Hitting the Wall: the most dreaded feeling in all of sports. All the preparation in the world can’t prep you for the moment your energy hits zero and you still have miles to go.
What is The Wall?
Hitting the wall, or bonking, describes the feeling of running out of gas during an endurance sports event. The body primarily uses glycogen for energy during exercise. When these stores are depleted, especially during prolonged exertion like a marathon, the body must switch to using fat for fuel, which is a less efficient process.
All of a sudden you feel heavy, your mood darkens, and you slow down. You want to go faster but you just can’t? All the will in the world can’t get your depleted body over the wall.
Run long enough, you’ll hit the wall. Live long enough you’ll hit the wall. The wall is out there waiting for you. Here are 3 stories about me hitting the wall, and what got me through.
Wall #1: October 2004- Cape Cod Marathon.
Let’s take it back to my 26th birthday. I’m out for a run in Falmouth MA. I notice some blue spray painted squiggles on the roadside: ‘Water stop 18’.
‘What’s this for?’
‘The Cape Cod Marathon’s in 2 weeks.’
Because I just turned 26, I figured why not run 26.
Generally, every year I get an email from someone 2 weeks ahead of the Boston Marathon saying something like ‘Steve-o, just got a number for Boston. What should I do?’
My honest answer: ‘Talk to your priest.’
Honest answer #2: ‘I have no idea. One can’t train for a marathon in two weeks, obviously.’
However, if you’re an active person who runs often, maybe you can pull it off. I’d been a competitive runner for 11 years; additionally I was running at least 20 to 30 miles per week over that time. I was also lifting four times a week. All in all I was fit, strong, and my running age (number of years I trained seriously) was over a decade.
While I would never counsel you to run your first marathon like this; nevertheless I toed the Falmouth starting line two weeks later.
The goal: Run a Boston qualifier: 3:10. 7:15 per mile
The gun fires. I run the first mile in 7:10.
The second mile in 7:12. Easy. A friend had just run a 2:54 and trained for it. Wouldn’t it be great if I ran faster on only two weeks of serious training?
And, by the way, my ego reminded me, You’re Stephen Allison. You’re a conference champ; An All American. There is no race you can’t run. With this in mind I took off.
I absolutely crushed it for 18 miles; but unfortunately that was the farthest I’d ever run. Fatigue crept in. I had another 8 miles left.
More fatigue. My body screamed for calories yet all the aid stations offered was watered down gatorade. My hips were a wreck; I couldn’t lift my knees more than a few inches; my feet were smashed to blistery bits.
Gravity
The uninitiated will undoubtedly wonder what hitting the wall feels like. I’d been a competitive runner of some renown, as stated above, and even I was unaware. Hitting the wall is like feeling gravity increase.
I ground out those 8 miles on blistered feet with hips that wouldn’t work, truly suffering for 4 of them. Every muscle ached. The last mile I just wanted to quit; Even breathing hurt.
What pushed me through that? Was it pride? Toughness?
Ego. My ego was having none of that. ‘You’re Stephen Allison; you’re a conference champ; you’re an All American. Do not back down.’
That same ego that put me in hot water was now bailing me out.
I finished in 2:49, a Boston Qualifier. Never again, I said as I crossed the finish line. Never again.
What I learned: when you think you’re out of gas you can go an extra 8 miles.
And next time Steve, if there is in fact a next time, train for the stupid race.
Wall # 2 Boston Marathon April 2006
Memories of hitting the wall faded. My youthful arrogance decided the only reason I hit it in the first place was due to improper training. Let’s put that Boston Qualifier to good use, with more than two weeks of training this time.
I raced the Martha’s vineyard 20 miler as my first long run. I took this race out FAST; averaging 5:40’s for the first 18 miles.
And then the wall; Gravity increased. The blistering early pace cooked me; I coughed up the victory in the last 2.
The next morning I awoke, knee throbbing, basically unable to bare weight on my right leg. In sum: I was injured. IT band tendonitis. Boston ’05 was, without doubt, not happening.
A year later I embarked on my revenge tour. The medals stacked up as I returned to win the Martha’s Vineyard 20, placed second in the Beverly 30K, seventh in a half, then won a couple of fresh pond 5 milers and Khoury’s pub runs.
I learned from my previous failures. The wall is, as stated above, about switching fuel sources from glycogen to fat; Glycogen being the more efficient source. To that end I consumed gels every 40-45 minutes during long efforts to stave off the bonk. I was better fueled with way more training. What could possibly go wrong?
April arrived, and with it, the Boston Marathon. I ran first half in 75 minutes (my 2nd fastest half). It felt easy (probably bc the first half is downhill). And then, in spite of all the training, in spite of fastidiously consuming the gels every 40 minutes, the wall loomed in front of me. The gravity nob turned all the way up. The revenge tour came to shrieking halt.
Running Man vs Wall rd 2
Gravity increased by 2. I felt I weighed 350.
It was mile 17; Heartbreak Hill was certainly living up to it’s name. The wall, despite the increased prep work, came earlier this time. What happened? Well, in short, I overtrained. Racing every weekend for 3 months basically depleted me.
I tried to gut it out; but the ego sounded stupid: ‘You’re Stephen Allison…blahblahblah’. If, in reality, I was such a great runner why couldn’t I figure out this stupid race?
At mile 21 I walked off the course, smoke pouring from my ears.
I hardly talked afterward. I was a failure.
What I learned: My training was, above all, foolish. You can’t race 13, 19 and 20 miles all out that often; hence I left my best race in Martha’s vineyard.
In the months that followed I learned another important lesson: that as much as finishing the race would have hurt physically, it was nothing compared to the prolonged anguish of knowing I quit.
Wall # 3: Chicago Marathon 2008
The three most stressful things in life: Death, divorce, and moving. Three walls.
Naturally I added running a marathon to this.
Death
Diane Allison, my mother, passed away from cancer that summer. I was numb, unable to fully process it. I couldn’t cry.
Not only could I not cry about it, the strongest emotion I felt was relief.
What kind of Man feels relief when his Mother dies of cancer? One who visited daily and watched her slowly, painfully deteriorate. When I accepted there was nothing myself or the Docs could do to save her I decided the best I could do was ease her passing. I refused to show her any sadness. I sat right next to her, held her hand and ignored the fact she weighed 75 lbs and smelled.
The same man may suffer guilt for wishing that pain to end sooner; then wonder if he’s truly compassionate, or merely callous? Was my cheerfulness really for her benefit, or merely my own?
You know you’re a real head case. – Diane Allison (Mom)
Flashback to college. I was jogging to the start of the 1500 M conference final and Mom stopped me to share her “words of encouragement”: “You’re a real head case.” I ran like shit in the relay the previous day, and was feeling sorry for myself. I was, as Mom so succinctly stated, a head case.
Her dress down startled me; disrupted the pity party. I bounced back, winning the race. I ran my fastest final lap ever.
We made eye contact post race. I was defiant, but, surprisingly she was smiling. It occurred that she knew precisely what she was doing calling me a head case. Time and again she knew what, and importantly how, to say what I, or anyone else in the family needed to hear. She was our leader.
Absent her emotional stewardship, the family was disparate. Grief manifested outwardly; emotional outbursts strained relationships. My Brother stopped speaking to me; my Sister threatened to cut me out of her life. Why? I can’t speak for their mindset, but understand if I seemed glib.
Grief and anger are never rational. Was my refusal, and then inability to grieve outwardly what infuriated them? Did they think me callous?
Am I?
The Grand Gesture
In absence of expressing grief I needed a grand gesture to prove… something. To whom I was proving this? My family?
Myself?
I signed up for the Chicago Marathon. I raised $8,000 for the American Cancer Society (because I have generous friends, one of whom, Alex Treves, donated $2,620). Catharsis awaited me at the finish line. My running made her a proud parent; undoubtedly she enjoyed watching her son win a few big races, and gain a little notoriety. She was part of it, after all; her tough love once inspired a conference championship.
This race now has stakes. The physical pain will be my purgation and the performance divine proof that I cared. It would honor her, resolve me, and reunite the family.
No walking off the course at mile 21.
Divorce
I met her shortly before Mom passed. We were never married, but shit, after what she put me through, this counts.
I was an open wound. She was an energy vampire, swooping in at my weakest. They sense vulnerability, energy vampires, and co opt it. ‘I’m here for you at your weakest,’ quickly becomes ‘I was there for you at your weakest.’ The implication that something is owed for their unfailing emotional support. In any event the red flags come fast and furious: jealousy, controlling behavior, gaslighting.
On one occasion she abruptly swerved across three lanes of traffic, skidded into the Mass pike breakdown lane and demanded to see my phone. She was certain I was texting an ex.
You show her your phone, even give her the password to prove you’re upright; but it’s never enough. For instance, not long after the Mass pike incident she couldn’t stop accusing me of cheating. I’d had enough; I got up to leave, but apparently she was’t through with me. She attacked from behind, grabbing my the testicles. This just went from domestic dispute to sexual assault.
Men can’t win physical fights against women; cause even if we win, we’re just another kind of loser. She knew I wouldn’t raise a hand to defend myself. I’m not that kind of loser. She took advantage of that knowledge.
A Long Night
A week passed; she apologized daily; Pleading for another chance.
‘I love you,’ she texted.
‘I didn’t mean to grab your testicles.’
‘Who was there for you when your Mother died?’
5 days before Chicago I’m training a client when I’m summoned to the front office. ‘You need to come up front. NOW.’ The girl who delivering the message looked scared.
Police men awaited me in the lobby. I was arrested in front of hundreds of people watching as five, count ’em five, of Boston’s finest escorted me outside.
Glen Close has nothing on this bitch.
Humiliation
We argued earlier that day. I’d foolishly given her a key to my place during our brief honeymoon phase. She’d used it to enter my apartment and steal things, including my credit card, which she used to pay her cable bill. I had the receipts; caught her red handed. I called her the C word, and then let the matter lie.
Meanwhile, she went to the police and told a story.
Did I still have a job? Innocent until proven guilty is not how things work in the court of public opinion. That court saw me get arrested by 5 cops. My business was, in a word, F#cked; innocent or guilty a lawyer was gonna be $10-$15K.
Int. jail cell
I couldn’t reach anyone with my phone call, nor I was read Miranda rights or informed of the charges. Did she claim I assaulted her? Raped her? How long would it be before I got out. I lay awake the entire night, mind racing. How’d I get here? I’d lost my Mother, alienated 2 siblings and now this. Was I paying a karmic debt? Had I been a giant prick, obliviously mistreating everyone around me?
Mom could tell me the truth to my face. She was dead.
I was running the marathon for her in 5 days.
Moving
The next morning I was charged with intimidation of a witness. She’d gone to the police a week earlier to claim (exact words) that ‘she’d fallen down, grabbed me, and I’d landed on top of her’. The first court summons went to my father’s address, not mine (go figure). We have the same name. He ignored the envelope, thinking it was a parking violation.
She set me up, baited me into a confrontation, and finally claimed I’d harassed her. I was trying to move on and she was playing chess.
I spent the week hiring a lawyer and finding a new apartment. She lived close; just imagine how much fun seeing her at Starbucks would have been. I lost out on two places because my background check revealed an open case.
At least it was taper week.
Race Day
‘You know you’re a real head case.’
The race was now a battleground. Bet your ass she was tracking my race online.
The starters cannon fires.
I was so low. I didn’t know if I had it.
‘Life comes down to whether or not you can take a punch.’
‘Shut up and win.’ I was racing. Lieing down was admitting defeat; finishing was a win; I needed a win.
It was deathly cold. 20 degrees. I ran the first 20 miles beautifully. 6:06 pace. The next 2 miles were a struggle despite a conservative pace and downing gels every 40 minutes to restore glycogen.
That’s when I hit the wall.
The wall
The wall was back. Worse than ever. Gravity turned up to 4.
4.2 to go.
There is an emotional component to hitting the wall; your physical anguish is amplified by mental despair. Even the most prepared, mentally strong athlete goes dark. You’re looking into the abyss.
‘Shut up and win,’ I told myself all that week. I can’t control the court of public opinion; I cant control what will happen in court; I can control the race. Running well is defiance. ‘Shut up and win,’ I repeated.
Mile 23. I’m in serious trouble. Every joint in my body was inflamed; permanent injury type pain. ‘Shut up and win.’ That’s not working anymore. This is too much, step off the course. No one will blame you.
‘You’re Stephen Allison.’ My ego flailed, attempting a rescue.
Who’s he? He was arrested Monday night. His widowed Father saw him shackled hand and foot in a court room. He needed me more than ever and I got arrested.
Who am I?
‘Shut up and win.’ I’ve never wanted it more, but I just can’t. The fatigue. Gravity.
‘You know you’re a real head case.’
Quitting hurts more.
I’m not giving up.
I Play football
I had volunteered for the Jimmy Fund Walk that September as part of a campaign to feel better about myself (My Sisters and Dad raised over $10,000). I was passing out Gatorade to charity walkers when this little powder keg of a kid wearing a camouflage T-shirt that said ‘My Team’ appeared before me. He was surrounded by dozen’s of people wearing the same camouflage. Their slogan ‘Dario’s Team’.
So this is Dario: Cancer survivor, Football player.
The kid got in my face. ‘I play football!’ he yelled.
And he didn’t just yell it. He YELLED it.
He stared me down for a second and then kept walking.
Gravity
The wall wasn’t glycogen depletion. It wasn’t training. It was gravity.
Gravity is weight. The weight of sadness; death; guilt; the arrest; shackles.
‘I PLAY FOOTBALL!’ I yelled.
There was nothing left; I was basically comatose. So I yelled it again.
‘I play football!’
Put one leg in front of another. Keep your head down. Get up the hill. Pass that next runner.
I finished in 2:46. My fastest marathon despite everything.
The Finish Line
Marathons are oft run in search of catharsis. Cancer survivors, or Boston Marathon Bombing victims running and finishing the race for instance. The rigor of the race is substitute for a battle, or tormentor we can’t actually fight. I can’t actually fight cancer, or my ex, any more than the bombing survivors can fight their persecutors.
Perhaps a victory over the marathon will abate the pain of our wounds. As George Herbert once wrote “living well is the best revenge”; Running this race in defiance of the injuries inflicted is our recourse. Perhaps, we hope, a release awaits us at the finish line.
I was numb (still) from the freezing cold; weary. My Father found me in the crowd. I put my hand on his shoulder, holding him at arms length. No congrats. No hug.
‘It’s been a tough year,’ I said staring at the ground. Still no tears.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. We walked back to the hotel.
Court
Several months (and court dates) later I had my day in court. Everything was dismissed. I didn’t hear from the woman again until she friend requested my then gf on FB; I kept a screenshot.
I wrote her a nice little note that ended with two words. No, not the two you’re thinking:
‘I won.’
Hurt people hurt people. Candidly, I was deeply wounded by it all; those wounds still burn today; but I confronted them in mile 23, in therapy, and in charity. Not in vengeance. The only revenge is living well. The hurt stopped with me.
‘Now you know Better‘
Now here you are, a little older than before, you’ve really been through it and you might go through some more, but if there’s one precious thing you’ve learned, it’s that you can’t take what’s been given, ’cause now you know better.’ – Amel Larrieux ‘Now you know Better’
So there you have it: Three times I hit the wall. Each time I hit the wall I learned something about myself that only the wall can teach you.
I can keep going.
Quitting hurts more than anything.
I can take a punch.
It’s a hell of a way to learn, but I’m a head case. I gotta learn the hard way.
Thanks to Dario, wherever you are.