All the Proof I Need

There was a time when every marathon was an adventure.  On race morning I literally couldn’t wait to get to the starting line to see what the next 26.2 miles had in store for me.  There were old friends, familiar faces and race directors I knew by name.  A plethora of courses I knew like the back of my hand: Some easy, some not-so-much and some somewhere in the middle.  Then there was the thrill of crossing the finish line just one more time. 

Most of all there was the anticipation of what might turn this particular marathon into an adventure.  A random stranger asking me at the 10-mile mark if I could get their friend to the finish line in a Boston-qualifying time because the random stranger could no longer keep up the pace; experiencing the effects of consuming a Twinkie and a glass (or two) of champagne at an aid station with 16 miles still left to run; running an entire marathon accompanied by my nine-year old son…on his bicycle (the fact I had to push him up two mountains did not detract from the experience whatsoever).

But then something strange happened.  I was no longer feeling any excitement on the morning of the marathon.  Suddenly and without warning they were no longer an adventure.  The thrill of finishing…was gone.  What changed? 

I wasn’t seeing the familiar faces I had come to know.  Many of my favorite marathons were no more (RIP Atlanta, Tybee Island, Vulcan).  Entry fees were increasing at an alarming rate while the quality of the races remained virtually status quo.  Marathons simply were no longer any fun.

I had high hopes this would change when I lined up for the Five Points of Life Marathon in Gainesville, Florida.  Twenty years after pedaling his two-wheeler beside me for 26.2 miles in Birmingham, Alabama, my son Josh was standing next to me ready, willing and hopefully able for his first attempt at covering the distance on foot.  As for me, this would be my last marathon; the only reason I was running was because I told Josh long ago I would run his first marathon with him.  Otherwise my final marathon would have been a little over two years ago (the fact that there have been three others since that time is irrelevant to the fact that Five Points was going to be my final-and-this-time-I-really-really-mean-it final marathon).          

So at 7 a.m. on a brisk February morning Josh and I were on our way.  We headed north on 34^th Street, side-by-side, stride-for-stride and wearing matching Currex Insole singlets.  (Yes, they are a sponsor of mine, and no I don’t get paid.  Satisfied?)

Josh had his mind set on running the marathon in three hours and 50 minutes.  I had my mind set on doing whatever I could to make sure Josh crossed the finish line.  We both had our minds set on having a great time.

We both failed.  But I take the blame; I should have known better.  After all, this wasn’t my first rodeo. 

Josh was focused on maintain a pace of 8:40 to 8:50 per mile for as long as he could, and then settling for 9-minute miles once fatigue set in.  I should have done a better job of having him focus on taking his time, enjoying the experience and listening to what his body was telling him.  Josh’s plan worked just fine; that is to say it worked just fine for the first 18 miles.  That’s when Josh’s legs started to cramp up something fierce. 

We took several walk breaks for a couple of miles, then took a couple of running breaks from what essentially had turned into a walk for a couple of miles.  Then at the 22-mile aid station Josh laid down on his back and for all intents and purposes his marathon had come to an end.  The volunteer—a retired doctor—told Josh his cramps could possibly be the result of dehydration or muscle fatigue and encouraged him to drink lots and lots of Gatorade.  Twenty minutes later Josh, still prone on the ground said he thought he could finish the race.  The doctor told him he’d rather see him drop out today and return next year and win than see him continue.  The doctor looked at me and said ‘Aren’t you his dad?  You tell him (to drop out)!’ 

Me, the guy who ran practically the entirety of the 100-mile Western States Endurance Run with the balls of his feet split wide open while dismissing the advice of the on-course foot doctor who told him that should he continue (this occurring at mile 62) he could risk infection and the subsequent loss of his feet?  Me, the guy who ran (OK, mostly walked.  OK, OK, totally walked) the last 13 miles of the Badwater Ultramarathon bouncing between two members of his support crew so he wouldn’t wander off the side of Mount Whitney? 

Sorry, doc: You’ve got the wrong guy.  Consider my silence to be your clue.

The doctor said he’d give Josh a ride to the medical station at mile 23.  I told him I’d meet them there.  I then spent another 10 minutes with Josh at the medical tent—wanting to stay with him on one hand and wanting to get to mile 26 on the other because that is where my wife would be with my grandson who was eager to run the last quarter-mile to the finish line with me.

Once Josh assured me he would be fine, I told him I’d be back for him once I crossed the finish line.  The next four miles were torture, the result of my legs tightening up from standing around for the better part of half an hour.  My grandson Krischan was eager to run when I finally showed up and believe me when I say it was all I could do to keep up with him for that final quarter-mile.

We crossed the finish line together and I motioned for the finish line volunteer to drape the finisher’s medal around Krischan’s neck.  Krischan, who before today had run four one-mile fun runs and came to understand that medals are only for those who run in the longer, accompanying 3.1-mile races said: ‘That didn’t feel like three miles!’

I then walked to the car and drove back to the 23-mile medical station where Josh said he was given (surprise!) even more Gatorade to drink.  He said he felt a little bit better before coming up with this: ‘Well, Dad, I guess you’re going to have to run one more marathon.’

Postscript: Three days later I received an Email with proofs from the race.  For those who don’t know, proofs are photographs taken of the runners during a race that can set you back about a gazillion dollars.  I was surprised to find that there wasn’t ONE SINGLE PROOF of Josh and me running together.  Hey race photographers: NEWS FLASH!  If you see two runners running side-by-side, stride-by-stride in matching singlets who appear to be about a generation apart in age you might want to take a photograph with both of them in it as the chances are pretty decent that they might like to have one.

Examining the proofs a little bit more I couldn’t help but notice the expression on my face while running with Josh.  I’m fishing for a couple adjectives here…let’s see.  Pained.  Exhausted.  Old.  Yep…old.  Sad but true.   Josh’s face?  Stern.   Focused.  Much, much too serious.   

But the proofs with Krischan and I were different.  I looked happy.  Rested.  Young(er), even.  In fact, I had the same expression on my face that I remembered from proofs of races I ran in a decade or two ago.  A time when I smiled when I was running. 

As for Krischan in the photos, it was evident he was just enjoying the moment.  He loves to run and he loves his G-Pa.  He didn’t know how far we had run, how fast (or slow) we had run or that I had already run 26 miles before I joined him for the sprint to the finish line.  That’s how it is when you’re enjoying the moment, and that’s exactly what I should have passed on to Josh. 

There are all kinds of inferences to be made from looking at the photos but one thing is certain: At the moment I’m not capable of running competitive marathons.  The proof is…well, the proof is in the proofs. 

I’m sorry Josh didn’t finish, but he’s young, willing and one day will be more than able of running 26.2 miles.  If anyone is responsible for Josh not finishing it’s me.  I knew better and I should have set a better example.  After all, the Five Points of Life Marathon wasn’t my first rodeo.

But it may very well be my last.