel indicator falling swiftly. As the finish loomed, the orange-bearing spectators dwindled in favor of waiting at the finish line. I kept trudging, waiting for that moment when something would trigger my legs to kick it, as I call the phenomenon. The first time I experienced this was during my first 3M half-marathon. I saw some folks walking around with their medals and I wanted one more than I could believe. Suddenly, my legs felt fresh (-ish) and off I sprinted to the finish line to claim what was mine. In each Cactus Rose 50M finish, I've suddenly been imbued with energy from places I didn't know it existed, most notably during my 2012 finish. My finishes tend to look like the strongest parts of my races, or so my imagination leads me to believe.
I can't recall when that moment occurred during the LIVESTRONG Marathon, but I know it was fueled by the fire and tenacity of Kate Voth. Throughout the race, in my lowest of moments, I drew on her passion. She and I have talked on numerous occasions about her passion for running, and how sad she is to thinks he may never be able to run again. This kept me running, in spite of pain, fatigue, or simple sheer boredom. Suddenly, my legs took off in a sprint I had never known myself to be capable of. I turned the corner and there was the finish. I felt my arms shoot up like the winner's do at every major race. And yes, the tears began to well up in my eyes. I'd finished a race that meant more to me, and more to someone else, and I was so proud of it. I'd finished the run for Kate Voth. Yet somehow, what I perceived as me doing something for someone else, suddenly became Kate Voth doing something for me: she gave me perspective, a renewed passion, and an unbreakable drive. How does she do that?
The LIVESTRONG Marathon was a race for the ages. I cannot wait to run it again next year, again in Kate's honor. I pray daily she will be able to join us next year, this time with a race bib and timing chip. Thank you Team LIVESTRONG, Team Kate Voth, and Mrs. Voth, herself. An absolutely amazing day...
Austin LIVESTRONG Marathon
Austin, Texas
4:24:13
