2020 Olympic Trials Marathon

My memory has been pretty disjunctive the last several years. Sometimes, randomly, memories will come through, but there's no control for why or when. It's semi-unsettling. Feel's like protection. Or degeneration, but I prefer protection. The question is - from what? The good thing is that I like documentation. It was nice to write a few lines each day for the last 3 months leading to the Trials. It was also tiresome. Writing about myself or running always feels self-serving; I'd much rather be listening or reading than sharing. All this to say, I've been writing on running the last 3 months, so that when I'm an old woman I can look back and remember. Or, next year.

Friday night and it still didn't feel as if the race was imminent, prolonged further still in our ability to sleep in Saturday. I really wanted to get up early and watch Liz' kids race the kids race, but chose to linger in bed. In doing so, we went to breakfast right before the cut off - a spread left meager. We had waffles, a vat of syrup, a few cups of coffee, which we shared alongside T$. Squirreled away another waffle. Back in our hotel room we distracted ourselves with music, put on our Tracksmith kits, warmups, athlete badge, filled a clear bag.

The lobby was full, as it was, would be, of stand-arounds to save some heat before heading out into the bluster. Connected to that good tall magnetism of Devon Yanko (who's name is like a poem encapsulate), met her husband The Baker. Connected with the beloved Eder-Northern and her gang of Texans. Took the intimate glass revolving door out (found myself several times beforehand having accidentally jumped into the small slider with someone else - "Oh! I'm here, I'm in here with you!" It was a different world then, one where I hadn't ever uttered social distancing), and there it all was, waiting under mirage lake blue, debonair, dreamland, bambino. Add: wild, arid, brutish, gusty.

I must have done a good job in self-counsel, as I was at peace with a day that provided complicated conditions. Generally, I'd be bummed that all my fitness might not be realized because of things I couldn't control = childish, or numbers driven. But there I was, present, welcoming, whispering, I love you hill. You're funny wind. The crowd was already vibin' as we entered the athlete's area. ATC wishing us well & full of luck. It was like the physical representation brought forth by a personal fan club in moments of glory most people only imagine in their head when they're building a daydream of self-confidence. It oozed with support. Real support. Real wishes. Remember this was like 2 weeks before covid-19 really blew up, though there were murmurings of it, it wasn't this tangible thing yet, so what makes all of this even more special than it was, is that it even had the chance to happen at all.

In Centennial Park - credential'd into the women's tent, perched up by a trash can beside E. Sisson. They're all there, amidst us, among. Warmed up with Devon & Sarah & Liz - felt intimately 50k reunion connected, in a way that continues to show me, many months later, that that experience remains as one of the most important and evocative times of my life.

I still wasn't nervous. Only observant. Too busy watching & soaking in everything before me to turn inward. It's the thing I'm most proud of.

1 mile warmup, leg swings, stretches. Undressed down to kit. Wore a pair of gifted matte black ginger-soul sunglasses from LB. Sipped some water. Tucked some extra gels into my top in the case that I missed some bottles along the way. Made sure my people were around me. We were ushered out of the tent, through the park, and to the start area on Marietta St. NW. (The men would start 12 minutes before the women, at 12:08 pm.) Strides. Lost sight of the portos, so we covered each other as we squatted in weird little pockets. Saw a girl trip and fall wearing the Alpha's. Athletes were divvied up in waves, there being 460ish of us, and to make sure respect was given to the "true contenders" in wave 1. I was in wave 2, which was basically the 2nd row; I felt comfortable there. Noticed some bib-200ish number snuck into Wave 1, which annoyed me (not a big deal, but principle). Carrie Tollefson & Meb Keflezighi intro'd the pros. In the tech meeting it was made clear that there could be no possible false start, unless it was blatantly clear, i.e., all of wave 1 falls, and though they walked us through the start instructions, there was definitely an ignored false start where the athletes corrected themselves by backing up and going again. It was also made clear that there would only be gun time results, which makes sense, but isn't entirely fair for those stuck back in wave 4.

The course, which had been through changes in the year previous from it's original design due to the growing size of the field, maintained 3 loops - 3 loops of 8 miles, with the final loop adding on 2.2 miles to the finish. Beginning off Marietta, we headed toward Peachtree, proceeding 3 miles north before turning around and heading back down in the opposite direction, looping through ATL's Old Fourth Ward neighborhood and returning downtown.

My pre-race plan - basically, remain on leash until the last possible moment and then give it heart.

Photo Cred: Kevin Morris

12:20p ET
Loop 1 (Miles 1 - 8)Gun blows, crowd roars, a thrill unlike any other. The first mile made me giggle. The leaders set a passive pace, and all of us stepped in line. I was happy for the ease-in, for the moments I could watch these women. I was off the back of them, far to the left, facing the wind head-on, but out of the thick madness of gams stopped up from appropriate stride length, pretty alert to the real possibility that someone could clip my foot from behind and take me down, esp. in being a behemoth in comparison to the general height of female marathoner's, but thankfully did not experience any problems whatsoever. We picked it up near the half mile - ran a 6:16 first. I thought I noticed a tumble out of the corner of my eye, but didn't hear anything, and just doubled-down on braving the wind to refrain the pack. Turns out many did fall, the most intense of which seemed to be K. Goodman who was trampled, suffered contusion & an impressive black eye. (Some of the coolest shots from the race were of those who had suffered such fates, blood dripping from cut brow, knees red. I don't envy them, but the brutality of it all added to the cross country nature of the course.)

The crowd was a roar without end.

Peachtree is like a living thing, expressive, story-telling, personified. Originally occupied by the Creek (Muscogee) people whose village was called "Standing Peachtree" (there's some confusion on whether it was actually called "Pitch Tree"). There was a trail that stretched from NE Georgia along the Chattahoochee River, that would become the original Peachtree Road in 1812. Some portions today trace the original route.

The next two miles were net down, coupled with a likely panic to run more purposeful miles, my 2nd & 3rd were 5:45 and 5:39. They felt really good, of course. We passed by the Fox Theatre, originally designed as the Yaarab Shrine Temple, with its "picturesque and almost disturbing grandeur." It had served Yaarab members for a few years before bankrupting. Today it's the only remaining movie venue in ATL, and was the site of Prince's final performance.

The next two were up - 6:02, 5:55. Down - 5:46. I didn't think I'd see my people, the crowd was too thick, the roar one tone. But! I did! At the end of a climb, just as I got to go down, I saw them all, leaning in, my face blown in fabulous fathead (created by the sweet Osborn's). I high-fived Matthew, and would each time. I'm fond of those miles. Two up - 6:03, 6:13 to finish out the first loop. Tracksmith had a kickass cheer station at the start of the 7th mile, and this precious woman's cheers on all loops were little bolts of horsepower for me. I hope I look really cool, I remember thinking, like an asshole. That final mile of the loop, from 7-8, there was an elegant tall blonde also wearing Tracksmith in my cluster who was counseling someone or all of us that this was "the hill." So I imaginatively put on my big girl pants and said, I love hills. It was a super rude hill. It was 1 mile long. Against a headwind. I think it might have been slightly more fun to grind up had there not been this perpetual penetrating smite from Anemoi. But we got through it, and 6:13 isn't so bad against such. I mean, Strava says GAP is 5:59 for that mile, TY.

I counseled myself not to pay attention to my watch, but I looked down after the first loop and liked what I saw. I was feeling good. I knew that the course would add up, that even though I felt good in the first loop, that adding on a couple more would likely not leave me as energized. But, because you never know what kind of day you might have if you just keep believing in possibility, I held on as long as I could to the good vibez.


Loop 2 (Miles 9 - 16)
Wee up - 6:03. Two down - 5:48 (yass), 5:55. Passed the Margaret Mitchell House -

Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect. We take what we get and are thankful it's no worse than it is.

Two up - 6:00. 6:09. Down - 5:58. Past Atlanta's Old Fourth Ward (O4W) - one of the oldest sections of the city, developed soon after the Civil War. Different parts of the ward were, at different times considered white, black or mixed-raced areas of various socioeconomic status'. The foremost thoroughfare was Boulevard. In the 1890s it was considered the most desirable residential street in the city, but after the Great Atlanta Fire of 1917, houses on Boulevard were destroyed and brick apartment buildings were put in. Martin Luther King Jr.'s boyhood home resides in the area. I'll tell you I didn't bear witness to the nuances of this ward as I was running, but I do appreciate being granted the opportunity to run against a backdrop of such storied history. Two up - 6:06, 6:24. This is disjunctive. But, maybe you get the sense that it's either up or down, and that the ups are slower and the downs are faster lol. You might also get the sense that that bitch of an uphill mile is creeping up on me. GAP for mile 15-16 is 6:10. At times I'd zone out, focusing in on the men passing by on the other side of the street, and eventually the leading women.

Loop 3 (Miles 17 - 26.2)
Wee up - 6:15 (still needed to recover after the previous mile obviously). Three down (not smart enough to figure out how this happened) - 5:53, 5:57, 6:04. Passed through that really intimate several minutes that constitutes mile 20. Seems like I took a small step back to assess my damages, be sure of finishing. I remember the force of a sidewind blowing one leg into the other often. Prior to the race we'd been requested to toss our personal fluids to the left and within this "toss zone" if we could. The toss zone was manned by volunteers to quickly pick up all the extracted items off the course. I finished a bottle and saw a designated volunteer waiting to grab my discarded item, so I underhanded it straight to their face, and they caught it, and I yelled, "Nice catch!" and from the other side of the street, where I'd be coming down later, the crowd yelled, "Nice throw!" and that was fun. Mile 21 was up - 6:15. 22 was somehow flat wut? I don't think that's real - 6:19. Oh no it's that bitch mile again - 6:36. I swear the wind had more pummel. It's half that my body at this point was just, you know, pretty compromised, but I swear the wind grew in rotundity. It felt like I was out for a walk.

Photo Cred: M. Osborn

The final 2.2 miles had us run under the rings and torch structure from the 1996 Atlanta Olympics, past the neoclassical Georgia Capitol and the sports stadium host to the Falcons, Hawks and United FC. I had heard that the final few miles had gross hills, but also that the finish would be nice and comfortable - I just think I thought the finish's comfort would come sooner.

Photo Cred: M. Osborn

Mile 25 - 6:16. Mile 26 was rufff - 6:38. Most of this part of the course was not open to the public and went through a construction site, so it wasn't entirely romantic, but I busted out a half mile sprint to catch a woman, closing in 5:30-40s pace to finish in 2:41:37 (6:05 pace). I've never noticed before that there's this toggle on Strava where you can see your GAP for the average, which shows me mine was 5:58. That's sick.

I had no idea what my place was. Bent over, hands on knees for a moment of non-movement. I turned to see Liz come through - post bebe PB dayum! Asked the crowd lined along Who made the team? Please say Des! It took a while to get the information, which was shocking in a way, I mean weren't all these people here for that? And then I realized that they're here for all of us. That they care about their people, not just the people. I found mine. Matthew in vintage Olympic toque. Greg in an American flag leather coat, my cousin & Neil with annoying hand clappers and fatheads. They told me my place. If I'd only known, I would have loved to crack top 50. I walked a little further, limply, feet sore from the Next% (two races = two results of tenderfoot), and I hear, "Courtney!" I'm all like, Me? And this group of students are like, Yes! Come here! No idea who these people were...It was my Atlanta high school team - Chapel Hill - that I'd been paired with for the Trials. I thought they'd ghosted me. Here they were, having cheered, asking for pictures, and a kind teacher says, "Here, we got you this. Congratulations." It was a gift card to Chick-fil-A.
I need a word that combines grateful, proud and slightly underwhelmed about my performance. All of it was a dream. A dream realized. A dream born from severe depression and the horrific Boston Marathon bombing, my first marathon off 30 mpw, the rally cry in 2014, chipping and chipping, thumping head against wall, stagnancy, peeing and pooin' blood - to a starting line, healthy, observant, present, joyful, right before the world turned upside down. At times in the last few years I've felt like my results weren't as fulfilling, because so many others have been able to achieve the same. It's this rise of women in sport and achievement, and you've got to know I'm only all for it, it's inspiring, and supportive, and fucking fabulous, but then there's all this hypersensitivity on "the shoes," and CIM being "easy," and the enormity of the OT women's field, and having my best day but still so far back from the cream. And despite these contrariants, I am proud of me. It was a luxury to be able to stand on that line, and a luxury to be able to cross the finish, and a luxury to go away feeling proud.

After the race, after a shower, after going to the awards ceremony and watching NAZ Elite take shots of bourbon gifted to Aliphine, a big group of us went for pitchers of margaritas and tacos. Daddy D had sent along some celebratory cash for a first post-race drink, so I got Kennedy and I shots of tequila. Around 1 am Greg & I decided we wanted to commemorate the trip, so he found us a late-hours tattoo parlor, and we got matching peaches (his on his bum, mine on my arm). We stayed out till 5 am, then we hopped in a rental and began our tour of the South. I would later develop staph. Don't go to all-nighter tatt parlors kidz. Especially if your blood is probably tequila thin.

Thank you to Atlanta Track Club, Tracksmith, BDP, the Bellingham community and friends and family! For all details regarding the 2020 OTM, please see www.atlanta2020trials.com. Full Results HERE!