Race Result

Racer:	Jamie Roberson
Race:	Philadelphia Distance Run
Date:	Sunday, September 17, 2006
Location:	Philadelphia, PA
Race Type:	Run - Half Marathon
Age Group:	Female 40 - 44
Time:	3:59:55
Comment:	Like the Song Says, I Had a Bad Day

Race Report:

WARNING: Even by my standards, this is a very long report.

Executive summary: I beat the cutoff but had a horrible experience.

Pre-Race

This was the second year that I'd done a 13.1 the week after a disappointing Reston. Last year it was the Blue & Gray in Fredericksburg, where Coach Debi was the race director. This year, with the Blue & Gray being rescheduled, Debi suggested that I try the Philadelphia Distance Run.

I researched the event, and it seemed like a good fit for me: flat course, lots of entertainment, plenty of water, and a generous 4:00 cutoff. In fact, the cutoff was more like a target: the race brochure simply said that runners "should train to be able to complete the course in 4 hours" (note: www.runphilly.com now states that participants "must complete the half marathon course in 4 hours" - I don't recall seeing this before).

When I entered the race, Debi and I set a goal of finishing the race in 3:00. After surgery and a course of physical therapy, though, we reconsidered and set a new goal of 4:00. This would equate to an 18-something-minute pace, something I felt was doable.

Heather and I decided to make the trip an adventure. We packed lightly and took Metro to Amtrak up to Philly on Saturday morning, grabbed an obligatory, but disappointing cheese steak at the Reading Terminal, and headed to the Convention Center for package pickup before checking in to the Inn at Penn. I missed seeing Philly boys Tony, Joe, and Marty, but I'll have to catch them next time around.

An aside: I used to get annoyed, but now I just chuckle at check-ins - not so much at triathlons, but consistently so at running events. It invariably happens that a volunteer staffing a check-in table takes a look at my not-built-for-distance body type and starts speaking reeaallyy sloowwllyy about how to pin on a number. When I explain that I've competed in triathlons for three years, the response is always -ALWAYS - a chirpy "good for you!!" I just smiled, but Heather stifled a guffaw when the staffer asked "do you know what a chip is?", to which I responded, "I brought my own."

Here, I made a big mistake. I brought that Marine Corps Marathon chip – the same one that I’d tried to use at Reston. This time it was scanned, with an audible beep, so I thought that the problem was solved. Heather, ever the skeptical New Englander, thought that I should pick up a chip anyhow, to which I responded, "Nah, it'll be okay - it scanned."

We made our obligatory trip through the expo, bought some neat socks for the Reston Runners neighbor sitting with Farley and Abby, and stocked up on Sport Beans and Clif Bloks. The salesguy's jaw dropped when I dropped an armload of product at checkout, explaining, "I'll need 1600 calories - I'll be out there a while."

We declined invites from fellow expo-goers to watch the evening's Florida-Tennessee game with the Philadelphia Gator Club (we Gators are everywhere), opting to get off our feet, have a quiet dinner, and watch the game at the hotel while hydrating. The Gators won 21-20 in a come-from-behind nailbiter on the road. I laid out my gear, studied the course maps, and went to sleep a happy grrl.

Race Morning

I awoke relaxed and refreshed, largely in part to the very very comfortable accommodations at the Inn at Penn. For those traveling to the PDR or any other Philadelphia, I cannot recommend it highly enough! Attentive service, super comfy beds and linens, all for a special-event rate of $169. I wish their breakfast opened earlier, but like Kevin K., I never can eat solid food before races, so I just went with water and Clif Bloks.

Though I'd packed lightly, I'd brought plenty of clothing and gear to be ready for any weather. Having studied the course maps and noting the nearly-every-mile water stations, I left the Fuel Belt behind, instead carrying a lighter belt with a nutrition pouch.

The lobby of the hotel filled with happy runners, some of whom chose to run to the start, which was about 2 miles away. Since I knew I'd be on my feet plenty long enough, I found a group of runners who were all too happy to share the short cab ride to the start at Eakins Oval.

When we arrived at the start, Jimmy Buffett music was gently pulsing through the speakers. The weather was gorgeous, the atmosphere positive. I grinned broadly and said out loud, "This is going to be a great day."

That was the last time I thought so. My theme song ended up being "You Had a Bad Day".

The Race

With a goal of finishing in 4:00 or less, I seeded myself at the rear corral. The gun went off and we crossed the start line about 11 minutes later. I had to consciously slow down after running the first half-mile in 6:00. That's way too fast for me to keep up for 13.1 miles, so I slowed to 14:00 miles and took regular 2:1 walk breaks.

True to form, my bladder needed to be emptied NOW just before the 1-mile marker. And here's when things started to get bad. There were long lines in front of the porta-potties, most of whom were 5k walkers who had not yet started and were not subject to a time cutoff. With the meter running, I very-very politely asked if I might be able to move to the front of the line and get back in the race. But would the 5k walkers let me in? Noooo. "We're in the race, too" was the tart reply.

A couple of minutes later, I was back on the road, now well behind the back of the pack. I settled into a nice rhythm and thanked the cheerleaders who scrambled to their feet and started enthusiastically cheering "Go Jamie! Go Jamie!" (it was written on the front of my shirt, a leftover of last year's marathon attempt). I caught up with the back of the 5k pack and threaded through the strollers and balloons on the way to the Schuylkill River. Passing people, what a concept!

The course left the crowds and the city and took on an entirely new vibe at the paths along the river. The quiet peacefulness enabled me to continue my chunka-chunka rhythm, broken up by walk breaks and regular dips into the feed bag for some sport beans. Though slow, I was well within the pace necessary for an on-time arrival.

I started getting worried at about Mile 6.5, when I saw a large group of teenaged volunteers tumping over a table of Amino Vital amidst an epic water fight. Hey, it's all fine and good to be having some fun since the crowd was thinning out, but they didn't leave any water cups. Not a one. When I asked, "What the heck?", the diffident adolescent response was "You can drink outta that jug." Right. I found myself wearing my Navy officer face as I quietly but firmly instructed the kid to open the jug as I found some clean cups, filled a couple, and moved on, trying not to fume.

My feet were starting to hurt by Mile 8, but I was still well within the pace required to meet the cutoff, so I shifted to a quick walk. I was relieved to see plenty of water as I cruised through the next water stop. I passed some more walkers as I neared the bridge that marked the return home. They looked like they were really hurting so I offered some encouragement and received plenty as well.

My worries from Mile 6.5 resurfaced as I approached the Mile 10 water station. The cheery face on the volunteer who offered water as she asked "Are you the last one?" turned into a scowl when I responded "No, there are several behind me, and they'll need water."

This volunteer was in a serious huff. I'd never seen anyone react this way before. In 3 years of being behind the back of the pack, I’ve observed that the volunteers that stay on are extremely positive and motivational. But this group made me feel like I had crashed their party. I gulped a water, poured another over my head (it was getting hot), asked for another, and had to ask for a fourth. I kept moving forward, stunned by the reception I'd received. Then I realized: what did the race organizers tell the volunteers about how long they'd need to be out here?

Checking my watch and doing some quick math, I had slowed considerably, but was still on pace to finish within 4:00. My feet were really starting to hurt, though. I wasn't swelling at the fasciotomy sites, but it felt like the soles of my feet were on fire. I just kept pushing through, moving to the sidewalk when the cops angrily told me to do so (what had the race organizers told the cops?).

The sun was really beating down, so I was looking forward to the water stop at Mile 11. It wasn't there. It had obviously been packed up for quite a while, as tables were folded, bags were neatly packed and tied next to the curb, and volunteers were nowhere to be seen.

Same thing for Mile 12. No water. I really had to dig deep here and wondered what I would have to do if I could not finish. I had seen no sag wagon or end-of-the-race support. I powered on, thinking of a race report that Keith wrote about Columbia a couple of years ago: "one foot in front of the other." I kept repeating that and following the sidewalk.

It wasn't even clear at this point where the race was supposed to be. Despite open roads, cyclists who should know better zoomed past on the sidewalk, one clipping my elbow as he passed (nice U.S. Postal kit, a--h---). I finally asked a group of folks lounging by a boathouse where Eakins Oval (the finish) was. They pointed and I followed.

Checking the watch, I'd been at this for 3:55. I forged forward and finally saw the blue arch of the finish line. "Can she make it?" I asked myself out loud, jerking forward into a limp-run-hobble toward the finish line, which was being taken down as I approached. I actually had to scream at a kid who was moving a barrier perpendicularly toward me to "GET OUT OF MY WAY!!".

My chip beeped as I crossed the finish line with 3:59:55 on my watch. It had been a little over an hour since I’d had any water.

It Gets Worse

Thank you for reading for so long. As bad as it sounds so far, it gets worse.

I collected my finishers medal and a chilled bottle of water (yes there is a God and He loves me) and headed toward the "Rocky steps" at the Museum of Art, where Heather and I had agreed to meet. I didn't see her, so I started hunting for a cab.

Fully in the grips of what "Slow Fat Triathlete" author Jayne Williams calls "Post-Race Stupidity Syndrome", I declined a fellow finisher's offer to use his cell phone. Instead, I headed in the general geographic direction of the hotel. Standing on a street corner with no luck finding a cab, my vision started to go black at the edges. I flagged down a tour bus - could they get me near U. of Penn.? "No, we're a TOUR bus, lady" came the reply.

I staggered across a bridge into an iffy neighborhood, sipping water and clutching my post-race swag bag. What a sight I must have been. The blackness kept coming and going and I knew I was in trouble. A passing neighborhood security officer on a bike stopped to ask how I was, but as kind as he was, he was no help: he had no walkie-talkie or cell phone (I wasn't too far out of it, though, since I was able to slur, "Thash a shweet ride you got" in reference to his bike).

Bike cop pointed me to a corner liquor store. I asked if they could please call me a cab, but they were skeptical. "OK, I'll buy sumphin," I muttered and moved toward the water coolers. The clerk called for a cab, but advised that it would be two hours. I wanted to cry.

With a finisher's medal and race number still attached to my "Jamie" shirt, I lurched out into the street, now firmly in the ‘hood, but still in the general direction of the hotel. I saw three tough-looking workmen loading scrap onto a truck and asked if I could please use a cell phone. When one hurried to a truck to retrieve one, I started sobbing. I told Heather, who by now was back at the hotel, "I've been walking for so long and I just. can't. walk. anymore." A cab was on the way. I returned the cell phone and a five-dollar bill to the Good Samaritan, sat heavily on the curb, and waited, tears pouring behind my Oakleys down a salty face.

Back at the hotel, there wasn't much time to spare. It was 1:00 (thank goodness for late checkout - love that Inn at Penn), and we had a 2:25 train to catch. I peeled off that nasty gear, continued to sip water, took care of personal bidness (clear urine - good), sipped more water, and stepped gingerly onto blistered blisters into the shower, taking a water bottle with me. Into my race t-shirt, clean clothes, and comfy orange crocs, and we were off to the Amtrak station.

Four Hunky Firemen

Once there, we headed to the bar, where I ordered chicken soup, water, and a glass of chardonnay (as is my post-race habit) while we watched the Eagles game. The chicken soup had some nasty-looking floaties, so I sent it back, thinking I'd prefer a nasty mini-pizza on the train.

When Heather pointed out that we had 15 minutes to go, I started feeling icky. Then nauseous. Then just really bad. I lay my head on the bar and asked, "Can you call a medic?"

Next thing I knew, some woman was holding me up and pouring orange juice into my mouth as Heather was saying through what sounded like a long, narrow tunnel, "She's not diabetic! She's a triathlete! This has never happened before!" The woman kept pinching the base of my neck and telling me to "stay awake" (Heather later told me that she had asked “Is there a doctor in the house!?” and that this woman, an off-duty RN in the Amtrak bar, had jumped up to help, God bless her).

I lost consciousness again and came to when four hunky paramedic-firefighters were hovering over me on a stretcher. They hurried me into an ambulance, shoved an IV into my arm, and hustled Heather inside on the way to the hospital, where I spent the afternoon and evening with a diagnosis was severe dehydration. My blood pressure had been 60-over-something-small when they got to me.

We went back to the Inn at Penn that night, watched the Redskins fade against the Cowboys, and got home the next day.

What Was the Problem?

I did my part.
* I set goals, trained, and when I knew I wouldn't meet my initial goal, re-reviewed the cutoff times and seeded myself accordingly.
* I studied the maps and knew the course.
* I knew what was going to be offered (Amino Vital and water) and where. Because water was advertised as being freely available, I did not bring a FuelBelt.
* I brought more-than-sufficient nutrition.
* I stayed within a target pace and finished on time.

Though I met my end of the bargain, the race organizers (Elite Racing, sponsors of the "Rock 'n' Roll" events) did not.

* They advertised a race that, depending on what ad one read, had a 4:00 "target" goal (my terms, not theirs).
* They appealed to a diverse crowd of runners with their advertisements proclaiming on-course entertainment and a "walker-friendly" course.
* They promised plentiful aid stations stocked with Amino Vital and water.

All I wanted was water, and they shut it down early. On a warm day, I went the last 3+ miles of a half-marathon with no water and no support at all. It was disappointing that the bands had packed up and roads reopened by the time I got to those points. It was inexcusable to close water stations early.

And what about those athletes behind me? Was there a sag wagon to pick them up? No, instead it looks like Elite Racing appeals to and takes entry fees from all comers, then caters to the FOP and MOP, leaving the BOP to fend for itself.

Then, to add insult to injury, my timing chip did not work. When I checked my results upon returning home, there was no record of my ever having been in the race. The race organizers have since accepted my watch time and updated their records. Though the folks at ChampionChip maintain that the problem was not in the chip itself, they have graciously offered a refund. I’m taking it. No more personal chips for me. It’s just not worth it.

Turning Anger Into Action

I'm still fuming, as many of my tri-pals know from my in-person rants. Though my kidneys have returned to normal functioning, the balls of my feet are deeply bruised. It still hurts to walk downstairs or run downhill.

It's cost me, too. The bill from the City of Philadelphia came today. Four hunky firemen are not cheap - nor are ER visits, additional hotel stays, rescheduled train tickets, and so forth. At least I have health insurance.

I can continue to fume and stew, or I can turn anger into action. I've formally complained to Elite Racing about their water and volunteer management policies. Until I get an acceptable response certifying that they've either tightened their cutoff times or extended water services - at the very least - to the stated cutoff, I can't recommend any of their events. This includes the Va. Beach Rock 'n' Roll Half-Marathon. They have to be honest about what kind of race they want to put on.

All in all, I'm happy that I met my goal under these adverse circumstances. The best news is that I've since had an in-person running clinic with Coach Debi and have sliced two whole minutes off my mile pace by simple gait mechanics.

The adventure continues.