A couple of days ago, I had the chance to participate in a relay much different from the one I blogged about in May. I don't remember how the idea dawned on us, but a friend and I decided we would put together a three-person team to do the Vineman 140.6 Mile Relay. (Vineman is not an official World Triathlon Corporation event, so the term "Ironman" isn't supposed to be used in conjunction with it. Still, it is certainly a well-measured and legal Ironman-distance 140.6 mile course consisting of 2.4 miles of swimming, 112 miles of cycling and 26.2 miles of running.) Since my friend is a strong cyclist and his coworker is a great swimmer, I was recruited for the anchor leg of the relay: the marathon.

This was my sixth marathon, and those of you who are endurance sports enthusiasts understand that racing can be as rigorous mentally as it is physically. The dichotomy between the physical bravado of the sport and the mental restraint necessary for endurance can cause an arrogant athlete to develop a slow, sloped learning curve. Such was the case for me this time.  Our team still took the first place prize at Vineman, but it was despite my performance.

There are three types of marathoners: the completers, the "competers" and the elites. Each of them has a distinctly different racing strategy. The completers simply want to finish the 26.2 miles without quitting (or dying), so they are able to begin at a pace slower than their long training runs with the hopes of being able to hang on during the final miles. The elites generally know exactly what their bodies are capable of, so they are mostly concerned with the surges and lulls of the lead pack as they race. It is the middle-of-the-road "competers" who encounter the mysterious paradox between maximizing one's potential and fizzling out too soon before the finish line.

The common analogy that I have heard is that endurance racing is like slowly letting air out of a balloon. You have to let the air out at a pace that allows you to have some left at the end of the race. If you let the air out too quickly, you'll be deflated too soon and you'll have nothing left in the crucial final miles. Unfortunately, the guaging of the pace of deflation involves more art than science. Whether you start out slowly or quickly, those final miles are going to hurt. With prolonged effort comes increased heartrate, accumulation of lactic acid, lack of glycogen, prohibitive muscle tears, cramps and fatigue. So, even that slow pace will be harder to maintain after a couple of hours of running. On the flip side, how will you ever set a new personal record if you don't try to run faster when you feel good?

The guesswork is largely dependent upon one's training. I went into Vineman feeling as well trained as I did before Boston (but not as well trained as I was before my personal record marathon last Fall). Thus, I decided to go out at my personal record pace for as long as I could before the natural slowing would occur in the latter miles. While my plan worked well for 18 miles (two hours often seems to be the magic "wall" for many marathoners), the debilitating pain set in sooner than expected and I ended up with an overall time 10-15 minutes slower than expected. Was that something that I could have gauged beforehand? Had I added twenty seconds per mile to my pace in the early miles, would that have translated into a faster final 10K? It's really difficult to know the answer to those questions, although it's not for lack of mulling over it during the past few days.

The philosophy that is taught by the Endurance Nation program used to coach Ironman athletes seems the most logical. Make yourself go "stupid slow" for the first six miles and then count how many people you pass between the 18-mile marker and the 26.2 mile finish line. The simple truth is that it's hard for most people to walk faster than 14 minutes per mile, so if you do anything in your early miles to reduce yourself to walking thereafter, you have essentially shot yourself in the foot. Even if you add 30 seconds per mile to each of your first six miles (a total of three minutes), you'll gain back much more than three minutes for every mile you don't have to walk later on.

The good thing about sports that have a mental component is that the lessons can compound over time. I might reach a plateau in physical capability soon, but maybe I'll still hit some personal records by racing smarter with some stupid miles.