Number 10 – Run a Marathon when I had No Business Doing So

Before I get ahead of myself, a little background is required.

I ran my first marathon in March of 1979: The Florida Relays Marathon in Gainesville, Florida.  A couple of minutes before the race began I asked then Florida track coach Roy Benson for advice for a novice marathoner.  Coach Benson’s comment eliminated any possibility for misinterpretation: ‘Don’t run marathons.’

Fast forward to December 2012: I ran my 200^th marathon in Honolulu, Hawaii.  The trip to Oahu also served as a 35-year wedding anniversary present for Cindy and I, so having her meet me at the finish line of the marathon was pretty special seeing as she was there to see me start my first marathon almost two generations earlier.  (Did she hear Coach Benson’s advice?  Why yes she did, and thank you for asking.) 

There was a period of time when my running partners and I stayed in ‘marathon shape’ year round, the operative word being ‘was.’ 

Today that is not the case.  For the first time in my life as a runner I am not in shape to run a marathon: In between marathons #1 and #200 I’ve done everything possible to ensure my body is no longer capable of running 26.2 consecutive miles without inflicting a great amount of pain and suffering to a body that probably should have retired to the athletic attic several thousand miles ago. 

Getting back to the Honolulu Marathon (# 200, in case you’ve forgotten): Seconds after crossing the finish line in Kapiolani Park I told Cindy it would be my last marathon.  Of course it came with a caveat: Unless I could get healthy again.  

 

Last Labor Day I hosted an informal marathon consisting of five 5.2-mile loops.  My intent was to run three loops and wait for the other runners to finish so I could get their finishing times and round up the equipment once the event was over.  After I finished my third loop I was invited to run a loop with someone I hadn’t seen in a while.  Before I knew what hit me I had run just shy of 21 miles and spent the better part of an hour catching up with an old friend.  Then after I finished my fourth loop I realized I only had a couple of hours left before the last runner would finish so I figured why not make the time go by a little quicker and run one more loop and lo and behold  I had accidentally (inadvertently?) run my 201^st marathon.  (I speak the truth.)  What made it worse was this: I still did not consider myself to be ‘healthy again’ thus turning my promise of nine months ago into a lie.

Which brings me to today: I’m on the starting line of the Five Points of Life Marathon in Gainesville, Florida wearing a yellow race number.   There is no doubt I should be wearing a blue number just like last year when I ran in the accompanying half marathon.  But when I signed up four or five months ago I felt certain I would be ‘healthy again’ by the time the marathon (February 16, 2014) rolled around.  My yoga regimen (recommended by a neurosurgeon, no less) seemed to be paying off and I was still maintaining a solid (albeit much slower) mileage base that was very comparable to the distance I was running when I could complete a marathon at the drop of a hat.  (Our running group had a slogan back then: Stay in marathon shape year round because you never know when one is going to break out.  Believe me: I upheld my end of the bargain.)  But today I can assure you: In no way, shape or form am I ready to run a marathon: In my entire running career I have never had to make such an admission. 

As you may have gathered Cindy gave me a good dose of guilt before I actually made it to the starting line (admittedly I deserved every bit of it).  Telling her I would hold off deciding whether or not I would run the full marathon ‘until I saw how I felt’ didn’t seem to do much good, probably because she knows me well enough to know I had no intention (nor the intellect) of opting for the shorter yet-much-more-reasonable distance of the half marathon--regardless of how I felt.

Once the race was underway I stuck to my original game plan of keeping my effort and exertion at less than 100%; I figured it was the only chance I had of gutting out 26.2 miles.  As I was running my first mile I noticed the 3:30 marathon pace group pass me by.  Soon after the 3:45 marathon pace group did the same.  (Note: I should mention that all of the half marathon pace groups passed me by as well during the first mile, even though their race started about 150 yards behind mine.)  I reached the first mile marker in a robust 8:51. (I was targeting a nine-minute pace for the entire race, meaning I would be very satisfied with a four-hour marathon.)  I was pretty happy with my first mile, at least up until the moment the 4:00 marathon pace group dusted me like there was no tomorrow.

Not the type to be easily dismayed I maintained my pace—give or take a few seconds—for the next 12 miles until I reached the point of no return: The 13-mile mark where a volunteer was stationed to direct the half marathon runners to the right for the last tenth of a mile to the finish line, and the marathon runners to the left for another 13.2 miles of undulating hills and climbing temperatures before they would reach their respective finish line.  I turned to the right, only to be stopped by the stalwart volunteer who refused to let me pass seeing as I had a yellow number indicating I had signed up to do the Full Monty and there was no way in hell I would be the cause of him not being named the local running club’s Volunteer of the Year in 2014 because he allowed me with a yellow number to run the last tenth of a mile reserved for runners with a blue number.  I rehearsed that last sentence in my head so many times over the next 13.2 miles I almost started to believe it myself; I figured I would have no problem selling it to Cindy in a couple of hours or so.

Somehow I managed to maintain the same pace for another 11 miles.  I was on pace for a four-hour marathon but was quickly succumbing to the various ailments caused by allowing my ‘good’ left leg to do most of the heavy lifting for the better part of 24 miles.  (More background: My right leg has, for all intents and purposes been on the ‘disabled list’ since September 2010, which in condensed form explains the yoga, the reduced mileage and the overall non-marathon ready condition I find myself in today.) 

But then something inside of me clicked.  Maybe it was because I feared this might be my last marathon ever and I wanted to finish it in less than four hours.  Maybe it was because I was in Gainesville where I ran my first marathon almost 35 years ago and how cool it would be to run my last marathon—if it in fact turned out to be my last—in the same city.  Maybe it was because I wanted to do well in my age group if this ultimately became my marathon swan song and coincidentally there just happened to be two men just in front of me who looked like they might be right around my age. 

Whatever it was, I feel comfortable saying I ran those last 2.2 miles about as well as I’ve ever run 2.2 miles in my life.  Was I in extreme pain?  Yes.  Would I be admitted into an ER if I had run directly into one without breaking stride?  Absolutely.  Did I FOR ONE MINUTE think I was doing something that could cause irreparable damage to my body in the future?  Without a doubt.  Did any of this matter?  Allow me to clue you in on a little phrase recently introduced in the running community that I’ve lived by three decades before it ever found its way onto a T-shirt: Harden the f*** up.  In other words no, none of it mattered at all.  The only thing that mattered was running hard enough to finish in less than four hours, regardless of how much it hurt or how much permanent damage it might be doing.

I crossed the finish line in three hours, 55 minutes and 21 seconds.  I won my age group.  I ran what may turn out to be my final marathon in the city where it all began: Gainesville, Florida.  Time to quit while I’m ahead, right?  Especially considering Cindy wasn’t happy (‘But I won my age group, dear!’) that I ran the full marathon and didn’t believe my story about the 13-mile volunteer for a second, even though by now I had convinced myself it was the absolute truth.

The next morning I woke up after a restless night with the absolute worst pain in my right kidney: If I didn’t know any better I would have sworn it was used as a punching bag by Rocky Balboa because he wasn’t able to find a suitable side of beef.  As I stumbled into the living room of our good friends Ferit and Gizem Toska-- whom we were staying with for the weekend, I fell onto the couch to watch cartoons with their two-year old son Derin.  On the television a talking taxi was returning a young boy who had become separated from his mother.  As she thanked the taxi for returning her son, the boy took off running to play with his friends.  The mother called out to her son:

Don’t run, honey.  You could hurt yourself.

I think I just might get that phrase printed on a couple of T-shirts.  One for me, and one for Roy Benson who told me the same thing almost 35 years ago, although it not so many words.