The
Philadelphia Marathon
November 21, 1999 - Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
26.2
Miles on a warm November day.
http://www.philadelphiamarathon.com
How
did it get this bad? How can I keep up? I
needed to set him free...I wasn't doing us any favors at all.
Another quick look back over his shoulder...and I knew my day was done.
"Go on!" I yelled
up the road. "There's no use
in wasting your energy looking for me. Get
moving!" With that, Markley
turned his focus back to the road ahead, stepped his tempo up ever so slightly,
and the bounce of restraint I'd been watching for over 2 hours disappeared. Soon
the back of his red jersey blended into the thinning crowd of runners headed up
the road, and I was on my own.
I
wanted to cry. This wasn't
supposed to happen today. We had so
much promise. I had so much hope.
I had a vision of how the day was going to go.
I had used it every day in my training for the past 2 months. The script didn't involve watching my form disintegrate
before my eyes, as I helplessly felt my legs turn to stone earlier than they
ever have.
11
miles to go...and every step already hurts.
This is going to be rough.
This
year's Philadelphia Marathon was to be the final event of one of the most
amazing years I've had in my racing career.
Qualifying for Nationals; Taking almost 2 hours of my Ironman PR; New
PR's at the 1/2 IM distance, the Olympic Distance, and the 10K.
All of this on top of getting engaged and opening up a new door to the
rest of my life...it had been a most amazing ride.
With mixed emotions, I knew that the season eventually had to end...but
at least it would do so in my backyard for the third year in a row.
After
returning from Nationals on September 25th, I had completely immersed myself in
run preparation in a way I never had before.
More speedwork; More intervals; More hillwork.
Long runs at tempos that were far beyond what I had achieved before.
On half of them I'd blown up spectacularly, but learned a little bit more
about my limits each time. My last
2 weeks had seen a 10-miler at 8:30's with energy to spare, and many shorter
runs at 7:30 tempo or better. In my
last 'ladder' a week and a half before the marathon, I had even run 3 sub-7:00
miles in a row- I feat I'd never accomplished before. I was running faster at a lower heart rate than I had all
year: I was becoming a more
efficient runner, and was nervous about the prospect of breaking my marathon PR
of 3:56:00...set at Philadelphia last year.
I knew the course. I knew I
was bringing more to the table than I ever had before.
It seemed to be a perfect setting for an amazing day...and a bright
finish to a year that had seen more success than I had hoped for back during
those tentative February rides and runs.
Mark
Markley and I have been running these things together for 4 years now.
We did our first marathon together in 1996- a 5:15 death march at the
Marine Corps Marathon in 85 degree heat, with no cups for water as the aid
stations ran out past mile 16. The
following year we carried my sister through her first marathon: a 5:08 death
march at the Marine Corps Marathon in an all-day 48 degree rainstorm. ("...Ohhh,
I've seen fire, and I've seen rain...")
Since then...we've both grown a great deal: We broke 4:00 for the first time at Philadelphia last year,
he with a 3:55, I with a 3:56. He
told me his final preparations had been somewhat rushed after a month off to
move back to D.C., but were solid nevertheless.
Comparing training times and volumes, it was easy to see we were on the
same track for around a 3:50 finish...with the possibility to be even faster if
we had a *great* day.
My
memories of our races together carry a certain sting for me, however.
Mark had surged away from me at the Steamtown Marathon in 1998, as well
as the Philadelphia Marathon...both times at Mile 25.
I had thought of those scenes over and over again in my training...unable
to respond...watching him run up the road.
I won't lie here: Aside from the time goals we'd set, on this day I
wanted to stay with him until the very end, and do whatever I could to not get
dropped once more. Ego, pride,
plain old testosterone, call it what you will.
Mark is a close and valued friend, but as a stronger runner than I, he
was the perfect extra motivator to give me the deeper focus I would need to be
the best that I could be on Race Day.
I
knew I had trained well.
I
knew had tapered smartly, and I felt ready.
I
knew the food I would use.
I
knew the clothes I would wear.
I
even had a lucky #9 in my race number (2229).
All
I had to do was run like I never had before.
The
alarm went off at 4:00am, and I was wide awake as soon as I hit the snooze bar.
Off to the kitchen, where I whipped up some coffee and pancakes, the same
meal I had used to set my 1/2 Marathon PR in 1997.
As Mark and I ate in the dark...it was a very quiet table.
This day, unlike any that we had seen before, had us both carrying the
weight of potential: A new burden we weren't exactly comfortable with.
We used to laugh, joke, and merrily bounce through these races...making
light of everything along the way. Just
two guys, happy to be running, not really caring what the clock had to say about
us.
Not
anymore. There was no more talking.
No more wasted effort: We had both learned along the way what to do, and
what not to do in order to get faster.
My
sister came out of her room at 5:00, and with a cup of coffee, joined Mark and I
in the world of the somewhat sleepy. She
had driven up with Mark from D.C. to give him a lift back, and to be there to
cheer us on. With her Marine Corps Marathon experience still fresh in her
memory, she knew what we were both dealing with - and split the tension
immediately by just being herself. It
was just what we needed before a long day on the road.
We
headed downtown in a complete fog. I
don't mean Mark, my sister and I were in a fog (moreso than usual, anyway): I
mean the weather was really, really foggy.
The humidity at 6:30am was 100%...and the temperature was already 51
degrees, and that scared me. Last
year at the start it was 36 degrees...and 51 at the finish.
Today was going to be hotter than any of my training runs...but worrying
about it was useless. I hydrated
during the drive, and made a note to pin my number to my outer singlet only so
that I could take the coolmax shirt underneath off should things get too warm
during the day.
On
the Art Museum steps made famous by Mr. Balboa...the gathering began at 7:45.
Scott Rosen showed up, ready to start putting the miles in for his date
with IM-USA next July. Pete Priolo,
looking once more to get his invitation to Boston.
Tom Downs, getting over a wicked cold...unsure of what he would have on
this day. Michael Parente, also looking for a chance to line up in Hopkinton on
Patriots Day...needing a 3:30.
The
fog lifted...and the morning sun changed from it's warm, early glow...to an
Indian Summer's ominous light rising in the sky.
I said goodbye to my sister, and she told me that Lynda was on her way
down to see the start. With my thoughts on the road ahead and visions of finishing
well...Mark and I headed for the final start line of our 1999...
Thinking
to ourselves, all we have to do is run faster than we ever have before.
"Ummm,
the horn is broken - so just GO!" Yelled
the P.A. announcer...and we started bobbing ahead.
The first loop of the Ben Franklin Parkway would give us a chance to warm
up, and see our loved ones twice before heading downtown.
With one eye on the Heart Rate Monitor and one on the road to watch for
holes and curbs under the crowd, we settled into an early rhythm. Every minute or so Mark would call out a number, and I would
check and report where I was: "144":"146".
"142":"145". Our
heart rates usually mirrored each other in our races within 2-3 beats, so that
was how we'd keep in touch all day.
As
we completed the first loop, I managed to spot Lynda and Karen, and jumped from
the pack to give them a kiss hello before I was too sweaty:
As it was...I was already damp. I
knew I was wearing too much, so on the move I peeled off my TRI-DRS singlet,
took off the shirt, and then put just the singlet back on.
As we passed Lynda and Karen a second time I lobbed them the shirt, and
my sister snagged it out of the air without even looking.
"Yes! I didn't want to
lose that one..." I thought, as Mark and I peeled away, headed downtown.
The
miles went by quickly. 9:36 in the crowd, but then 8:59, 8:40, 8:35.
Mark was settling in nicely...bouncing up and down a bit with restraint
during the early miles. At mile 5, I noticed that our Heart Rate checks were starting
to go on different paths. He at
152, I at 156. He at 160, I at 164.
On downhill recovery periods, it was even more pronounced: He'd call
"136", and I'd look down...
"148".
Uh-oh.
Up
South Street. Left on Chestnut.
Up to 34th Street. Past mile
6 in 8:something. Trying to savor
the shade between the buildings, the field was darting from side to side with
the shadows. Last year we'd hunted
the sun for warmth in these early miles...this year we hid whenever we were
given the chance. Down the slope of mile 8 at 8:25, our fastest of the day,
"11 seconds slower than last year." some part of my mind noted with
scary precision. Right turn, and we
started climbing to the Fairmount Plateau.
On
the uphill, my legs began to complain a bit.
My target heart rate zone for the day had been 140-145, with the option
to go to 150+ after the halfway point if I could do it.
Mark was running very strongly, and as a result I was running harder than
I had planned to keep up. My HR
hadn't fallen below 150 since the 3 mile mark, and the hilliest portion of the
course was just beginning. As we
climbed, I was in the upper 160's...and I noted he was a full 10 beats lower
covering the same slope. I found
myself worrying about how I could hold onto this tempo with 17 miles to go.
I was already starting to feel tired...but I shunned any thoughts of
dropping back so soon. Ignoring my
body's warning cries, I pressed on...staring at the back of Mark's red Speedo
sleeveless jersey...a sight I was getting used to.
"Must
be the heat. Hang in there.
You'll come around." I
told myself. Last year I had faced
similar doubts on the Fairmount hills, and persevered...so why should this year
be any different? On the steepest
climb of the course to Memorial Hall, Mark and I even backed off a bit to save
ourselves. For a moment I felt a
little better...and tried to silence any doubtful thinking as we headed for the
Fast Tracks water stop at mile 10 - a personal highlight of the race for me each
year. Having run most of the Spring
and Summer track workouts with this local running group, as well as all of my
long runs with their extra Marathon 101 group...they gave me the attitude boost
I so desperately needed. The only
problem was the adrenaline this created: I
motored through the water stop without drinking a thing...for the third year in
a row, waving and high-fiving everyone I knew along the way.
Duh.
Hot day. Skipping a water
stop. Double Duh.
As
Mark caught up to me after downing a cup of Gatorade, he asked "So what
happened to stopping there?" He didn't even need to ask; I was asking
myself the same question as we started the downhill to West River Drive and the
halfway point. The sun felt even
more muggy...and I already had enough to worry about without beating myself up
for such a stupid thing.
As
we came out of the downhill onto the drive, Mark called out "Low for the
day - 134." I looked, and the
news was as bad as it had been each time before: "150...no sign of recovery
at all, dude." Like a race car overheating, I was going to eventually cook
at this pace. I was coming to terms
with the fact that Mark was having a better race on this day, and his body was
taking the punishment way more efficiently than mine.
The numbers don't lie, such is the cruel honesty of racing by the Heart
Rate Monitor. Heading past the
halfway point, the clock read 1:54:50. We
were still on pace for a 3:50, but mentally...I was slipping farther and farther
down the increasing slope of my own doubts with every step.
We
ran through the corridor of spectators at the 14 mile mark Start/Finish
line...and I looked for Lynda and Karen as we started the final out and back
section of Kelly Drive, my perennial pit on this run.
As Mark and I passed them I could barely manage a feeble "Hi"
to them both...but my eyes were already saying "Guys, I've got nothing
left..." as Mark was about 5
meters ahead, and constantly looking back to see where I was.
Mile
15 came by at 9:10, my slowest of the day.
Strangely, my Heart Rate hadn't dropped at all- it was still pegged at
150. I knew that mile was slightly
downhill, and should have been quicker. "Uh-oh.
Oh, sh*t. So soon?" I thought...wishing away the wall that now loomed ahead of
me. Kelly Drive is a flat run next
to the Schuylkill River to the 20-mile turnaround at Manayunk...but it suddenly
seemed uphill all the way. Mark was
10 meters ahead...but it might as well have been 10 miles.
I was toast, and my visions of a strong finish were burning up in the
rays of an ever-strengthening sun. Mark
looked back for me once more, and I knew I was stealing focus from him that I
didn't deserve...and I had to let him go.
"Go
on!" I yelled up the road.
"There's no use in wasting your energy looking for me.
Get moving!" With that, Mark turned his focus back to the road ahead,
stepped his tempo up ever so slightly, and the bounce of restraint I'd been
watching for over 2 hours disappeared. It wasn't long before the familiar shade
of his red jersey blended into the thinning crowd of runners headed up the road,
and I was ashamedly on my own...surrounded by others in body, but suddenly
completely alone in spirit.
Last
year I had cracked at mile 25. This
year it came 10 miles earlier.
Tom
Downs came alongside, and I asked him how he was doing.
"Oh, Bobby...not good. This
cold killed me." I could
barely respond "Oh, man. Hang
in there. C'mon...I'm dying too."
We shuffled along for about a 1/2 mile, and Tom spoke the words that
nobody who runs ever wants to hear: "I've
got to pull out, man. I can't take
this today. See ya."
And with that, he was gone.
Dreams
were dying left and right...I definitely wasn't alone in misery today.
Mile
16: 10:20. Heart Rate - 151.
My plummeting tempo at the same HR told me it wasn't a lack of
effort...it was simply my legs coming apart.
Maybe I went too hard too soon. Maybe
it was the heat. Maybe I just didn't put in enough long miles.
Whatever it was...I was now reduced to survival mode, and just wanted to
finish. I thought of Lynda and
Karen waiting for me...and I was completely embarrassed at the thought of
falling apart in front of them like this. Then
I realized that feeling like that was a bunch of complete, self-absorbed
bullshit - and I was more embarrassed at *myself* more than anything else.
I
knew Karen and Lynda would be there no matter what I did...and that feeling gave
me some strength to deal with the disappointment of coming up short.
This was just a bad day at a really bad time.
I've had plenty of 'em in training, and this surely won't be the last
one. I was due for a bad race...and
now it was time to pay the piper and learn something else about me.
I
let my head wander as I tried to keep going.
"Time to head to school...what can I learn from this?"
On the road, lacking the energy for conversation with anyone...I started
trying to give my day some meaning: I
tried to find a reason, and understanding out of the despair.
How did I get here? I had stuck my neck out, and I had failed.
I had tried to run above myself, and I blew up.
"So
what?" I asked...smirking.
I
had tried. Where Mark was
succeeding, I was failing.
Would it feel worse to have run more slowly, and finished the race with
strength...asking myself "What if I had gone harder?"
"Yes."
More smirking.
A
quiet nod to myself.
End
of discussion.
Mile
17 in 10:11.
Yeah,
this is officially ugly.
I
plodded on, all the way to Main Street, Manayunk.
Mark passed by the other way...with a strong,
purposeful stride. He hadn't lost a
bit, and was clearly on form at the right time.
I pointed to him and said "You're having the race of your life -
don't you dare let me catch you!" He
high-fived me and yelled back "Bring it home!" In my haze I thought
"Bring what home? I've got
nothing left, Gus." By my
guestimate, he was already about 3/4 of a mile ahead...and barring the use of a
solid-rocket booster, a pair of Rollerblades, a hovercraft,
or a passing Varsity-8 on the river...Mark was in no danger of being run
down by the likes of me. As I went
for style points and pulled a button-hook at the turn, I was thankful I only had
6.2 miles to go.
I
ticked the miles off one at a time, not thinking about anything but the finish
climb to the Art Museum. I hit the split button at each mile marker, but I have no
idea what they were: I just kept my
feet moving forwards. As I passed
mile 22, I remembered how wide awake and alive I had felt at Ironman Canada this
year at mile 22...sad that the day was almost over.
How different the marathon is...the intensity of the solo run so much
harsher. I didn't have the energy
for such lavish sentimentality this time...I thought "Sad?
Man...I just want this *#&@ing
day to be over. Now."
As
miles 23 and 24 crawled by, and I took my only walk break of the day...1 minute
at mile 24. My heart rate was still
in the 150's, and I just looked down at the monitor on my wrist and had to
laugh. "Dude, you can beat all
you want...but what you need to do is find a way to get all this oatmeal out of
the legs if you want to get anywhere." My mood was improving...the finish
was within feeling distance for the first time all day.
Past
mile 25, the final climb to the finish began.
Only 40 feet in elevation, it's a stinging false flat that just *never*
ends. I had run up it at the end of
3 of my long runs, rehearsing the surge I would use here;
Thinking of the strength I would have on race day.
I had prepared myself for a joyous climb to end my year...but I hadn't
prepared myself for what was really happening.
I was facing the climb alone, with the knowledge that the clock was
already 10 minutes past my goal at the start of this day. Through my exhaustion,
a single sob escaped: "Shit." I
muttered from behind watery eyes. It
was a moment of sheer self-pity that I just couldn't contain...despite thinking
I had come to terms with the day 10 miles ago.
Just
then, George, a buddy from Fast Tracks appeared running down the other way.
He whipped right around, and took position on my right hip like a wingman
in a fighter plane group. "Hey Bob! You're
almost home! How are you
feeling?" I looked over at
him, and I couldn't resist: "George, I'm dead.
Can't you tell? You're
talking to a dead guy. My body just
doesn't know that it can stop yet." Sure,
I had ripped the line out of an Eric Weiss race report, but I was too tired to
be original, and George didn't need to know that.
"C'mon,
then. Lift your knees...I'll get
you in." He said. I had
nothing to lose, and if George was willing to do the thinking...why not?
He barked commands, and I just did what I was told.
"Lift your knees...okay, now cut this tangent...good...good...okay,
lengthen your stride. 400 meters
now...a lap of the track. More
stride...stride...stride...you got it. Lift,
lift, lift...you're doing great!"
Before
I knew it, it was the final right hander to the line.
George patted me on the back and said "You're there!"
I thanked him, high-fived him as he headed back to pick up other friends
of Fast Tracks coming in, and I made my last turn for home. He had carried me through the toughest part of the
course...and not given me any time to waste on useless self-pity. As I passed Lynda and Karen on the bend, I waved to them and
said "Hey guys...sorry to make you wait...it just wasn't my day!"
Looking
at the line in the last 100 meters, I smiled with relief...but not much else.
I didn't even look at the clock as I passed under it...I didn't want to
know how it had judged me today. I
had survived, and that was enough of a reward for me.
As the volunteers placed the familiar Mylar blanket over my aching
shoulders...and I slipped my head through the Stars & Striped ribbon of this
year's medal, my mind and heart were already thinking:
"Where will the redemption race be?"
I
couldn't answer that question right away, and really didn't want to just yet.
I knew that the seed of desire had been planted by the events of the day,
and I would have a full Winter to sow my newly found hopes for the Spring.
After all the brilliant life, joy, and elation that this season had given
to me...to have gone out like a Phoenix seemed fitting.
From the flames and ashes of this day's lost hopes will come the new life
for next year.
In
less than one minute as I walked through the chutes...I had found peace.
I
hadn't failed: I had tried.
I had done what I could.
I
had nothing more to give, and nothing to be ashamed of.
I grabbed a couple of bottles of water, and headed out of the finisher's corral to find Lynda and Karen...
...and
to see just how far I would need to adjust my sights to find Mark the next time
we toed the line together.