The Philadelphia Marathon

November 19, 2000 -- Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

26.2 Miles through Historic Philadelphia.

http://www.philadelphiamarathon.com

Why?

For the 10th time on Sunday I pinned a number to my shirt, ate a small breakfast, and rode quietly with friends to a line on the road marked 'START'. Beyond the line lay 26 miles, 385 yards to another uncomplicated line, called 'FINISH'. The lines themselves were uninspiring - each just 8 inches wide, white paint, stretching from curb to curb. However, between those lines...so many stories would be written, so many hopes would be turned into reality or washed away, and another marathon would leave it's lifelong mark on those that would line up to be tested...if only for a few hours.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we subject ourselves to an event that killed the first man to ever attempt such a feat? What could make people with families, jobs, mortgage payments, and a reasonable (but not total) degree of sanity, and make them want to run that far? Few can really say they know. Maybe because some have never done it before, and want to see if they have what it takes; Maybe some have done a few before, and now want the answer to the question "How fast?"; And surely there are those behind the line who know how fast they can do it, but just want to see the sights, enjoy a day of uncomplicated movement...and still share in the well of joy that only a Finish Line can deliver.

With me on this day was the usual cast of characters you would want to have in such an endeavor: Mark Markley and I have been at this many times before - from our first day of just trying to survive the distance in over 5 hours...to both of us breaking the 4 hour barrier on the same day in 1998. Dave Wiesenhahn was a rookie - He'd never taken a step past 22 miles before, but like so many here he was willing to come and take the test - to dare to ask "Why not?" And of course, there was Eric - My nemesis in fun, in print, and in person...but a dear friend I could never imagine racing without again. Calm, cool, always reserved - but with a definite sharp edge. He had no real goal on this day: "Maybe less than 4...maybe not. We'll take it as it comes." We had just run New York 2 weeks previously, so who knew what our legs would be capable of doing today? I sure didn't...I just had my hopes for what I thought would be a good day: 4:10...maybe 4:05 if things went really well. I had gone 4:23 at New York...so dropping near 4 hours would be fine with me.

We drove in silence. We stripped down and shivered in the morning air, and made the walk to the start like the animals headed for Noah's Ark - 2 by 2. It was a cloudy morning - and cold when you weren't moving, at all of 30 degrees. It had been a morning like this in 1998 when Mark and I had gone 3:55 and 3:56 respectively - a thought I had to silence in my mind more than once while we waited for the worrying to stop, and the moving to begin. It's always so cruelly easy to think of going faster when you aren't moving...

As we hurried into the mass waiting to launch, I was calm. I had no idea why, but I was as relaxed as I had been all year, on any start line. I figured I was just tired, but in a way I was glad that this day had finally come. After planning a year that had 4 marathons, 2 Ironman's, and my wedding...this was the last hurdle I had to clear to finish out the year with every line crossed. I closed my eyes, took a few breaths, and just thought to myself "No more time to worry. No more time to fear. Today, I just want to run...and run...and run."

The horn sounded, and it was time to go.

Mark had planned on going near 3:30, so I knew I wouldn't see him.

Dave wasn't sure, but he had trained with Mark all year...so I didn't expect to see him either.

Eric was just ahead of me...but I didn't believe his story of cruising through the day for a second. Any man that can run a 3:24 marathon can probably cruise to a 3:40 while delivering a commencement address. I didn't plan on staying with him at all...

...but I'll have to admit that after 2 miles, I was surprised that we were still side by side.

He had fallen in stride with someone and was chatting - and it turned out that the 'someone' was none other than Chris Gdanski - director of Ironman Lake Placid, and a member of the Board of Directors for Ironman North America. It seemed like a great coincidence to be near the man responsible for causing us so much loved and cherished pain this summer, but I just didn't feel like talking much. I dropped back of them a few feet and just focused on keeping my tempo steady, my breathing relaxed, and waiting for the miles to pass me by.

Mile 3 went by in just under 8:36. Odd, considering I hadn't run a mile in training faster than 9:10 all year.

I had to admit to myself now that I was warmed up - my legs felt weird. They were alive, and the effort to move them was just more fluid. I wasn't ready to really admit it to myself yet - but I was feeling great. I had told Lynda that I'd always had good training runs 2 weeks after marathons...and one day, I'd love to race another one to see what might happen. I had tried the 2-week stunt at Pittsburgh in May...but when the day turned up with 85 degree temps and humidity? Well, so much for that plan. This was definitely closer to what I'd thought I might feel.  I had to fight to keep from grinning - it was just too early on a day that always saves it's hardest moments for the end. 

Eric was still in sight, chatting up a storm with Chris about 20 feet ahead of me. As we passed the aid station at mile 5, I glanced at my watch and slurped down my first GU of the day: 43:03. Heart Rate at 159, but I feel fine. Hmm. Still sub-9s. How about that. Immediately, the one brain cell I had working the weekend watch stood up like Gene Kranz in Apollo 13 and let me know exactly where I should be: "Keep it cool, mister. You've got 21 miles to go, so this is no time to be smiling yet." Usually I spent my time in the early miles trying to pick myself up - to convince myself that things would get better. To be here, kicking down the miles...desperately trying to keep myself from getting carried away with it all? This was a new one for sure.

Having run the Philadelphia Marathon 3 times previously, I could almost run the course blindfolded. I knew that from mile 6 to mile 9 was fairly flat, with the biggest climbs of the day coming from miles 9 to 10, with the steepest downhill of the day plunging us down to West River Drive at mile 13. With so much of the race to go before I could really say I knew what might be possible, just staying patient and steady was the only thing I could do.

Of course, this was about as easy to do as trying to stop the tide with a sand castle at the beach.

Mile 6 went down in 8:23, Mile 7 in 8:17, and Mile 8 in 8:11...the fastest mile of the day. With just under 1/3 of the race distance covered I had somehow put nearly 2 minutes on my former marathon PR, and I was starting to get the feeling that I was running myself into a very special day...but it was so early! Every mile was more time in the bank...and another 1/2 mile spent with that Gene Kranz in my head going "Patience! Easy! One good mile now...so what? Talk to me at 25, okay?" Each mile was becoming a rapid cycle of emotion: Quiet amazement that I was running faster than I ever had before, followed by complete and total panic that I was running faster than I ever had before, followed by one word:

"Patience."

Each mile. *Beep* Wow! "Oh My God..." (breathe, breathe...) "Patience son...patience."

As I headed uphill from an aid station, I playfully kicked a cup out of my way. As I listened to the plastic skitter and hop behind me, I heard someone kick it again right against my feet - someone very close. I was smiling before I even turned my head - I knew who was knocking at my door. "Hey there." I grinned to Mr. Weiss, as I caught myself from wondering out loud just how the hell I was up there with him... "How you feeling?" I asked, and he read my mind and spoke what I was thinking: "I'm just running waaaaayyy too fast. There's no way I can keep this up." "I hear you..." I replied, "But you know what? I'm going to run this until I can't do it anymore. I'm tired of doubt, pain, and fear. Maybe it's a little like the Princess Bride, where Wesley says to Buttercup 'Nonsense! You're just saying that because no-one has done it before.', but I've got to see what I can do here. I'm going to stop talking now...and just hang on from here until I can't run anymore."

He agreed...and that was that. As we turned up the base of the climb to Memorial Hall I had admitted it to myself now - I was thinking about the PR, and it was time to deal with the emotions of crossing over from "Can this be happening?" to the reality that it might be. At that moment when I finally admitted to myself that there was something going, and now it's time to put it all out there and follow through - there was sudden peace that overcame me. The anxiety of thinking and holding back through the early miles was now finally breaking down, and in it's place was something I'd never experienced - a quiet confidence that told me it was going to be alright, and that word again: "Patience."

Uphill to Mile 10...passing the Fast Tracks water stop, waving to friends I trained with all summer on the track - quick glimpses of faces I knew, quicker waves of "Hello!", but never a slowdown or break in stride beyond taking my second GU and some water while thinking about running the downhill smartly so as not to hammer my knees too much before halfway. I was thinking like a runner, I was moving like a runner, pure and simple in every way...but I knew there was so much more to go. Eric was still nearby as we began the long downhill...and I noticed that the gap was opening every mile, just a little bit more. Unlike the times where Mark would do the same and I would foolishly try to hang on well beyond my ability, there was no panic, there was no worry - a quick glance at my HRM always told me that I was still running the same speed - 160 beats per minute - Eric had simply picked it up and taken off, just like I thought he would. I had my race to run, and that was all I was thinking about.

Miles 9 and 10 paced out to 9:15's with the climb and the aid station...but mile 11 headed down to West River Drive right back on 8:30 - at 159bpm. Mile 12 was just as boring - 8:28, 159. *Beep* "Damn." (breathebreathebreathe) "Patience." Heading towards the Art Museum I couldn't believe I was nearly halfway home...and I felt like I'd only been running for 3 miles - not 13. I was almost 4 minutes ahead of my PR pace of 1998...and that gap was growing with every step. Just as automatically as the first 12, Mile 13 and the halfway mark passed into the books in 9:01, with a 1/2 Marathon split of 1:53:22.

As I'd promised myself earlier when the thoughts of PR started teasing my mind, I now had to talk to someone about what was happening. Many of you may recall the story of my 1998 Philadelphia Marathon, running for my Grandfather. On that cold final Sunday before Thanksgiving, he was in his final days of a long, cruel fight with cancer...and I was determined to give him a marathon finish before he left us. With Mark and Eric at my side to push me, I ran myself into the ground for a 3:56:00 - my first time under 4 hours, and the only time I'd ever accomplished that feat to date. I went home for the holiday and delivered to him the medal, the number, and the tattered sign I had worn: "For Grandpa", and 2 days later he was gone.

To this day I felt like it was his PR as well...so I needed to ask him if it was okay.

"Grandpa - it's me. I know you can see me and all, but I have a favor to ask. You know I ran that race for you - you have the medal and all the fixins up there...but it looks like there's something going on here, and I need to ask you - would you mind if we shared a page in the book? If you can find a way to give me the strength, I think I might have a shot at your record...but I just want to know about it first. The memories will stay...I just want to know if you're okay with that."

As I turned the corner past the Art Museum the biggest crowds on the course filled my ears. As I rounded the Italian Fountain, headed for Kelly Drive...I felt at peace. Just the out and back to go on Kelly now...12 more miles and we'd see if I could make this stick. I was excited to see the finish, but I knew how cruel those last miles would be. Kelly Drive is a long, flat stretch along the Schuylkill River...and there are no crowds on the way out or back - it's you, your pain, and the wind off the river. In my previous 3 tries, I can't say I'd ever enjoyed the finish up the Drive...so I kept that as a reminder not to be a hero on the way to the turn at Manayunk.

I had done very little talking today - a strange thing for me, but others had been busily chatting until now. Once on Kelly Drive, all those that had been speaking found themselves gently urged to become quiet by that growing fatigue that didn't seem so bad only 2 miles ago, and an eerie silence settled on the field around me. The wind quietly whistled through the now empty trees above us, as cats paws of the unseen cold wind danced on the river's surface. Boston has Heartbreak Hill, New York has the 59th Street Bridge, Philadelphia has Kelly Drive. It has the effect of being the great late-race equalizer, and despite my lofty hopes and time saved early on I was finding that even I wasn't immune from it's grasp:

Mile 14: 161 8:54

Mile 15: 159 8:56

Mile 16: 155 9:04

Mile 17: 151 9:16

Mile 18: 160 9:02

Mille 19: 165 9:14

Mile 20: 163 9:16

I was starting to slide down the slippery slope to collapse...but I wasn't panicking yet. I knew that I still had almost 3 minutes in my favor, and if I could get to the 20 mile mark in under 3 hours, I'd have a chance... and as I crossed paths with Eric less than 400 meters from the turn, I knew I would be close.

I wheeled through the turnaround in 2:56:15, and I could think clearly enough to know I had one hour, 3 minutes, and 45 seconds to break 4 hours...but only 59:45 to break my old PR. The thought of settling for a sub-4 was immediately ignored - I just had to go for everything after coming this far. I closed my eyes, ate my last GU, and got ready to take the pain that I knew was waiting for me back on Kelly Drive. If I ran 10-minute miles, I'd miss it. I'd need to hold 9:30's all the way back...and that included the last uphill half mile to the line...that simple painted line that was suddenly everything to me on this day.

Climbing out from Manayunk, I was starting to struggle...and the watch gave me the bad news: Mile 21 in 9:35, HR now at 163 - not keeping up anymore. I didn't panic - I knew the climb would end, and we'd take a painful (but short) climb over a highway ramp back to Kelly Drive...and then it would be pretty flat until 24.5. I had some time to give...and I wasn't going to let a few seconds kill me.

However, Mile 22's 9:39 was more than a few seconds...and with my HR at 162, there wasn't much I could do about it. I was calm - I mean, it was as hard as I'd been running for more than 3 hours, and there was simply nothing more I could give. If there was going to be a surge, now wasn't the time. Again, that Gene Kranz in my head looked me in the eye and said "PATIENCE! 4 Miles. You can run 4 miles...just keep yourself going."

I ran through the aid station at Mile 23 - I just didn't want to stop, and by the time I digested what I drank here, I'd be wrapped in a blanket on the way through a chute...so I just stayed left and hoped the cold day would let me get away with the gamble. I'd been hydrating well all day...but I hadn't heard the call of nature once. Was I dehydrated? Should I drink? Should I...

I was losing focus - "FORWARD!" Shouted Mr. Kranz, and I obeyed as my eyes snapped forward to the road ahead, again. It would be less than 30 minutes anyway, right? Mile 23 was a 9:22, HR of 161. I was still teetering on that edge, but holding on with my fingertips.

My legs were getting very heavy now. The fluid stride of mile 5 was a memory, but so was the form that everyone around me had early in the day. I had gotten this far, and it had become a simple test of pain tolerance. I could keep my legs turning over, even if my hip flexors felt like they were so cold, they were hot...even if my shoulders were forearms were locked from the endless swaying all day...even if my asthma was making my breathing sound like a ragged wheeze...and the cold air brought in with each breath gave me no relief...I just couldn't give it up now. I had come too far...come too far to let the thoughts that told me "You won't make it..." have their say.

For Mile 24, I ran a 9:34...HR still clinging to hope at 161. I had neither gained nor lost any real time so far...but I knew that while I still had about 2:50 to play with to keep the sub-4 hour performance, I was down to less than 50 seconds for my PR...with the worst miles on Kelly Drive waiting for me. Fear was becoming a very real presence in my mind...and I didn't have the energy to ignore it anymore. I began to close my eyes when the thought of missing it would come up...and I'd breathe...and I'd breathe..."Just run....just keep running..." until I could get my fading focus back.

Despite the 6,000 starters...you often will find yourself very isolated in the last 3 miles on the Drive...and so was the case here. My nearest competitor was about 40 feet up the road, and while I didn't look back to check, I couldn't hear anybody close by. No-one to key off of, no-one to attach to, chase, or fall in step with. The finish to the Art Museum only rises 60 vertical feet in the last 1/2 mile, but after 25.7 miles? It might as well be Mount Everest. As I crossed mile 25 in 9:39...I flipped the HRM over; Whatever it had to tell me now didn't matter. The official split clock on the course was at 3:45:55 when I went by - only 10:05 to run 1.2 miles. If I kept on losing time...

...I closed my eyes - I didn't need to finish that thought. Suddenly the image of a clock burned into my eyes - it simply said "3:56:01"...and it was like a kick in the stomach. The race for me had become 1.2 miles in length, with a 25 mile warmup. I would have to give everything I had left to get there and get the record I had taken so much pain for, and there was no way in hell I was going to let it slip away from me now.

I knew my legs might not be enough...so I asked a friend for help.

"Grandpa? I need you! Give me your wings. I need your help if I'm gonna' do this - Please - if you can - Give me your wings."

I looked up the road, and that person 40 feet up was suddenly off my right hip, and out of sight. My knees came up...and I could hear my turnover starting to churn like I was running a sprint on the track. As my legs started their surge...I felt fire burning up from my knees - my hips - everything was in creeping agony, and soon I couldn't see the road all that well...but I just kept repeating my prayer out loud...

"Give me your wings...."

"Give me your wings...."

Past the statue at 25.5, around the bend, starting to lose control - more a passenger to my legs than the runner making them go. Everything in my body was now working to get me going as fast as I could...and the fire of the pain was into my chest now. I could barely hear the people cheering over my own panting, as the frigid air stabbed me with every desperate gasp...but I never stopped saying my prayer, no matter how the pain tried to pry me away from it.

"Give me your wings! Give me your wings! Oh, hang on! Hang on! We're doing it! We're doing it! Wings! Wings! Wings! Give me your wings!"

I was running faster than I had all day, all year, all my life. I had the power of an Angel behind me, carrying me beyond what I knew was possible. The barricades moved in, and through the trees I suddenly saw the yellow banner - the line. 300 meters to go, on the steepest part of the climb. I can barely breathe now...and my prayer has been reduced to one gasped word between pants...

"WINGS!!"

...But I know that I might make it. As I turn around the final bend and can see the full view of the finish line, deafened by the crowd, my own frantic breathing, and my prayer...I hear a voice tell me above the din;

"Robert, it's yours."

Suddenly, another voice shatters my trance from the right: "You bastard! I can't believe you did that to me!"

A stunned Eric Weiss, jacket in hand, ready for the finish...has been caught  with less than 75 yards to go. I should do something, but I can't speak, I can't nod - I can't do anything...so I kick all that I have left into my final surge for the finish line, leaving a stunned nemesis behind.

All I can see is the clock on the banner...

3:55:47...

3:55:48...

I can't even lift my arms as I collapse across the line in 3:55:49. I have run the last 1.2 miles at an 8:48 pace, and when I stop...I can't do anything but scream towards the sky in a moment of pure release. It is a scream of physical pain, emotional relief, and shock. I am in the most pain I can remember feeling, and as I stagger away from the line I'm just waiting to pass out so that I don't have to feel it anymore...but to my dismay, I stay fully conscious....albeit doubled over, suddenly crying hysterically, totally unsure of what to do next.

I grab a medal, and a voice calls me from the left - it's Mark. He's pointing at someone - Lynda!

My beloved Saint wasn't going to be here today. I don't know why she's here - I can remember a fleeting thought in those early, painless miles of "Wow. If this keeps up Lynda's never going to come to another race - I always PR when she's not here..." But now she's here, and that *really* is more than I'm ready to handle. I stagger towards her, and just collapse onto her shoulder...unable to do anything but sob.

"I asked him, and he carried me! He carried me! He told me it was mine, and he carried me!" I sob, trying to explain what just happened...and why I'm such a mess. While it made sense to me at the time, later on my sweetie explained that panting sobs, spoken by someone face down, into a jacket? They don't translate very well... so she just held me and let me come completely unglued right then and there.

I didn't even see Dave finish less than 5 minutes later...but Eric comes over, and I apologize for taking off like I did - again.

As I wander out of the finisher's corral, still not really sure I'm going to stay awake for very long...I pass the Fast Tracks crew. They're all celebrating one of their Marathon 101 runners, Donna, qualifying for Boston with a PR of her own. The joy is everywhere...and I find myself crying with them and hugging everyone I can see as they go "You PR'ed too?" As someone clicks some pictures with Donna, Sorita and I...Bobbi, another Fast Tracker that had worked the 10 mile aid station passed so long ago, hands me flowers: "On behalf of Fast Tracks..." I've never gotten flowers at the end of a race...and I hold them, the medal, and the Mylar blanket...and I look to the sky once more.

"Thank you. Thank you for carrying me here." Somewhere Grandpa smiles at me, but I know he has to go. After all, it's 12:30, and the Giants are on at 1:00.

With Mark setting a new PR for himself at 3:34, we had all finished within 25 minutes...and we all got what we wanted from the day. We asked, we dared, and we discovered. Mark got his PR, Dave finished his first like he'd hoped, Eric had a wonderful time cruising the city.  My chip time ended up being even better than I'd thought - I'd lowered my PR to 3:54:12, on a day when just finishing would have been great.

Me? I learned that you should never underestimate the power of an Angel.

Hurricane Bob

* Give me your wings! *

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