Sunday, bloody Sunday. Wendy's Chicago '11

“Are you sure?”


“Yeah, I think I am.”


“You want to?”


“Yeah, let’s sign up.”


And so we did. The above conversation took place between me and my husband, Tim, around February
of 2011. The discussion related to signing up for the 2011 Chicago marathon.


The question was not whether we’d run a fall marathon. That much was certain. But should we run Chicago? Everyone knows that
weather has been a major issue in Chicago in the last three out of four years. But, more than that, any
hesitancy about Chicago that Tim expected out of me stemmed from the 2009 race—the one year when the temperature at the race was actually ideal.


I didn’t run Chicago in 2009. Tim did, but I didn’t. And that was the problem. I had trained for it, and it was to be my first marathon. Five weeks before the race, I sustained a severe groin injury which prevented me from running the race. I was extremely fit, and I was completely devastated. That devastation was compounded by the fact that I went to spectate the race. While I was happy to watch my husband break 3:00 for the first time and to see my brother run his first marathon, it was a really heart-wrenching experience for me.



After spectating Chicago in 2009, I used to always grumble that I hated the Chicago marathon. I was half-joking, but the truth is I held a lot of disdain for that race—a race that let me train myself into the ground only to prevent me from experiencing the
fruits of my labor. While I intellectually understood that the race itself was in no way responsible for my misfortune, I was still bitter.


Hence Tim’s questioning of me when I told him I thought we should run Chicago. But I was over all
my Chicago angst. I had finally run my first marathon (Eugene in May of ’11) and had a wonderful first marathon
experience. The marathon no longer eluded me. I had run a strong first marathon on very moderate training. And,
while it was difficult, it wasn’t as hard as I thought it could have been. So I signed us up for Chicago assuming that
my second marathon would outshine even my nearly-perfect Eugene experience. Especially since I ran
Eugene with a TENS unit attached to me and only got up to 60 miles per week one time. I’ll spare you the suspense: I was wrong.


The Training


I ran the Eugene Marathon relatively undertrained and when, in June, Chicago training was to begin, I was dead set on making sure that my fitness was at a level it had never been come October 9^th. I wanted to race my guts out knowing that I
had trained as hard as I could. I overcame a couple of early obstacles (two abdominal surgeries in May and July), but I did manage to train very hard this summer. To summarize, I ran most of my weeks around 70 miles, and three of those weeks were 75+ miles. I also ran 10 20+ mile long runs, most of which were back-to-back long runs (a 16 on Saturday followed by a 22 on Sunday, for example). 90% of my runs were in heat and extreme humidity, and a lot of them were at 5:00 a.m. I eschewed speed work in favor of lots of miles, as I know that I have some natural speed. I knew this plan would not make me fast, but figured it should make me strong. And strength is a must in the marathon.


I did all of this running on only four days per week. I chose this schedule not out of convenience, but because it was what I used in Eugene. And it had worked. But it is VERY different to run 75 miles in four days than to only run 55 in the same time
period. In my peak training for Chicago, I was running nearly 20 miles a day during those four days of running. This called for lots of doubles. I never ran fewer than 14-15 miles at once in my first run of the day. I expected my legs to feel tired, and they did, but around mid-August I started questioning if they felt too tired.


The problem was my quads. They would feel fine the first few miles of a run, but after that it felt as though they lacked all shock absorption. I had complained of this problem to my husband and my other running friends—told them that it wasn’t injury type pain, but that my legs were just completely trashed. Every. Single. Run. They told me to just make it to taper and that it would get better.


I made it to taper, and it got worse. I wasn’t running as much, but when I did run my legs felt wasted. I remembered my
legs feeling flat during taper for Eugene, but this was different. My quads ached, even during very slow runs. I was concerned about it, but I figured that this was just a different kind of taper due to all of the miles and all of the
long runs. I also had taken about a month’s worth of oral prednisone, and was suffering from side effects of it. My face began to swell a little and I gained a few pounds due to the fluid retention. Still, I kept the faith that my legs would be fresh and strong on race day, just like they had been in Eugene.


Pre-Race


Tim and I headed up to Chicago on Friday. I was still not feeling very confident, but again assumed that it would all come together when I hit the start line. And I began to worry about the weather. It looked to be a bit too warm on race day. But I’ve run in so much heat. I suppose I was more worried about the weather given how my legs were feeling.
I drove Tim insane with questions like “Am I really ready for this?” I know he thought I was just nervous, but something just felt a little off. Not like Eugene did. I shrugged it off since it WAS different than Eugene—I had run one before and knew what to be afraid of.


We went to the expo. I’m sorry, but I hate expos. I can’t stand being around all those people. We got our bags, a new pair of shoes for Tim, and got out of there. We met friends for dinner, then headed to Emily’s parents’ house, where we were graciously allowed to stay for the whole weekend.


The next morning, I went with Wes (my brother), Tim, and Scott (my friend) to do one final shake out run. I only went two miles. While I didn’t feel great, I didn’t feel awful. I turned around before they did, and did about a half mile at marathon pace (7:14). It didn’t feel too bad, but I was slightly aware of my quads during it. I didn’t obsess over it because there wasn’t a thing I could do at that point.


I drank a TON of fluid on Saturday and also began taking salt tabs. My slightly swollen face which had resulted from the prednisone quickly became noticeably swollen. It didn’t really look like me. I was not swollen anywhere else—just my face. It became the joke that I looked like I had just had my wisdom teeth removed. It has made for some interesting pictures. Anyway—physically I was not “normal,” and I didn’t feel normal. Saturday night I felt exhausted. After we ate pasta, all I could think about was sleeping. Again, I didn’t remember feeling this way for Eugene. But I figured it was just how it was supposed to be.


Race Day


My dad (who was also staying with us and was going to race) woke me up at 4:45 a.m. I thought he was just waking me up, but he told me he had changed his mind about racing and was just going to head home. I was shocked by this, but on some level I also understood. I was incredibly nervous myself.


I got up and had some cream of wheat…and noticed that my face was even MORE swollen at this point. I looked like a chipmunk. Before I knew it, we were parking the van. Emily and her roommate, Katie, were going to run together. Tim would be running his own race, attempting to break 2:50. And Wes and Scott would be running with me. The plan was to start out with the 3:10 pace group and try to do a slight negative split to sneak in under 3:10.


It was warm out. 66 degrees at the start. It was strange to see runners at the start line shirtless and in sports bras. People
are usually wrapped up in trash bags and long-sleeved shirts. There was just no need for it.


I was also struck by the sheer number of people in our corral. We were in B corral, which is very near the front, and it was absolutely packed. I’ve never run a race with this many people—around 45,000 in all. Remember how I didn’t like the expo given all the people? Well, now all these people were surrounding me to get ready to run. I instantly disliked that aspect of the race,
but hoped it would fade as soon as we took off.


I got the chance to talk to the 3:10 pacer, and I asked his strategy. He joked around for a second, saying we’d take off at 6 minute miles. But he quickly realized that I was not in a joking mood. We’d start out around 8 minute pace for the first mile, he said, and then we’d make up that time by the half. I didn’t like the idea of starting so far off of goal pace, but was told that there was no way we could go any faster given the crowd. We were so packed in that corral and there were still 10 minutes til the start. I had brought a Starbucks cup with me in which to pee (under a trash bag) and did this twice during that 10 minute period. Men often pee in Gatorade bottles, but clearly that’s not very practical for women. Venti Starbucks cups work splendidly…just don’t forget the lid! Wes borrowed my cup for his own uses, and before I knew it we were off.


Miles 1-6


But not really. We went forward a little, then stopped. People slammed into the back of me. Then we went further a bit more.
Then boom, stop. I didn’t like this, and I kept panicking that I’d lose Wes and Scott. Once we crossed the line, we were finally able to run, but not very fast. That was fine, as I didn’t feel the rush of adrenaline I had expected and that I had experienced in Eugene. I figured this was because I was made very uncomfortable by the mass of people around me.


When I say that they were around us, I actually mean they were on top of us. Shoulders were touching, and all I could do was focus on not falling. One guy did fall during the first mile, and I looked back long enough to see him get thoroughly stepped upon. We just kept going.


Wes told me to just relax—he knew I was concerned about the slow pace. My Garmin was useless at this point, as it does not work accurately in the city due to all the tall buildings. I just kept focusing on the pace group sign, but by about a half mile in it seemed to be gapping us.


We couldn’t catch up with them simply because of the crowd. Strangely, I was okay with this. We hit mile 1 at 7:28. That was actually pretty perfect. Not as slow as I had anticipated, but not quite goal pace either. It did not feel hot at this point—it was breezy and quite pleasant, really. And the buildings offered a ton of shade. I began to think that this might be a good day.


We hit the second mile in 7:26, and again I was not surprised by this given the mass of people around us. It was around this mile that all the people really started to get to me. I hung in the middle of the road for the third mile, which we hit at 7:22, and at that point I could no longer take running around all those people. I made my way to the right side of the street and got as close as I could to the spectators.


This made me feel better, though I remember crossing the 5K mark thinking that it didn’t feel easy yet. In retrospect, that was a very ominous sign. The first few miles of a marathon should feel like pure jogging. While I was absolutely fine cardiovascularly—I could breathe, talk, etc., and I wasn’t in any pain, it just simply wasn’t easy. At that point, I told myself I’d re-evaluate at the 10K mark. Again, another bad sign—coming up with re-evaluation points that early in the race means something is off. I can be fully honest with myself now and admit that, three miles in, I was concerned. I wasn’t sure about what—it didn’t feel hot—I just knew it didn’t feel right.


By the 10K mark we were on pace, clicking off miles anywhere from 7:12 to 7:17 pace. We had a little time to make up from the first few slow miles, but honestly I was not even concerned about that. I just wanted to stay on goal pace.


Scott and Wes were right with me. My nutrition was going well, and Scott was hand-delivering my water every aid station so I didn’t even have to break stride to hydrate. I was being totally spoiled.


Miles 6-10


The only time I ever really felt like I was in a groove during the whole race was during miles 6-9. I remember consciously saying to myself “Okay. I CAN do this.” Again, this convincing nonsense was happening far too early, but it was during these three miles that I thought I might actually have a chance of pulling it off. Our splits were consistent, and I felt fine so long as I stayed on the outer portion of the road. The second I was surrounded by people my effort level seemed to sky rocket. It was just beginning to get warm, and being near all those bodies made it worse. On the outer portion of the road I could at least feel the breeze. I could also try to focus on the spectators, who were amazing and provided a good distraction.


And then I hit mile 10. As though a switch had been hit, I could suddenly feel my quads. And, within a half mile, my hamstrings joined in. It was no kind of injury pain, it was fatigue. Fatigue that I recognized immediately. I had experienced it in Eugene, but during that race it was right around mile 17—a whopping seven miles later. I mentioned to Scott that I was feeling this, and he said something like “That’s okay, just keep running.” He later admitted to me (after the race) that he was concerned that I complained of that feeling so early. By the middle of the 10^th mile, I knew that it was going to be a rough day, but I also held onto my goal. I was dealing with the fatigue. For now.


Miles 10-15


These miles were characterized by rough patches which gave
way to better patches. Let me
explain. For a quarter mile or so, my
legs would begin to feel a lot worse. My
quads would burn. But then something
would happen—I’d get a drink or we’d get into the shade—and I’d suddenly feel
better. My head was all over the place
during miles 10-13, as I kept telling myself I should slow down but also that I
should hang on. I did slow down a bit,
and I felt even worse, so I sped back up.
We hit the half in 1:35:41—just 42 seconds off my goal.


That’s a great place to be at the half, unless you are
questioning your ability to make it to 20 at that pace. But that was the goal I gave myself—just make
it to 20. By 15, my goal had changed to “just
make it to 18.” My quads felt, at 15,
like they did at mile 23 in Eugene. And
I began to notice that I was having trouble standing up straight while running—I
was ever so slightly drawing to the right.
By about 15.25, my goal rapidly changed to “Make it to the next mile
marker.” These are all very common and
very helpful mental tricks used by distance runners. The only problem is that I was using them
about 6-7 miles too early. Scott
continued to be my water/Gatorade servant, and Wes told me to just stop
thinking and run. It was also getting
very, very sunny at this point and, for the first time, I noticed how warm I
felt.


Miles 15-20


We continued to click off 7:13-7:15 paced miles, but the
effort was ever-increasing for me. I
would catch myself thinking that I still had more than 10 miles to go, and that
thought was daunting. It was around mile
17 that I knew my goal was pretty much not going to happen. My vision got blurry. And, from there, I got tunnel vision. Wes and Scott were pointing things out to me
on the course, but I honestly couldn’t see them. It was like I could only see a small sliver
in front of each eye. At this point,
Scott kept giving me more and more Gatorade and water, and I started taking
some of Wes’ salt tabs. I also doubled
up on gels hoping that it would help. I
kept praying for strength and telling myself to focus, but it soon felt like I
was running in someone else’s body.


I hung on with some semblance of the runner that I am until
mile 19, where I experienced a fantastic blow up. I couldn’t see, and was now majorly drawn to
the right. I was bent over, and I have
no idea why. I was aware of it, but at the same time couldn’t do anything about
it. I remember thinking, at mile 19,
that I would be happy with a 3:12. I
looked at my pace tattoo to try and figure up what splits I would need to run
to get it, but I was way too mentally foggy to figure that out. And it was futile anyway—I was redlining it
effort-wise and my pace had slipped into the 8:XXs. I knew I was going to slow down from
there. The only question was how much.


Mile 20 seemed to last forever, and this is where my memory
of things gets fuzzy. I don’t remember
hitting mile 20, but I remember that all the sudden ice was coming from out of
nowhere. Scott would show up with ice in
his hands. I’d open my top and he’d dump
it in. Then I’d feel it on my back. Then water over my head. He was so good to me and his kindness is what
I will remember most about this race.
And Wes, too. He kept encouraging
me. He gave me permission to stop
looking at my watch. “Don’t pay attention
to that thing!” he yelled. I couldn’t
read the numbers anyway, but I was so concerned that I was failing. I knew I physically could not meet my goal,
but I kept obsessing over how far behind it I was. Wes got it through to me—though I’m not sure
how given my mental state—that it honestly did not matter. I was racing now. I was gutting it out. Time be damned.


Miles 20-26.2


I was not given the luxury of rough patches after mile
20. It was all one big rough patch. I remember that I began to feel physically sleepy during mile 21. Not just tired from effort, but like I needed
to seriously get on the ground and go to sleep.
Wes told me that if I got to 22 I could finish. But first I had to get to mile 22.


I don’t know why, but him saying that made me realize what
was happening. I was surviving. Racing my heart out, and for what? Not for a 3:10. Not even for a PR at that point. I didn’t know what my splits were, but I
could tell I was slowing, despite the fact that I was running with more effort
than I ever had. I said to him, “It’s
not about the time. It’s not about the
time.” I don’t know if Wes knew what I
meant, but what I was trying to express was my acceptance of the fact that my
goals were gone, but that I still had a race to run, and that there was still
fighting left to do.


When we arrived at the 21 mile marker (or when they told me
I did—I couldn’t see it, of course), I felt worse physically than I ever have
while running. Nay, in my entire
life. I felt worse than I did during
natural child birth. The need to stop
was overwhelming, though I never even considered it. “One foot in front of the other,” said Scott
in between asking spectators for ice out of their coolers so he could stick it
in my top. And that became my
mantra: just move. Both Wes and Scott were wonderful during
those last five miles. They gave me
little goals. Make it to China Town
(which I don’t really remember seeing), make it to that bridge, etc. I could think no further than about a quarter
mile in front of me. To speak in miles
would have been totally overwhelming.


And that’s when Scott said “Don’t think about distance. Think about time. You have way less than an hour left. Rowan could go down for a nap and you’d be
finished before he woke up.” That put it
in a context that my feeble brain could grasp.
So I actually tried to imagine putting Rowan down for his afternoon nap,
and I tried to imagine that I was running on my home course.


Right after China Town, I began to feel really, really
cold. I knew this was not good and that
I didn’t have much longer. I thought I
only had two miles left, but Wes told me I was confused and actually had four. I still, though, kept thinking I only had two
miles left. Probably a good thing.


I was soon covered in goose bumps, and became frustrated
that I couldn’t think of the words “goose bumps” when trying to explain to
Scott that I was cold. I think I managed
to say “tingly things.” At that point,
too, I realized that my legs felt almost numb.
And I began to stumble a bit. The
last four miles are a blur, but I do remember spectators looking at me like “What
the…?” and cheering me on as hard as they could. Wes and Scott whooped them up and told them
how hard I was working. They told me I
could do it, that I almost had it. And I
found myself repeating what they said.


I stumbled into Scott several times, but I never stopped
running. I know I looked like the
Hunchback of Notre Dame, but I was still running. “I love running!” I said to Scott. I didn’t mean that I was loving the running I
was doing, but that, despite this torture, I absolutely, unabashedly love the
sport of running. A small part of me was
even loving the fact that I was experiencing something I’d never been through
while running. I had heard stories of
people running like I was, but I’d never been there. Now I could check that off my list. I love that a sport could make me continue to
put myself through that much effort, knowing that a PR was not in the
cards. I loved that my brother and Scott
cared enough about me to work so hard to make sure that I finished (they had to
shoo away about a dozen medical people during those last few miles).


“We’re on Michigan now,” said Scott. I knew what that meant. That this was almost over. I tried to speed up for no other reason than
to just get it over with, but my surges lasted only about five seconds. I remember Wes telling me we had 800 meters
left. “Run 400 for Rowan, and 400 for
Amelia.” So that became my mission. When we made the turn onto Roosevelt, I
remember the ringing in my ears, and the crowds cheering for us seemed to be
doing so in slow motion. I closed my
eyes and ran, and again had that overwhelming sleepy feeling. Then, I couldn’t exactly remember how close I
was to the finish. “Is it almost over?!” “Yes!” shouted Wes.


We made a left turn and I saw the red Finish Line
banner. I couldn’t read it. It was a blur, but I certainly knew what it
signified. I remember it getting closer,
and the next thing I remember is a voice I didn’t recognize saying “You have to
stay awake, Wendy. You have to stay
awake.”


Yep. I was in the
medical tent. I finished the race in
3:23:45—13+ minutes off my goal and almost 5 minutes off my PR—and have
absolutely no memory of crossing the finishing line. I think my last actual memory was about 150
meters from the line, when Scott told me to try and out kick another
woman. Apparently I did that, and then
passed out cold after crossing the line.
I’m glad I don’t remember it.


My official diagnosis was “Altered Mental Status.” Meaning that I was just out of it. All I remember from the finish line to the
medical tent is that I was FREEZING. I
kept thinking I was in an ice bath, but I wasn’t. Apparently I was really confused and, at one
point, combative. My labs revealed
hyponatremia—low sodium—which can cause confusion. My potassium was also low. The prednisone that I took causes potassium
wasting and fluid retention, and so it seems that that may have set me up for
this. They wouldn’t let Wes or Scott in
the medical tent, and I assumed they had gone to find Tim…which they had.


I was in there a couple of hours, and I can’t tell you how
many times they asked me if I knew where I was and who I was. My core temperature was 102, and they were
talking about putting me in an ice bath.
“No, no, no!” I protested. I was
freezing cold and was not going to stand for an ice bath. The next thing I remember, there was a
podiatrist lancing open the blisters on my right foot. They were so impressive that the nurses were
taking pictures of them (with my permission).


Then they wanted to know who they should call. I explained that everyone they should call
had run the race and did not have a phone on them. They would not release me until I made
contact with someone…so I called my mom using their phone. She was at home in Indiana, so this only
served to freak her out. But, at least,
they would let me leave at this point.


A Red Cross worker was going to walk me to the family
reunite tent, when I realized I didn’t have a medal. I wanted one, as I had earned it…so we walked
all the way back to the finish and got one.
Finally, I found Wes. And then
Tim. Tim ran a 2:54:57…an amazing time
given the conditions. And the day was
done.


I was initially very disappointed in my performance, but now
(with the help of soreness the likes of which I have never experienced) realize
how proud I should be of my effort. It
was a million times more difficult than Eugene.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
And yet…I still want to run more of them!


So, what happened?
After thinking about it and talking to Conor, my new coach (who has not
actually coached me yet—so he is not responsible for any of this mess), here’s
what I think:


-Overtrained. Which
actually means under-recovered. Running
75 miles a week on four days of running is actually more stressful than doing
so in 6 to 7 days a week. I truly
believe, in retrospect, that this was the main problem. I also did all this during the most
academically stressful time of my life, which certainly stole from my recovery
and adaptation.


-Prednisone/cortisone.
Too much of a good thing. Led to
water retention/sodium and potassium depletion.


-Weather. While not
horrific, it wasn’t ideal.


-Crowded. This
probably had nothing to do with my blow up, but I just wanted to note that I
think I far, far more enjoy smaller races.


So, as much as I’d like to blame Chicago for my experience,
I can’t. I still haven’t figured out the
magic recipe of training. But that’s
okay, because from this point on I am no longer in control. Conor is!

Wendy,

When we were tracking you on Sunday, I bet none of us imagined what you were experiencing. I thought you were one of few who were doing great. Numbers don't lie if you look at your splits and others. So congratulations on a strong race!

I will let your coach, Tim and you to figure out other details, but have to say this: man, you were too nervous.

That's not good. Coincidentally I was watching Black Swan yesterday. The director repeatedly instructed the Swan queen: you have to let go yourself.

Let it go and fully enjoy the race would do us good!

Again, congratulations on a strong showing in Chicago!

Now that's guts! Amazing show of strength. Recover well.

wow Wendy! That was some race you ran. I am so sorry the last few miles were so incredibly tough. I am very impressed you stuck with it. I am sorry about the medical tent need....

Congrats on finishing and I hope you find a really good schedule that works for you that doesn't lead to over training. That is tough to just fit running in a limited number of days but you said that is what works for your children and everything, right?

I knew it was really tough when you said worse than natural child birth. After I had my little girl naturally, back labor, all that....I told the nurse I had run 8 marathons and none were as hard as that. She said it was the hardest thing a woman would ever do. But wow, to top that after you've already run over 20 miles in a day.

Recover well!

Congrats on powering through, you did very well. The part that made me chuckle was the part about running faster at the end just so you could be done quicker. I do that every time I run. You will only be more proud of your effort over time.

Jerry wrote:Wendy,

When we were tracking you on Sunday, I bet none of us imagined what you were experiencing. I thought you were one of few who were doing great. Numbers don't lie if you look at your splits and others. So congratulations on a strong race!
Again, congratulations on a strong showing in Chicago!

+1

That was an incredible report - I felt like I was there with you, as painful as it was - I had a vague sense of your training and knew you had done a lot of long runs, but I had no idea how many. Good God, that is a lot of pounding on your legs! I feel terrible for you that your time wasn't what you wanted it to be - that really sucks after all of your effort. That being said, I still think the overall finish was great and you obviously dug as deep as you could - can't ask any more at all. As Michele says, we are all an experiment of one and you will find what works best for you. The ending sounds pretty scary - most important thing is that you are OK. Hopefully, the corisone / Prednisone thing will take care of itself in the future and won't be an issue.

I'm actually glad you talked about your training as it relates to Chicago - makes me think twice about wanting to push my overall mileage too high for fear of the same thing(s) happening.

Well, that was a race to remember, for sure. I'm proud of you and hope you bounce back soon.

A strong finish despite learning many things NOT to do next time.

I am with you on the crowds. Not a fan at all.

Heal up and move on.

Great report - I don't know how some of you can give such detailed race reports.
My Monumental report will be quite short compared to yours.
And you passed out on top of it all!

Congratulations on surviving.
As I begin my tapering, I have worried that I might be doing too much.
I combined Hal's novice I plan (weekdays) and Jeff's weekend plans.
That has worked well, but I have worried about wearing out my legs.
Today I was supposed to do 10 miles, but opted for a shorter run because my legs were just plain tired.
Your training thoughts are a big help to me at the moment. Really helpful.
I will stick to my plan for the most part, but will also listen to my body and forget numbers on some days.

I thought that was so sweet being told to run for your kids at some points.
Your strength is inspiring to this old guy who wants to see that finishing line on 11/5.

Thanks for bringing me into your world and the medical tent through foggy lenses. Good grief. What an experience!! I am so glad you had friends to keep you company and keep you going. In retrospect, maybe all y'all pushed too hard after the half way point, but this is only your second marathon and you are still figuring out this marathon thing.

Every experience we have teaches us and makes us better. I'm proud of your finish. Way to hang in there Wendy. Congratulations on your first Chicago marathon and I hope it's only the first of many.

I have to second (third?) what Jerry had to say: On a day where many runners faded and fell short of their goals, I had no idea of how much you suffered. That you kept going despite the pain shows just how tough and tenacious you can be.

Scott C once wrote that second marathons can be "tricky hard" - and I think those words ring true - but they can also be tremendous learning experiences when things go wrong. It's clear you're already on your way to puzzling out what happened this weekend and what you can do to keep it from happening again.

I'm glad you went back to get your medal. You earned it.

Wendy, that you had such a tough day and finished a mere 5 minutes off your PR is absolutely amazing. Breaking it down, it sounds like you have a pretty good idea of what went wrong. The prednizone and being somewhat overtrained definitely look like the culprits.
I absolutely love how at about mile 15, when you're hitting the wall big time, you somehow got in touch with the fact that you love running!!!! That's just classic.
All in all, a very tough, but memorable marathon. Thanks for a great report. I hope you're all recovering well.

Wow Wendy - what an experience! I cannot believe that you finished. That is some inner strength and determination. I has a very similar experience with hyponatremia at Boston in 2005 and I went into the med tent at 19 miles never to finish, so I can relate to the descriptions of feeling cold and goosebump like, but finishing - never would have happened. Please take care of yourself, rest up, recover, and then hit the roads again since you are a warrior - no doubt.

Wow Wendy I am amazed by you!!! What strength & determination you have!!! I cannot believe you logged 10 20+mile training runs in prep for Chicago!! WOW! And I have always been so blow away by your speed, still am!!

Thank you so much for this report!! I learned a lot!!! I would never have thought to talk to the pacer to see what their plan was. And the venti Starbucks cup... that li'l nugget of info will be packed away for future use for me for sure! But what do you do with the cup afterwards? LOL! Yes, I'm serious.

You are so blessed to have Wes & Scott in your life! What a support network! Reading your report made it feel like I was watching along side of you. I can't believe how much pain you were in and that you were able to keep going. You are one strong chick!!!

Talk about overcoming adversary. Way to perservere when you could have easily called it a day at any point. Congrats on the finish and hopefully you're ok.

Great report Wendy. Just think, after all that stuff you went through you still had a heck of a good finish time. I am glad that you appreciate the struggle you went through and you were able to continue on through the pain. This will definitely help you some time in the future. I also like your introspection about what contributed to your problems. Lastly, I'm excited that you have a coach. It will be interesting to watch you develop your potential.

Congrats.

Amazing. You are one tough runner.

Great job toughing it out, coach. I won't even say "I told you so" on the over training!

It's interesting that we both had the massive crowd experience on the same day (me at the Army 10)...No. Fun. I am with you. After NYC, I think I am done with big races. I want to run...and race. Not "experience" being packed in with so many people. It sucks.

Anyway - you worked so hard this training cycle and I know you know it wasn't for naught. You're tougher for it...and I have no doubt your new coach will serve you well and lead you to that sub-3:10 goal and far, far beyond. Well done.

Wow amazing story and incredible fortitude to stick it out and finish. I must have been running near you guys most of the race I was at 1:36 for the half. Yeah, possible overtrained and prescription drugs can be a huge factor when your body is taxing to the max. Hope you recover well and congrats on the finish, glad you're ok. Great meeting you and Tim Friday.

Amazing report and a wonderful performance out there. I'm so proud of you honey!

Sorry we didn't meet up in Chicago,Wendy. I did get to meet and talk to Tim briefly after his amazing race but I was feeling so cruddy that I'm sure I wasn't very good company. But it sounds like you had an even worse time than me out there. I could relate to a bunch of what I read in your story. We'll both get it right. You know that saying "there will be a day you can no longer do this; today is not that day" For us, it is "there will be a day that you will nail it perfectly in a marathon; today is most definitely not that day". But we both finished and have the medals to show for it! Congrats on gutting it through to the end. A little scary in terms of what you went through medically but you seem none the worse for wear now at least in terms of lucidity. Again, sorry we didn't meet up and we'll have to have a more formal locked in plan in connection with Boston. Congrats on the finish and ONWARD to figuring out with your coach what comes next.

All I can say is WOW...I am impressed by your mental toughness. All you need to do is align your training, mental toughness and weather conditions and you will nail one big time. That is one of the challenges with marathon running...you need the stars to align. For some of us it takes longer than others, but oh what a feeling when it happens.

Will we see you and Tim at Tecumseh?

I'm sorry the race turned into a struggle for you. I'm sure that you will get the marathon figured out soon. You are too determined and tenacious not to. Get yourself recovered so that your body can do what you train it to do without being beat down.

That is one of the most gripping race reports I have read...so sorry that you had to be the star of it. Wow, you are one incredible woman...really strong and head strong? Congratulations! Certainly a marathon for the ages. Please rest and recover to race another day.

Some days we PR...some days we just finish.

Way to tough it out.

When you posted on facebook that you struggled the last few miles, I think I responded "been there" or something like that. I stand corrected, I've not been where you were Sunday. Amazing toughness Wendy!