The Unabridged and Unapologetic Report:

I have run 12 marathons - 17 if you count Ironman run legs. Well, perhaps run is a bit optimistic of me. I have truly run 5, start to finish Death-Marched 2, with the other 5 all sharing the same pattern: They'd start like a Space Shuttle launch - loud, bright, and very fast off the platform, but end like the part where the Shuttle drops the Solid-Rocket Boosters (a sudden and dramatic flame-out followed by a long, silent plunge into the depths).

And that just describes the standalones. Let's just say that my IM best is 5:31, my worst is 6:44, and at IMC 2001 my marathon was faster than my bike split by 16 seconds. One more cup of Gatorade along the way, and Lord knows how I could have explained it.

So what was I doing wrong in all of those flame-outs? Maybe I wasn't training enough (the classic excuse), maybe I wasn't eating enough (another oldie but goodie), maybe I was just too fat (that one never gets old), or maybe, just maybe, I wasn't thinking about what I was doing - at all. I mean, why think? Running isn't that hard, is it? You hear the gun. You put one foot in front of the other. Repeat until the finish line or death occurs.

There's no chance of getting punched, drowning, getting attacked by your wetsuit, plowing into a bear, giraffe, or drunken senator; no chance to suffer a fiery crash on a downhill, a flat, a broken bar, or a loose helmet buckle: It's LeftRightLeftRightLeftRight LeftRightLeftRightLeftRight LeftRightLeftRightLeftRightFINISH!

Perhaps it was this overly simplistic thinking that had caused my misunderstanding with the 26 miles, 385 yards that marked the marathon in the past. It's not like I'm the first man in history to screw up the distance. Other than Luc van Lierde, who the hell runs a GOOD first marathon? Or a second? Or a third? Or a 13th?

I wrote in a race report last year (Philadelphia Marathon 2001 - another classic implosion after 16 fast miles; Pity about the last 10) that the marathon was, "more mysterious than a woman; More deceptive than James Bond, the marathon will seduce you. It will let you think you've got it figured out; It will let you taste strength and confidence in the early miles; It will let you bathe in thoughts of finishing with the same speed that comes so easily at the beginning, and with the thoughts of savoring the last mile with time to spare, knowing you'll set that PR, make it to Boston in April, or even be headed to the Trials.

It is always without warning that the Marathon will turn from Seductress to Siren and turn your whole race upside-down. She'll use the final miles to ruthlessly tear you apart and leave you with your confidence in pieces while she disappears like a Cheshire Cat, grinning...knowing she's gotten you again, and the fool that you are, you'll be back for more."

It was so true then, and still rings true now. I am a fool, and I would run one again.

In December I had decided to run the Ocean Drive Marathon on March 24th because (1) I'd never run it before, (2) It was flat (aside from 4 drawbridges along the way), (3) It gave me time to recover before the Columbia Triathlon on May 19, and (4) It would give me enough fear in January, February, and March to get outside and run 20 miles when it was 21° and snowing.

I never really considered it an "A" race - I actually would have ranked it a "Q" in terms of importance and emotional attachment. It was just something fun to do (albeit fun in the sense you and I understand - not Hot Fudge Sundae, Roller Coaster, or Disneyworld fun that your mom thinks of then shakes her head when you try and explain it), and it would give me a gauge on my early-season fit(fat?)ness.

The plan my coach laid out for me involved no fewer than four (4) 20 mile runs by March 10. Through a conspiracy of work, life, weather, house-shopping, nervous-breakdowns from house-shopping, insolent tissues in my knees, cold-fronts, warm fronts, lack of sleep, and the usual fear and self loathing, I managed to finish one of these runs intact. However, I did I get to the track a few times, and I ran a few tempo runs, so I basically got comfortable with this marathon being nothing more than the end of my Winter season, and the official start of Spring.

About a week before, I knew that there was no way I could follow my usual plan of "Start strong, sustain the middle, hang on for dear life at the end" for more than 15 miles (which is ironically about as far as it worked when I was fully trained, which should have long ago been a clue that my 'plan' needed a 'backup plan' of some order, but one sometimes loses the forest for the trees, eh?). I needed to find a way to shorten the race a bit (legally - there were no subways or buses I could use to Rose Ruiz my way to Sea Isle) and make what little form I had go as far as possible. I had to think turtle - I needed to use patience, focus, and discipline.

I knew I lacked all three. I knew I was in deep poop.

Then I asked Coach Mike and the wisdom that comes from running Tripower.org if it would be okay if I went out VERY slowly; conversationally, promenading slowly. I'd want to start slowly enough to make my grandmother blow by me like Schumacher (either one these days) on the Autobahn for the first hour, then pick it up from there. He thought it was a cracking plan, as it would save my legs from their usual abuse and destruction, which would also give him the added bonus of saving him from my hearing my incessant whining about how my legs were trash for at least 2 weeks.

Just before the race my buddy Josh Friedman sent me a link from the Central Park Track Club about the 10-10-10 plan: You run 10 miles easy, the next 10 at or faster than race pace, then you hold on for the last 10K. Of course, their plan talked of running 'easy' 7:20 miles, then picking it up to more focused 7:10's to get back on Boston pace, so I needed to adjust that to my style - we'll just put a '9' where that '7' used to be - perfect! Now we're ready to cook.

Armed with a plan and brimming with expectations of no pressure, St. Lynda and I headed down to the shore for a nice weekend at the beach. She would have some time to walk on the boards, see the ocean, listen to the surf, and enjoy time away from the office. Most of all, she'd have 4 hours (at least) away from me whining about how fat I am this time of year, and since she knew I'd be knackered enough post-race to sleep all the way home, no need to worry about post-race mental anguish if it all went wrong for me.

The race itself was small - less than 300 runners, and it was point to point - Cape May, New Jersey all the way to Sea Isle City, 26.2 miles North. No need to double-back, see the same scenery twice, or worst of all, see the whippets 12 miles ahead of me on the way home.

Race morning dawned sunny, cool, and it looked like we would have a tailwind all the way. I spent my pre-race minutes sitting on a wall (secretly hoping to talk it into not finding me 20 miles later), chatting with the new friends one makes when one has nothing to do but wait, and looking out over the ocean. It was peaceful - I had to keep reminding myself, "Heh - I've got a marathon to run today. Hah!"

There was no gun, no horn, not even so much as a flag-drop to get us moving. We all just started moving forward, and I immediately began my plummet to the rear of the field. Folks were passing me left and right, tearing down the road with reckless abandon. I just looked down at my HR from time to time, keeping the ticker below 135 - sinfully slow. It was intoxicating! No pain, no problem. I watched all the little rabbits head over the horizon, and enjoyed my early seaside promenade.

The first 10 miles were pretty much uneventful, save two moments. Have I mentioned that I've picked up a new stunt - drinking while running? My friend Tom taught me how to "Pinch and Suck" a cup so that you don't have to slow down at water stops, so I've been practicing when I could. I've gotten to the point now where a cup in my hand is almost automatically squished to the correct shape and emptied in less than a second.

Of course, this has really annoyed some folks at happy hour on Friday's, but after a few soakings, they get used to it. Peter Reid can do it, and so can I - even at slow speeds, it makes you look fast - right?

So at mile 6 I came tra-la-la'ing along and grabbed a cup. Problem - this station used plastic cups. Were someone to analyze the in-flight recording of my brain for the next few seconds, they would see the word "Plastic?" form in my imagination, shortly followed by the ears reporting sounds of an explosion, the right hand reporting a sudden unexpected lightness, my privates stringing together a string of 9 rather water-logged obscenities, while my feet asked for a weather report.

I got a second cup, and walked the rest of that stop.

Only 2 miles later I needed to take a break to heed the call of nature (probably from the resulting chill of the previous pinch and soak) so I pulled over. As I adjusted my shorts for the pit stop, I popped one of my number pins off and thought, "I'll fix that in a moment." I held my shorts with one hand, grabbed the pin with the other, and then needed one more hand to re-pin the number in place.

At that moment, the in-flight recording would capture my demand for hands greater than the existing supply, the deliberate (but not-well thought out) dropping of my shorts, another single word forming in my imagination ("Shorts?"), and another long and waterlogged tirade from my re-soaked privates. "Ahh, whoops. Another splash at the next aid station should fix that."

(Shakespearean Aside: Does anyone else out there notice that the first race of the season is usually subject to a few inexplicable brain fades? Yes? Show of hands? Just checking. Nice to get them out of the way early, isn't it?)

At mile 10 I met up with St. Lynda and after a quick kiss hello, we jogged a few yards together. "You get a chance to sleep late? What are you doing the rest of the day?" I asked. It was just a normal chat, other than the fact that I had knocked down 10 miles with 16 to go - but as soon as she peeled off for a walk on the boards, I looked down at my watch and said, "It's go time."

I was actually looking forward to the next 10 mile segment - the "GO' portion of the 10-10-10 plan, instead of dealing with the usual creeping doubts after 10 fast miles. Sure I was off PR pace, but that was the plan! I was supposed to be! Hah! I was really starting to dig the whole 'slow run on purpose' thing - very much my speed.

But now it was time to set my legs free. I let my HR giddy up to 145, then 150, and then a very strange thing began to happen. I, Bob Mina, admitted anti-runner and proponent of the 120 Mile bike and 5K run as race distance, began to, PASS people.

One here, one there, they kept slowly coming back to me, passing back...and out of earshot. I had never experienced anything like it, and the more people I passed, the more I wanted to pass. It was a drug I'd never tasted: Like a combination of cocaine and Cadbury it was sumptuous, sensuous, with a Chinese-food like texture in that I never felt full no matter how many people I passed. I was hooked - savagely and instantly.

I carried on this way; sweat running down my face under the cloudless sky, picking off one carrot after the next. Always with a word as I passed, "Good job!" - and when they'd reply "Looking strong!" this time I knew they weren't being nice. I was looking strong - I was feeling strong,

I couldn't help the smile - all the way to mile 20.

The first 10 miles had taken 1:38; The second 10 miles went down in 1:33. Not blazing in speed, not PR pace, but on the feeling good meter I was definitely up to 11.

With 10km to go, I knew if I could hold it together I'd negative split for the first time - so in lieu of the PR I would miss, that became the goal of the day. Miles 21, 22, and 23 went down well, but then the pain began to slowly catch up. Not unexpected - and I was glad to feel that familiar "nails in my quads" feeling at 20-something as opposed to 14 or 16 miles. Even I could fight for 5 more stinking kilometers.

And then, SHE passed me.

Blue shirt. Bottle holder. Tan cap. And MOVING. I'd been pitching a no-hitter for almost 14 miles; This was the first time I was on the receiving end of someone's back - and I didn't like it. I knew that if I took off too quickly I'd probably explode like Mt. St. Helens, so I settled in on her 6 and waited. I watched. I let her open up a 30 foot gap, and held it. The stalk was on - I wasn't about to let her go.

After a half-mile, she eased up. Like a good hunter she'd clearly sped up to make the pass, then settled back when she'd thought I was gone. I'd hoped that was the case, so now was the time to creep back. I started closing the gap, one foot at a time. It took nearly another ½ mile, but I moved in. I made sure to approach her on the left side so that my shadow would be seen - announcing that I was back before she could even hear me.

At mile 24, we were side-by-side. The duel was on.

"Hi!" I piped, trying to sound like I had something left in a now rapidly emptying tank. "Hey there!" she replied, sounding equally as bright as I'd faked. "I'm Margie, and I've been chasing you for 12 miles!" She shared. I noticed she was able to form a complete sentence without breathing.

Oh-oh.

"Really?" I said, taking a huge breath. "Wow! You're the first person to pass me since mile 10, and I didn't want to let my no-hitter go, you know?" How I managed to get all the words out without turning purple or exploding was beyond me, but clearly she knew now I was hurting.

And we ran on. She tried to strike up conversation. I answered in one word and two word sentences. We approached the last drawbridge, footfall for footfall. I knew it was my only chance to shake her, and I hit the gas on the uphill. Her shadow dropped away for a moment and then with deliberate determination, reeled right back up to my side.

"Ow." She said. But then she slowly started to push the pace herself, and my legs began to offer their first signs of surrender. Images of F1 cars with plumes of smoke and flames out the pipes crept across my imagination, and my breathing became more and more ragged. Red lights began to light up in my head, and like Han Solo pleading with the Millennium Falcon, I kept thinking to myself, "Hold together. Just hold together."

After covering mile 24 in 8:54 (my fastest of the day), Margie began to open the gap for good. I tried every trick in the book to hang on, but the elastic stretched to its limit.and snapped. "Margie? Well done. See you at the finish." I offered. She replied, "There's still one mile left! Good Job!" But I knew there was no return - I was in survival mode now as Margie headed off, victor of the Battle of Sea Isle City.

At least she was easier on my eyes than my nemesis Eric's backside.

Along the crashing surf on the final Promenade in Sea Isle, I trudged to a 26th mile of 10:10 (slowest of the day), but as the finish line approached I held my hands high and smiled like I'd won the thing. I had finally gotten one right! I had been patient, I'd waited, and I'd even left enough in the tank to think near the end! Whoda' thunk it could happen with this Bob?

I crossed the line in 4:11:23, having passed at least 75 people from mile 10 to the finish, with Margie being the only one that got away. Oh, and my negative split goal? First half - 2:06:21, Second Half - 2:05:02. It wasn't the fastest, but damn - it was the smartest marathon I'd ever run, and it suddenly opened up the door to a whole new way of looking at the thing.

After a shower, a snack, another snack, and then another snack before starting the drive home, I was in a state of total bliss. As Lynda took the wheel I crumpled into the passenger seat, still unable to get that damn smirk off my face. As we passed over the inlets and harbors of the Jersey Shore with the sun lighting a thousand diamonds over the bays to the West, I was at total peace, knowing that I had done all I could with the fitness I had - and I'd had fun! I'd done something I thought I'd never do - I'd really, really enjoyed a marathon. Even without a PR at the end of a day, sometimes a solid effort feels even better.

I knew that the seductress that is the marathon had just given me a good day, and it was great to savor it for once instead of wondering what had gone wrong, and I just let myself feel good. Good like a cup of coffee that never gets cold, or the blanket that fits just right. The kind of good you can think of for days, and it brings that quiet smile right back to you.

The Philadelphia Marathon is November 23, 2002. This time, I can't wait!

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