Letterbox Edition:

Who hasn't worked long hours? Who hasn't seen their social life and training time go by the wayside when their career leaps up and gobbles up all the time it can see, and then helps itself to more then it's welcome to? It's a phenomena that we've all had to live through from time to time. You do what you have to, and you steal the moments that you can.

Sometime in early September, I was pulled into one of 'those projects' that pretty much took over my life. Long hours without seeing Lynda, daylight, or my running shoes. As the days ran together and turned into weeks without any sense of a training schedule, my mindset shifted - no longer would this Autumn Marathon Season be one of a long, calculated, and triumphant build towards the Philadelphia Marathon: It would be way weirder than that.

I would be able to run on the weekends (maybe), and that would be it. For all of September, and then October. There would be no need to taper - no training, no taper needed. I would run Baltimore - all 26.2 miles of it - no matter if it took me 5 hours or more. Every race would be like an ultra - run when I can, walk when I can't.

Pride was pushed overboard to make room for common sense. Any aspirations of setting PR's were simply taken down of the walls and replaced with the simple joy of the finish. Much like my first season in 1996, it was another blank canvas for me. Life changes, you change with it.

As I made the drive down to Baltimore on Friday, each time I looked in the mirror I could see the bags. Each day during the week had been a battle to keep my focus on the weekend. Lynda had already told me, "If you don't want to run, don't run. I'm okay with it either way - we can just have a weekend in the Inner Harbor and rest."

It seemed tempting - it sure looked tempting. Even Eric Weiss - the man who covered 140.6 with the same amount of total mileage that most people put down for an Olympic Distance race, wasn't sure I was doing the right thing. "Why do you have to race? Is it really that important to you? Can't you just go down, rest, and play?"

A perfectly sensible question, for which I had a perfectly sensible answer: If I don't run, work wins. I take the last step backwards that separates me from the people that think about running, but never leave their desks to do it. I throw away the last thing I have to keep me moving and in touch with the training I used to do, and I'm not willing to do that. If I run, even if I finish with the walkers - I win.

This time, it's not about time.

The alarm went off at 5:30am, just like it has been every day for the past month (one good thing about insane work hours). I got dressed, and kissed Lynda goodbye from the darkness of our hotel room. She'd been working the same kind of hours lately, so this was a chance to keep the curtains closed and catch up on sleep for herself. I was just going for a little run with some friends. Four, maybe five hours. I'd be back in time for lunch.

I grabbed a cup of coffee down in the lobby Starbucks, and snagged a cab at 6:00am straight up. As I rode in the darkened backseat along the empty, pre-dawn streets of the Inner Harbor, the driver peeked in the mirror and asked, "Are you really going to run 42 kilometers today?" I had never been asked a question in metric before - I thought that was pretty cool.

"42.2, actually - although running the whole thing? Baaah, maybe not. But I just hope to finish." I mused.

"How many of you are there?" He countered.

"About 4000, I think?" I wasn't really sure.

"Do you all finish?" A good question.

"Most do, most do..." I trailed off, trying to convince myself it wasn't worth worrying about.

The cab pulled up in front of the stadium at 6:10 - I had nearly 2 hours to kill before the start. I was probably one of the first 20 runners there, and could hear Eric Weiss somewhere through time and space shaking his head at me going, "WHY?" I can't explain it - I just feel better getting to a race early. I settle in to the day to come. I don't have to wait in lines. I go to the place I like to go in my mind before a marathon, with no-one around. No rushing - no sense of urgency.

Of course, since it was still in the low 40-degree range, I was freezing. The sun wouldn't be up over the skyline for another 2 hours. I took care of business in the stadium restrooms, checked my bags at the baggage check, and then walked up to the Marriott one block from the start line to wait in a nice, heated lobby.

The lobby was mobbed when I got there, just like last year. Clearly word had spread about my little 'secret' place to hide, but that was okay - I found some floor and just chilled. This was the main hotel for "Team in Training" for this race, and there must have been close to 1000 purple runners waiting for the start. Much has been said and debated about TNT and triathlons, but in marathons I have no issue with their presence at all. What amazed me were the shapes and sizes, and PROPS of some of the TNT runners. Fuel Belts, Walkmans, double-flask holders. Full jackets, pants, nametags, and cell phones.

Some of them looked like they were ready for Raid Galouises, but if that's what it takes to get you through 26.2, then that's that. What amazed me was that some were clearly going to walk the whole way. I never know what to think about them: Sure, it's great that they're out there. Money for research is being generated by their unselfishness and dedication. Some are running or walking with pictures of children on their backs. But is that really 'running' a marathon?

No, this isn't what Phieppiedies or Jim Fixx or Fred Lebow had in mind, but in the grand scheme of things, I think it'd be best if I just stopped fretting about it and let them go. If they can walk for 7 hours and donate money to a good cause, and so long as they know that the course won't stay open past 7 hours, I think I just need to shut up and run and let it be. When I run, I run for me. Am I selfish? Should I even feel selfish? Tough to say.

Maybe this is why Eric shows up 5 minutes before the start, so he doesn't allow his mind time to philosophize pre-race.

At 7:50, I wandered outside and found my way to the throng awaiting the cannon. I stood on a curb and just skimmed the crowd; Dave Decker was going to be here, so there was a slim chance I'd find him...

"BOB-BAY!" Right on cue, Dave surfed out of the crowd and found me. He'd run a trail marathon 2 weeks earlier, and this was just another 'training day' for him before Philly. I knew that this was the only time I'd be seeing him all day, and I made sure he knew that.

"You know that even if you run a modest pace, there's NO WAY I'm staying with you." I pleaded.

"Whatever! Sandbagger!" He chuckled. If only I had the legs to TRY!

Before I could finish my worry, the horn sounded and we were off. Dave disappeared immediately to my right and up the road, in an eerie deja-vu from our start at Boston so many months and miles ago; where did this year go? In April I was looking longingly at the summer to come after another endless winter, knowing that it just HAD to get better...

...and here I was at the start line of the penultimate race of my season 6 months later, undertrained, burned-out from work, from life, just looking to put the unrequited hope of unfufilled promise behind me one mile at a time. I was thankful to have made it to the start line - I was thankful for a clear, sunny, windless day to run. I was trying to find the silver lining on the day; it was going to be a long one.

"Hey - I don't have my cell phone! I'm not at work!" I smiled. How bad is a project when it makes a marathon look relaxing? All I could do was shake my head. In the comic strip Calvin and Hobbes, Calvin's dad once mused, "If I'd known this whole grown-up thing was going to be ad-libbed, I'd have been in less of a hurry to get here."

The first three miles were uphill, and steady. I could see my breath in the low morning light. I'd worn an extra T-Shirt to the start to keep warm, and I wasn't sweating yet. I'd keep it until things got warm - however long that took. The first three miles went by in the high 9's, low 10's - I took splits, but I really didn't care what the clock said so long as I was there to see it in 23 more miles.

Running in my own space was just what I needed. I didn't have the energy to talk, chat, or even so much as think about keeping up with someone else. I could watch others around me and quietly latch onto their pace, or listen to their conversations about the miles to come. After 17 marathons, I could tell who was experienced and who wasn't just by looking around; the first-timers were all talking, singing, bouncing around with energy to burn. It seems so easy in the first 6 miles!

The others - the vets, were quiet. Churning on, knowing that the first 20 miles were just halfway to hell.

As we passed 10km someone yelled out, "WHOO-HOO! JUST 20.3 TO GO!" He was immediately corrected by a chorus of people who knew darn well what the distance was; "Point TWO, POINT TWO!" 26.3 miles? Go for it, Holmes. I'm stopping where I'm supposed to stop. You want to finish on the 34 yard line inside the stadium? See ya'.

My legs still weren't 100% - more like 65 or 70%. They didn't hurt, but the energy just wasn't there. I'd set my countdown timer to chirp every 25 minutes to remind me to eat, and I'd been honest about it. I was carrying a full gel-flask of Hammer Gel, and 4 GU's pinned to my shorts. I hate running with the flask in my hand, so that ensures I eat through the first 13 miles. Did I need more sleep, or more food? Couldn't do much about the sleep now...so I doubled up the fueling.

7 miles, 8 miles, 9 miles. I just knocked them down one at a time somewhere in the high 9's. I had the energy to go a little bit faster, but I knew I'd probably need it later. The wall was going to find me sooner or later - I didn't need to give it any help in knocking me down. The sun was up now, and I was getting warm. After 90 minutes I finally tossed my extra shirt and felt lighter, if not faster.

By 10 miles I'd finished my gel flask and one of the GU's on my shorts (the pin was digging into me, so that was the first to go). I was starting to feel somewhat better, so I just kept right on eating and running a 10-minute pace. I passed the runners lined up and waiting for the 9:30am Half Marathon start, and thought to myself, "Tonight, I can eat more then you caaaaannn...."

Coming back into the Inner Harbor, I knew I'd probably see Lynda at halfway. Hopefully she'd gotten to sleep in a bit, and would have some time to just hang out and enjoy breakfast on the waterfront while I trundled on for a few more hours. Knowing I'd see her gave me a moment to check my form; back straight, shoulders relaxed, hands open, loose, body centered...

As I peeled around the bend at mile 13.5, I saw her. I'd told her to meet me here, and that I'd be there around 10:15am, or 2:15 race time. I stole a glance at my watch - It read 2:14:51.

Slow, but accurate. Nice.

"Hey! How are you? You look GREAT!" She beamed.

"I knew you were coming, so I've been running harder the past 300 yards. How was breakfast? Did you sleep in?" I confessed, and put my hands on my thighs to rest.

"I slept until 8, you started - I woke up. How do you feel?" She asked.

I just put my head down on her shoulder. It was soft, warm, and smelled faintly of Lancome's "Oui!" perfume. After being surrounded by nothing but Vaseline, Gatorade, Body Glide, Ben Gay, and Port-o-loo's for 2 hours, her presence was a shot of pure heaven to my senses, and not moving for just a few seconds felt SO GOOD.

I was sure I stunk like a litter box, so I made sure not to touch her with anything but my forehead. Knowing I was headed rapidly for a nap, she grabbed my dome and pointed it down the road. "No, no, no, no - you can't stop now."

"Please?" I asked.

"Nope. Keep moving!" She wound me up and turned me towards Fells Point - 12.7 miles to go.

She was right, and I knew it. I kissed her goodbye, and turned back as I rumbled away, "Sorry about having GU breath. I'll see you somewhere between 4:25 and 4:30 - about 12:30 at the stadium!" Just over 2 hours to go now - I can run for 2 hours, can't I? The sun was up, and it was turning into the most perfect Autumn day you could ask for. Leaves were changing, the air was crisp, but it wasn't cold.

I downed the last of my GU's by mile 14, and figured I'd just wing it from there. I was out of fuel, but I felt like I had energy to talk and pick up my knees a bit. I kept my mouth shut, and focused on keeping good form up the hills. I knew from 2002 that this course was endlessly up and down until mile 25, so steady and sure was the best way to get it done and finish smiling.

Ahead of me on one of the climbs near mile 16 was a young kid. He looked 16, and had freckles and red hair. His skinny legs seemed to be mounted on springs, since with every step he seemed to bound in every direction at once. I watched him run up some stairs to high-five some woman spectating, then blitz back across the road to pound on some bongo drums being played by a couple as the runners filed by.

All the while, this petite blonde chugged along the middle of the road in short, controlled steps. I noticed that he kept coming back to her, springing ahead, falling back, then catching up. When I drew alongside, I said to him, "If you are making it look this easy this late, I can't even imagine what you'd be like at full-tilt!"

Before he could answer the petite blonde spoke up, without even turning her head a single degree: "That's because he's running with his mother." The cowboy kid looked at me, shrugged, tipped his hat, and started running backwards, waving at the bongo drummers fading into the distance.

Now that we were deep into the third hour, I could see people that were singing and talking earlier starting to get 'the look.' The distant stare as the reality of 35,000 steps down and 10,000 remaining echoed through tiring muscles. People were starting to walk now, and I was moving up through the field even though I was running no faster. If anything, I was starting to slow as well - just not that much.

At mile 19, I caught up to 4 guys in red shirts. I thought, "What an odd team..." They were running in tight formation - 4 across the lane, with 6 or 7 people tailing along. It took my foggy brain a moment, but then I realized that I was catching a pace team. They had "4:30" signs on their backs - that should have given it away, eh?

I thought to myself, "I'm running a 4:25 pace, and I CAUGHT the 4:30 group? What's up with THAT?" Clearly, they'd taken it out a weee bit too hard, and were taking what was left of the group back a bit before the final 10K. I had the energy now to consider running in a group, so I quietly tucked into the grupetto and figured they'd give me a nice focus for the last 6.2 miles.

As we clambered up another false-flat, we were in a closed off lane marked with cones. Out of a side street came some kid on a motocross bike. No helmet, and racing the engine wide-open. "Future organ donor there..." Mused one of the pacers, as the kid tore off up the road. The problem was, he was headed against traffic - the cops were letting cars come DOWN the street.

What happened next was all too predictable. The kid saw cars coming, and yanked hard right without lifting off the gas. He nailed a cone head-on, and we heard the engine quit. The engine had quit, because at 35-40mph, the kid was no longer on the bike. He'd dumped it, and now motor-cycle and ejected rider were sliding along the pavement...two missles, headed into the runners lane.

All of us watched, powerless. The bike smashed into the curb, followed by the kid. In a macabre moment, I didn't see anyone flying in the air, and felt a millisecond of relief; "Thank God, he only killed himself and not one of us..." Just then, I saw one runner clutching his elbow, shaking, sinking to the ground in shock. He'd been grazed - probably by the bike before it completely dumped.

The police were already running from both directions, and the kid knew it. Incredibly, road-rash be damned, he stood up. The pacer group and I were still 50-60 feet away, and runners ahead of us were paying attention to the struck runner. I could see it - we all could see it - the kid knew he'd f---ed up, and he wasn't long for the scene.

He jumped back on the bike, and started kicking furiously to start the motor. We all started screaming, pointing, and willing the bike to not start. "This doesn't happen in real life - does it?" The moto roared to life, and without looking, the kid tore off across the road. Cars coming locked their brakes up and slid as the punk tore down a sidestreet...and out of sight.

Two officers were frantically keying their radios to raise help, and they'd missed grabbing the hit-and-run by less then 20 feet. One of the pacers stopped to help, and in the middle of all of this, we just kept on running - unable to really comprehend what we'd just seen. A Police helicopter roared overhead, and began to circle. The capture would be made, it was just a question of when.

I muttered to myself, "I hope they just shoot the f'er and save us all the expense of paying for his prison time." We could do nothing about it - we just kept on running, slowly getting back to the task at hand, and hoping the Police would do theirs.

The 4:30 group was all first-timers, and they were bravely hanging in there despite the close call. The pacers were doing great work trying to keep their spirits up, and reminding them to eat, drink, and focus on their form. Each mile became another triumph, and when we passed through the 20 mile mark, one of the pacers yelled out, "It's PR time! None of you have ever run this far, right? You're doing great!"

That pacers name was Stu. Stu had stopped before, and helped out the hurt runner. He'd then bridged a 3-4 minute gap on his own, 20 miles into a marathon. I learned that Stu was 64 years old, and an ultramarathoner helping out for the morning. Stu also tended to start talking to whatever female passed us, and would sloooooooowly run away from the group, at a pace of 6 inches per second. The other pacers would watch Stu head up the road, then count 1...2...3...and yell out,

"STU!"

Stu would stop. Stu would Jog in place, we'd catch him, he'd grin. "She's a cutie!" with a sparkle in his eye, and get back in the line. This would repeat every mile until the end. As we passed mile 22, we asked a cop, "Did they get him yet?"

He just shook his head. "He dumped the bike and ran. We got it, but not him." Amazing that he knew who we were talking about. That's good work.

Mile 23 rolled up, and Stu said to his guys, "We're behind a bit. Should we pick it up?" They all discussed it, and decided to pick it up a little bit now, but to save the real push for the downhill at mile 25. As I gamely stayed at Stu's hip, I started breathing harder. Stu looked over and said, "You're doing great! How do you feel?" I told him I was getting warm, but that was alright - the sun felt great after all the wet races I'd had this year.

Stu replied, "Yeah it's nice - I've been cold all morning! You look like you've got some beef on you, though. You can take it!"

It had taken me 20 years, but I'd finally answered the age-old question posed to a generation by Clara Peller: "Where's the Beef?"

The Beef is me. John Lennon was the Walrus, and I, Bob Mina, am the Beef.

"Beef or not, I've still got to carry it. Hills are just flat roads going up, right?" I grinned, lying to myself between pants.

"That's right!" Exploded Stu, as he moved to the front and started to tow the group. In a few strides, he'd dropped us again.

1...2...3...

"STU!"

Back he came. "Sorry, fellas. We gotta' hump it now if we're making 4:30." Mile 24 chugged by in 10:40 - the last hills were hurting us, and time was slipping away. I noticed that suddenly, it HURT to run a measly 10:40. I remembered that I'd GU'ed it up in the first 14 miles, and taken NOTHING since except for Gatorade. I think that might have been a mistake. I was pumping my arms, and my legs were cracking.

I could hear Phil Liggett in my head - a sure sign that doom was lurking. "And you know that in this man, this beefy man, that those legs have gone! He's looked deep into his suitcase of courage to see what he's got, and there might be nothing left now!"

The pacers started to creep away from me. 5 feet. 10 feet. I dug deep, and refused to give another inch. The effort felt like I was running a 400 on the track, and even in the middle of it I knew I was barely cranking along at a 9:00 pace - IF that. "Bonk City, here I come...urrrggghh!"

I closed the gap, sucking enough wind to pull leaves down from every tree in a 20 foot radius. If I could make it to mile 25, I could get it done. I put everything I had left into mile 24, counting on adrenaline to carry me those last 1.2 miles. I focused on the back of Stu's shirt, and imagined a short-rope that was towing me down the road.

Suddenly, everything hurt. My hip flexors, my eyes, my elbows, my knees, my fingernails; Pain was coming out of every pore of my body. The will to fight was leaving as quickly as the final mile was arriving, and I was thankful that I'd taken what little fitness I'd brought to the table and somehow stretched it this far. In the misery of this 25th mile, I was somehow proud of myself for pacing my effort so well, and at the same time, wishing to God that I'd get hit by a meteor so I could stop running.

Pleasure, Pain.

Passion, Obsession.

We live our racing lives on the knife edge, always a step from greatness or madness. In those moments of such raw pain and emotion, we get to explore the depths of our character more then anyone else - which is why we take the pain. I gritted my teeth, and watched Stu's salt-encrusted red shirt...as mile 25 passed by.

"9:10. DAMN. Guys, that was awesome!" Stu was happy - we'd gotten time back. No wonder it hurt - that was the fastest mile I'd run all day. I looked back...

"Oops. Sh*t." I don't know who said it, but indeed. We'd lost everyone. That mile had taken the first-timers and blown them to pieces - I was the only one in the group not wearing a red shirt, and it didn't seem fair. "Well, go for it if you've got it - we're going back to see if we can get them in..."

I made sure I shook each of their hands, "Thanks guys - You were great company!", and then I took what I had left and put Sir Isaac Newton behind me - it was all downhill from here.

In that last mile, I really made sure I enjoyed it. I had taken my body and gotten it through a marathon on 4 runs over the course of 4 weeks. I had run a marathon on nothing but hope and experience. Most of all, I'd run it steady - 2:11 first half, 2:19 second half. Not bad at all.

As we descended towards Eutaw Street, Camden Yards, and the finish, the pain that had chewed me to ribbons left me. The steps came easily now - I was going to make it. As I narrowed my focus down the road, I saw a white figure headed in from the left, followed by a woman and two children RUNNING to stay with him... "Dave?"

"BOB-BAY!" Symmetry - my name the same as before, only 26.1 miles later and a little beefier.

"I figured you'd have had lunch and a shower by the time I got here." I chuckled. "How'd you do?"

"3:58!" Piped Mr. Sub-4:00-for-the-first-time Decker.

"YEEEAAAHHH!" I managed to yell. "YOU DID IT!" I high-fived him, and the energy of joy shared made my feet even lighter.

The sun was warm, the skies were blue, and the crowd was still there, and echoing under the bridges above. Lynda waved to me from the right side, and I steered over. For a moment I thought about a kiss as I had in 2002, but I knew that my legs were so close to total collapse that stopping might mean crawling, so a high-five would have to do.

"Sorry sweetie! I can't stop!" *clap!*

I rumbled on past, and took my last steps to the line. I went to put my arms up, but I couldn't get them past my shoulders. I didn't care - It was fine with me. The clock would tell me that I'd covered the distance in 4:30:38, but with the little chip on my ankle...I was able to squeak out a 4:29:31.

I was done. I was hurting, but the hurt was worth it. Sometimes, just showing up is all it takes to have a great day.

In four more weeks looms the Philadelphia Marathon. I have one more week left on my project. That means one week of training, and two weeks of taper.

No problem. I've got beef. I can do it.

Hurricane Bob
* Show up. Go. Write another chapter. *