2020 Los Angeles Marathon Recap | Lessons Learned & Silver Linings
By Chase Parnell — March 11, 2020
One thing I’ve learned over the years is that “good” runners are usually pretty type-A. They do all the little things required to run at a high level and nail big performances. They leave no stone unturned in their training, their gear, their nutrition, and their planning. I am not that person and it showed at the L.A. Marathon.
I’m more of a minimalist and I run from the heart. The night before the race, am I pouring over the turn by turn course description or planning my minute by minute fueling strategies? No, I’m probably reading a novel. When it comes to racing, I try to let the competitor inside me take over and if I find any success, it comes from tapping into the present moment and letting my fitness take me where it can. I’ve gotten away with a “shut up and just run hard” mentality for a long time and actually, the ultramarathon world lends itself to that perspective in some ways. But when it comes to high-level big city marathons, looking back, my laid-back “chill” attitude came back to bite me.
That said, while my day did unravel in epic fashion from a performance perspective, not all was lost. This was a real When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade sort of race.
Starting Line Debacle
On the Tuesday before the race I received an email from the L.A. Marathon race organization that described the starting corral system. Starting corrals? This was news to me. I knew races like Boston and New York had different starting waves and whatnot, but I assumed they would match me with the appropriate corral based on my projected finish time that I provided when I registered. Nope! Rookie mistake. It turns out there was a deadline in November for people to request which corral they wanted to be in. I registered in December so therefore I was placed in the “open corral” which was behind seeded corrals A, B, C, D, and E. I sent the race organization emails and they all went unanswered. I know, I know, cry me a river.
I held out hope that I’d be able to weasel my way into a seeded corral by sweet-talking the volunteers who were managing the entry points. I did my best but they were resolute. No corral designation on your bib, no access! One woman said, “I have my marching orders, and I’m sticking to them!” Again, I get it, not trying to be a nuisance here.
I quickly realized that I needed to get lined up as quickly as possible in the open corral to minimize the damage. There were 7,000 runners in the seeded corrals and if I had to guess, I ended up behind another 7,000 runners in the open corral. The race had 27,000 runners total. Lining up at 6:30am after an abbreviated warmup and a race that started at 6:55am meant that I was standing stationary, shoulder to shoulder, and quickly losing any warmth I’d earned from my warmup.
When the horn blew and the front runners were off, we were at a standstill for several minutes before we started to walk forward at a snail’s pace. I hit the starting line several minutes later and quickly started bobbing and weaving through the hoards. I did a ton of jumping up and off of curbs to pass large groups and did my best to stay positive.
Take-away: big city marathons are very regimented and race directors and staff don’t necessarily care about the individual runner. They have bigger fish to fry and rightly so. I can only assume that my email request for corral reassignment was an auto-delete. Fine. Play by the rules or get stuck behind 15,000 runners. Admittedly, I’ve been spoiled by the ultra scene where you can arrive a minute before the start and line up wherever you want. Lesson learned.
Finding My Marathon Legs
No exaggeration, I probably passed 12,000 runners in the first 5 miles. Eventually things started to thin out and I was actually feeling pretty good around mile 6 when I was finally able to settle into a rhythm. I’d skipped the first three or four water stations because they were awesome opportunities to hug the far side of the street and pass lots of moving bodies. Was I dehydrated because of this? I don’t think so. The weather was PERFECT. Low 50s and comfortable.
By the way, it’s worth noting that the L.A. Marathon was pretty dang hilly, especially those first 6 miles. You make a lot of turns and the route is a bit contrived early on because the start, Dodger Stadium, is actually only 21 miles or so from Santa Monica where the race ends so they tack-on a section at the beginning that wasn’t super awesome.
So, after those early hilly miles of sidewalk jumping and crowd management, I’m starting to find my flow and I figured I’d continue to make up lost time now that I could focus on running hard efficiently. I saw my folks at mile 7 right out front of the hotel we stayed at and I was charging well. I was shooting for a 5:50 per mile average and a 2:33ish marathon. I knew I’d expended some extra energy but at this point I still felt like I could have a good day out there.
My Hamstring Blows Up on Sunset Boulevard
At mile 10 or so, I begin to feel my hamstring. Suddenly, I’m aware of a body part. Not good. Diagnostic: it feels a little tight. Plan of action: monitor. I’d strained my left hamstring during a hard workout a few months back and had been regularly icing it ever since. I was still able to push on hard workouts and tempo runs and I would feel some tightness during those efforts, but I was always able to run through it. That was not to be on marathon day.
From initial awareness of the hamstring, it took another mile for it to tighten up and start to hurt. Sometimes these things come and go though so I didn’t let up at all and even made sure to grab multiple cups of electrolyte drink at the next aid station in case it was just a cramp or something. The generalized sensation of tightness and pain led to a restriction in my left leg’s stride length. Not being able to fully stride out created a hobbling effect and my stride length continued to get shorter and shorter as I tried to avoid feelings of sharp pain.
I stopped two or three times to stretch out the hamstring and give it a chance to release if it was a cramp. This was wishful thinking, however, as in all my years of running, I’ve never had a hamstring cramp or really any cramping at all during a road marathon. So no, there would be no relief.
Despite fighting it for a couple miles, it still all felt like it happened pretty fast. One moment I was in the hunt and looking forward to the aerobic challenge of the later miles, the next I was at a standstill stretching and panicking because I was losing time.
At some point during the 13th mile, the pain was severe enough to know with certainty that I needed to stop pushing hard. From a pride perspective, it’s not easy to watch all those people you just passed come back and overtake you. I was walking at this point and I received encouragement like, “Come on man, you got this!” … “Hang in there, we’re already half way!” I think they assumed I just threw in the towel or something. It was tempting to constantly grab my hamstring so that people knew it was an injury and not me just walking because I was cooked.
Walking along, I knew I had a decision to make. To drop or not to drop. I was 13 miles in and the only pace that didn’t induce sharp pain was about a 12 minute per mile limp, and even at that pace, the discomfort would build so I’d have to integrate walking breaks. A half marathon of hobbled jog/walk didn’t sound awesome. My goal here isn’t to glorify a finish-at-all-costs sentiment. You do you. I dropped out of the Bighorn 100 in 2016 and vowed from that point on that I’d never DNF another race if I was physically capable of finishing. But that’s just me. And really, my mindset when I decided to continue on in this race was driven more by a strange sense of sadness anyways. There was no valor here, I knew I was likely going to do more damage to my leg and I almost wanted it, like screw it, I’m done, injured, my season is over, who cares if I tear my hamstring in two, I’m finishing this race no matter what.
But thankfully, after a few sorrowful miles, and as more and more runners continued to pass me, I began to see the silver lining in the whole experience. I was now surrounded by a group of runners moving at a similar pace as me and they would become my people for the day. The 12 minute mile crew.
Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining
I’m not sure where exactly my mental shift occurred. Maybe it was at about mile 16 when it dawned on me that I’d seen like 50 runners with Kobe jerseys. Or maybe it was the fact that at 12 minute pace, I was able to read all the signs people were holding and the text on runners’ shirts. I could hear conversations going on around me and just take it all in. I couldn’t possibly keep up my walls while witnessing so much positive energy all around me.
Then there were the running clubs associated with good causes: runners for recovery from drugs and alcohol, runners against domestic violence, runners fighting poverty, runners for troubled youth, etc. etc. A lot of these clubs had huge cheer sections too. Their members who were running the race would see the group, swing wide and pass through arm tunnels and high fives and it felt like they’d come out the other side as literally a new person. Renewed determination and a skip to their step.
I was moved by the “street people” as well. I don’t know what Californians say about it but the homeless population in Los Angeles was unlike anything I’ve seen anywhere else. Tents. Hundreds of them. On top of and underneath most bridges, lining the highways, and perched right on sidewalks all across the city. I didn’t experience any threatening encounters or anything, in fact, the scariest screaming I heard along the course were from the fire and brimstone street-evangelists who told us we were all going to burn in a lake of fire. If anything, the homeless got a kick out of poking their heads out of their tents to see thousands of runners pounding pavement on their doorsteps. The aforementioned clubs and groups, while strong, have their work cut out for them. Homeless to 26.2 might need to be the next 501(c)(3) to rise up for the city, although I did see a Skid Row Running Club jersey out there so maybe they’re on it!
The L.A. Marathon ends with a delightful 3 mile downhill to the beaches of Santa Monica. The final half mile is lined with palm trees and rows of screaming spectators. It really had that big city marathon finish feel that I’d seen on TV so many times. Before the race, I imagined myself finishing strong and sprinting it in, eye on the clock to see if I hit the ambitious time goals I’d laid out for myself. Instead, I limped it in to finish in 4 hours 25 minutes and 37 seconds, a whole hour and fifty-five minutes slower than I’d hoped for. I’ve run mountainous 50ks significantly faster than this. I was 5,421st place.
Writing this now, a few days after the fact, with a tender to the touch hamstring and my whole spring running season up in the air, the lasting take-away for me is a renewed belief in the resiliency of humanity. Los Angeles has a reputation for a lot of things: extreme wealth, vanity, Hollywood, and materialism. What I saw out there in the marathon was heart. I saw everyday people, coming together to try something hard, to do something they weren’t sure they could, and leaning on their communities to get it done. It really made me wonder why I do so much of this alone? Where’s my club, where’s my network of supporters? Why aren’t I out at these races losing my crap and cheering on my buddies and making them smile?
This was an experience that brought to the forefront different questions than I typically encounter during a foot race. I’m excited to take some of this new perspective back to Bend and try to deepen my community involvement in the city I call my own. My marathon experience was a great reminder of the greater human story and of the motives behind why many people choose to run: community, healing, recovery, expression, fulfillment.
Let’s stoke the power of running and see how it might change the communities we care about. Grateful to the L.A. Marathon for this important reminder.
Keep running.
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