The Philadelphia Marathon is Graduation Day to me every year: After all the training, hopes, goals, lofty aspirations and co-mingled fears, it is the final stop on whatever season I've had - good or bad. It allows me one final indulgence of selfish play before the Winter closes in and takes away the last signs of daylight and life for the next 4 months. It writes the coda on the season, and lately, has turned into a fantastic finale that involves lots of close friends.

I might not always be ready for 26.2 miles, but if I've got friends out there to keep me aiming up the road, I'll always be willing to fake it.

This year was a year to forget for me. A rain-soaked winter led to a rain-soaked spring which led to a rain-soaked summer (interrupted by a single week of 90-degree temps that coincided with my Ironman USA 'Big Week' so I would be properly fried to the core), and trying to balance a new job on top of Ironman training proved to be far more of an impossible task then I'd planned. By the time October turned into November, I felt like a domestique at the Tour who's leader had quit. I was trashed mentally, physically, and spiritually. There was no passion left to go on - just the job to do. A race to finish - a season to close. I couldn't wait to put it behind me - seeing the last race on the calendar coming up was like the last corner before the line; not much more to take now, just a little bit more...

The highlight for the weekend wouldn't be the race for me - it was that this would be a grand gathering of friends from the East Coast at the house Lynda and I have devoted most of our energy to since last June. Having Mike and Kim Kelly, Dave and Lisa Jones, Eric, Amy, and Ben Weiss, and the occasional drive-through of Dave Decker in my home for the weekend was enough motivation for me to simply forget training (like it mattered now?) and for Lynda and I to attack those 'last few things' with a zeal normally seen in NATO training exercises. We painted, replaced paneling, stained wood, miter cut molding, and hung pictures that have been waiting for a home for years. Whatever taper energy I would have had I gladly burned in my basement getting coated in sawdust, sniffing paint fumes, and looking around and what used to be a dungeon-esque cellar...now turning into a sweet extra bedroom.

If I was going to run a lousy marathon, at least I wanted to have a nice house for everyone to come home to and be sore in.

Everyone arrived on Friday night, and Mike and Kim even managed to beat me home from work (that's what I get for coming home at 8:00pm)! Lisa and Dave came bearing Lisa's world-famous Butter Tarts, and a whole gift-basket of goodies; Mike and Kim brought these semi-evil brownies; and Eric and Amy? They brought Ben, but he brought along a cold for everyone to share! We ordered pizza, drank beer, and generally acted like the kids we used to be...even as Father Time tried to slow us down with kids and mortgages.

Saturday brought the trip to the expo, a feast at the Manayunk Brewery, and the most gorgeous Fall Weekend you could ask for. The weather was finally cooperating with me for the final act; the skies were forecast to be clear, windless, and the temperature would just nudge into the 60's for the last time all year. It was the kind of day cool enough for running, and warm enough for spectating. With everyone around and everything looking so good, it was hard not to feel better about things - how could I be anywhere but up?

Of course, there was the matter of Eric's 6:59am wake-up call from the NYC Marathon while I slept in on a weekend for the first time in 8 weeks. I had him on double-super-secret-probation until Sunday morning, just because. I tried my best to be mean and nasty to him to even the score, but it was useless - when I try to be comically mean, I come across like a half-wit Dr. Evil (minus the half that's actually funny). I don't do revenge well - never have. I would not make a good Dread Pirate Roberts, I guess.

Sunday dawned at 5:00am (well, it didn't really dawn until 7:40am, but I digress); I digress once more because it didn't quasi-dawn for me at 5:00am since I'd conveniently set my alarm for 5:00pm instead, so my brain stumbled into closed eyelids at 5:13am when Mike Kelly came down the hallway, and immediately jumped into that "adrenaline-fueled-I'm-late-for-my-final-exam-and-why-am-I-naked morning!?" routine. I'd set up all my gear in the bathroom so that I wouldn't wake up Lynda, and if I'd remembered where her dresser was in relation to the bathroom door (we've only been there a year for Chrissakes!), I'm sure she would have slept a little longer. Luckily for me, she's learned to go back to sleep very quickly since I seem to miss the door just about every freaking time I wake up early for a race.

The coffee maker was bubbling, Pop-Tarts were heated, and by 6:00am we were out the door and on the road.

The goals for the day looked a little something like this: Lisa needed a 3:50:59 to earn a slot to Boston. Dave Decker and I were assigned to be her domestiques and to do whatever it took to get her there. Mr. Lisa Jones (Dave) was aiming for a sub-2:57, and was fit enough to be serious about it. Mike Kelly was racing his first Philadelphia Marathon, but only his second EVER standalone marathon - he was also racing time. Since Kimbo was three months pregnant, he knew full well that this would be his last uncomplicated shot at a good race, and he was ready for it: 3:30 was possible, 3:40 would still be a 45 minute PR.

Eric? Eric had run a smart and controlled NYC Marathon 3 weeks earlier in 3:58 (beating P.Diddy in the process). He was just getting back to some form of regular training now that Ben was (almost)(sometimes)(occasionally) sleeping through the night. Eric is one of those hyper-talented runners who can do fast races on no training, so with what he'd been able to do since August made him a strong candidate for sub-3:30 as well. Dave Decker was going to hang with Lisa - 3:40 to 3:50 would be a PR for him (even though he'd already had a breakthrough race once this year, clocking a 3:58 at Baltimore to get his first sub-4:00 in only his 3rd marathon).

So that left me: I was going to run with Lisa as long as I could, then hang on. Anything under 4:15 would be a reason to party - I just didn't want to leave Lynda out there waiting for me all...day...long. I had experience in my corner, and not much else. Could I make a lot out of a little? It was the only thing I could do, now.

On the steps of the Art Museum Eric found a new victim, and called Mike Peerless at 7:15am. We managed to meet up with Steve Noone (whom we'd 'known' through e-mail, but never met in person), and soak up some early morning warmth from a sun that we'd barely seen in 2003. I nibbled on another Pop-Tart, applied Body Glide to the right places, and double-checked the pinning of my GU's for the 14th time. I wasn't nervous - I couldn't be. When you don't expect anything, there's no pressure to worry. Lisa was calm, Dave was relaxed, Eric and Mike were both loose and ready, and soon there wouldn't be anymore time to worry about it. We walked down the steps, some of us ran to the woods one more time, and then we headed for the start.

Decker and I managed to separate from Lisa and everyone else as we made our way across Eakins Oval, but we hoped we'd be able to spot her on the long run down the Ben Franklin Parkway that always helped sort out the runners. Before I had time to figure if we were in the right place for the start, the horn sounded, and the last race of 2003 took off all around me.

Dave and I found our own pace straight-away, and we found Lisa in the first 400 yards; she was hauling. As we headed down the parkway away from the Museum of Art, I could tell I was already in over my head. To run a 3:50 meant holding 8:45's all the way; we were running 8:20's right at the start. I was dressed right for the day - a sleeveless top and shorts, but I was sweating almost instantly - working hard in the early morning shadows as we headed down to the Delaware River.

I tried to relax, to find a good rhythm. It was fast, but I'd remembered feeling this way in 2002 when Dave, Lisa, and Dave paced me to a 3:53 PR on this same course. I rode on Dave and Lisa's hip, focusing on the road ahead, pointing out landmarks as we passed by where I used to run downtown when working as a contractor. Mile 2 and 3 went by in 25:30, and in a matter of 10 minutes I knew I had no business sticking around if I didn't want to end the day in an ambulance. I had promised Dave (Dr. Jones) that I would stay with Lisa until I could take no more, doing all I could to get her to Boston.

"All I could do" was show her the Constitutional Center, the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and the Ben Franklin Bridge (complete with running path over the Delaware River to Camden). Somewhere before mile 4, I quietly peeled off to the left and watched as Dave (Decker) and Lisa not-so-slowly dropped my fat @ss like a 10-year old drops a new dress shirt on Christmas Morning.

As we passed by the battleship New Jersey moored on the other side of the river, I was alone to contemplate my own race. I looked over and marveled at the ship, and said to the guy next to me, "Check out the New Jersey - isn't that thing cool?" He had on headphones. Things got very silly, very fast.

"WHAT?" He yelled.

"The New Jersey! The Ship!" I tried, again.

"YEAH. THAT'S NEW JERSEY. IT IS SHIT." He opined.

"No, no! The battleship! The World War II battleship!" I was losing...Motley Crue was blaring loudly enough to shatter stained glass windows in a nearby church and cause the 16" guns on the ship to arm themselves.

"WOOLWORTH STORE TO WHERE? WHAT?" He pondered.

"Forget it...nevermind." I surrendered and moved away, but then precisely 8 seconds later...

"'HEY! WOW! THAT SHIP IS HUGE!" He squawked.

"Yes, yes, you have very nice boobs!" I replied, and ran on, turning away from WWII history and heading back towards Center City. The long drag up Chestnut Street lasts for nearly two miles, and then heads up towards the Philadelphia Zoo and the main hills in the race. I paced myself easily, backing off into the low 9's. The crowds were packed on Chestnut this year - the nice weather had brought seemingly everyone over from the Parkway to catch us as we headed towards UPenn and Drexel. Amid the clanging of cowbells and endless high-fives, I cruised the best that I could to the 7 mile mark and the start of the climbing.

One thing I tend to do in repeat races is remember what I was doing in certain years; sometimes as a benchmark, sometimes as encouragement, sometimes as just a way to marvel at how much time has passed me by in such a short span. In 1997 I ran my first Philly. I'd been barely dating Lynda 10 months, but we'd be moving in together a month later. It was my third marathon - my first Ironman was still 10 months away. I hadn't really met Eric other then one race; I wasn't even on any triathlon list.

Here I was 7 Philadelphia's later, surrounded by people I've met via e-mail, but whom I consider my closest friends. I'm married, and I own a home. I'm not running to test myself, I'm running for the fun of it. I can run this course with my eyes closed. I've got one hour down, and three hours to cheesesteak time. I've been at this mile scared to death, ahead of schedule, behind schedule, in the sun, in the cold, hardly believing that I've spent the past seven Sundays before Thanksgiving touring the City of Brotherly Love using my own two feet. I don't think I'm getting older, but the more I seem to remember, the more I think it might be happening anyway. Thank goodness growing up isn't related to growing older...

As I climbed through Frathouse Row in Drexel there was a porch full of brothers out in volume, cheering for everyone. I was amazed! I asked, "You guys up early, or still up late?" "WE'RE UP LATE, DUDE! YEEEAAAHH!" They toasted, beers in hand, banging on pots and pans like New Years Day. It kept me laughing all the way over Gerard Street, and towards Memorial Hall. In 2002 I'd been chasing back up to the Dave, Dave, and Lisa show following a nature call, and smoked the steepest climb of the race in 9:00 flat. This year it was a more leisurely 9:59, but I think I looked better doing it.

Passing the water stop at Memorial Hall, saying my once-per-year hello's to the "Fast Tracks" women's running group; a group that introduced me to the 20-mile training run in 1996, track workouts, and got me through my initial fears of going long. They're just a part of a day of seemingly endless memories - sentimentality was everywhere! Maybe it was a by-product of an exhausted, burned-out body looking for happy memories to re-kindle the love of racing after a season that did everything it could to quench it, but it was fun - it was like a tour of my own museum of memories. Forget concentrating on the job at hand - I let my mind wander wherever it wanted to go.

Plunging down the hill towards West River Drive and the halfway point, I caught glimpse of the Schuylkill River ahead of me. I swam in it once in 1996 for my first Half Ironman - the cutout in the shrubs by the transition area is still there, right as the marathon course makes its turn towards the Art Museum. Along here was the first (the only, really) live band of the day, playing Beatles tunes as I chugged past. All I could think about now was that in a matter of minutes, I'd be halfway - even with minimal fitness, I could run another 13.1 miles any day of the week...maybe with a little walking here and there, and there, and over there as well.

I had been faithfully taking GU's every 25-minutes, hydrating at every water stop, and now my lower-GI (Imodium lockdown be damned) needed to take out some of the trash. I knew that there were port-a-loo's along West River and Kelly Drives, but also an astonishing lack of shrubbery - so any spontaneous pitstops were out of the question. I scanned the horizon, and my eye caught glimpse of salvation - a little yellow box! I moved to the left, and pretended not to be desperately aiming for it (even though I was pretty much, desperately aiming for it). 50 feet, 40, 30, 20, 10, YAHO-

"I got it. Sorry." From the right, out of NOWHERE came this short, bald, stumpy, hairy-armed twerp. He'd made a 90-degree left turn, and beat me to the door by a step, then he held his hand up in the universal gesture single men use for, 'Talk to my social life.'

"SON OF A...!" I swore. The door closed. My intestines grumbled.

A few steps later I heard the door burst open, and fuzzy-man came out gasping for breath, very much un-relieved. Poetic justice! I reckon that one must have been out there since, well, July. Just as well - I'd been spared a sensory assault...but now I knew that my only hope was to hang on through the crowds at the Finish Line (mile 14), and descend to the shrubs on Kelly Drive. "10 more minutes, just 10 more minutes. Just like ordering Chinese food..."

As I chugged through the crowd, all the cheering took my mind off my behind for a moment. Plodding down, away from the Art Museum (and down the soon-to-be-uphill grind at mile 25.7), I had a vision: In 1998 the Fairmount Park Commission built a new boathouse on Boathouse Row - one with...BATHROOMS. REAL BATHROOMS! AT BOATHOUSE ROW!

This is how you know you're a true marathon runner - the mere thought of a public bathroom with a door and a regular cleaning schedule within reach at the right time is a gift from heaven. I opened my stride, and ran down towards Lloyd Hall like it was the last 100 meters of a 10K. I jumped over the curb, over a row of small shrubs, and made a bee-line for the door. A man walking with his son saw me coming, and opened his eyes wide - reacting like he'd just looked out his window to see a Buffalo on Rollerbladed headed right for him. He pulled his kid back, opened the door, and waved me by. I skidded into the Men's room like Ferris Bueller when he was racing Jeanie back for home, and took care of business.

3 minutes and 14 seconds later, I was a new man with 11.5 miles and no worries between myself and lunch.

The out and back along Kelly Drive is the best chance you have all race to see friends running ahead of and behind you. Looking up and down the field helps the time pass, and any high-five you can share is energy that never goes unappreciated. I watched the Kenyans rocket by; the leading women; the elite men. Steve Noone passed somewhere up there, but I simply missed him. A few minutes later the Red, White, and Black maple leaf singlet of Dr. David Jones roared into sight. I'd never seen him "running in anger" before, and he managed to wave at me...nearly 6 miles ahead, and gaining with every step.

Damn.

The pain started to become more real to me, now. No longer just discomfort, but an ache in each leg that would only grow worse - the penalty of miles that were missed during training that was skipped for work that knew no escape. I slowed down - I knew I would. 9:30's became 10:00's. Striding became shuffling - passing became passed by.

I thought about all the things I'd told Mike about the course - the bridges, the bends, the drummer, the bagpiper, the exit ramp at mile 21 - I hoped he was having the day he wanted. Eric knew the course, and I wondered if he and Mike were in the same neighborhood. Decker? Had to be with Lisa - he wouldn't give in, and he was too strong not to. Lisa - She knew she had the form, that was no question. There were just the other 9,278 things that needed to line up to give her the PR and Boston Time; those worried me.

I was trying to focus on who was coming when a red-singlet came diving out of the crowd and yelled out, "SHEEP GO TO HEAVEN!" Mike Kelly - only Mike Kelly would remember a Cake lyric that he'd yelled to me at Tupper Lake in 1999, and use it again. I laughed, just the same. He looked great!

Turning left into Manayunk I spotted the local Tri team, "Guy's Multisport" where they always camp out - right next to the Hash House Harriers Beer Stop. When they all started yelling out, "Hurricane! LET'S GO BOB!" It was the highlight of my race. All of these men and women could mop the floor with me on any given day; they'd all been to Hawaii, but here they were giving up some love for me...even though I can't touch them on the road. How cool is that? The smile made my heavy legs just a bit lighter as I headed for the 20-mile mark, the turnaround, and the final 10km of my year.

I missed Lisa - I know I missed Lisa. I know this because when we crossed, Dave Decker was only 1/4 mile ahead of me and managed to yell, "Lisa's way up the road!" as we passed. I wasn't sure I would catch him, even though I was only one high school track back - he might as well have been on the moon. Even though I'd been eating and drinking according to the plan, with 6.2 miles to go I had started to see the big, red, "E" on the fuel gauge in my mind. I hit 20 miles in 3:07 (10 minutes off my 2002 split), made the turn, and willed my legs to start heading back to home.

I reckoned Eric was on pace for his 3:30 - I'd missed him at the same place I'd missed him last year, where the course splits in two for about a mile. Rats.

Manayunk always feels uphill, both ways to anyone who runs it. Even in training, the place just doesn't feel right. As I approached the Guy's guys again (ahem), they all started yelling for me...but this time they had SNACKS! Laurie Hug (Current Pro and 2004 Olympic Team hopeful in the Triathlon) ran at me with a tray of brownies, "Bob - you gotta' have a brownie!" Next to her was someone with a box of munchkins. Mind you - these are the fastest people I know. Who am I to pass up free sugar from rockets? I grabbed a brownie and a munchkin, and stuffed my face as I headed towards...the exit ramp of doom.

The mile 21 ramp has unglued 5 of my 6 marathons here. It's like a troll - short, ugly, and steep. I started running up it...then I was shuffling, then I was race walking. In my head, the director for mission control wrote down, "Game Over" in his logbook. My 10's became 11's, and the death-plod was on.

At least it was sunny!

Time to have some fun and take a break - While recovering from the ramp and finding my stride (or what was left of it) I stopped to play snare drum with the high school drumline that had setup to play for us at mile 22. Maybe it was my mad drumming skillz from high school, my open 32nd note rolls, my Swiss-triplet-into-double-paradiddle-riffs (with backstick), or maybe it was just my runners breath...but when I finished I got lots of cheering and applause from the runners, and 4 dropped jaws and vacant stares from the guys in the line.

I can see why: Imagine you're one of 4 teenage Spike Lee's playing drums one minute, then the next you're being drummed at by a bald guy who (at first glance) is as white as they come. Whatever. Then he busts out something he saw Grambling State do last year during halftime at the Bayou Classic, and then just hands you your sticks back and runs up the road. Yeah, it was like that. I moved on - not very quickly, but grinning like someone who'd jumped across a generation gap, then jumped back. For fun.

The miles dragged by, and soon Boathouse row came into view. In September I'd taken Mike Kelly and Eric Austin on a loop while they were here for a conference. I made sure we approached the Museum in the same direction as the marathon, and explained how Boathouse Row was the gateway to the finish line. In my head, I played the tape over for myself...

"You'll come around here, and then it's flat for about 1/4 mile. Keep your knees strong, and drive up to the final climb. People will be falling away here, letting the hill beat them - don't let it beat you; hit it with some momentum." I started to come by people, as they fell away...

"When you pass the last boathouse, you'll start to feel the road steepen. It's not steep - but at 25+ miles, it'll feel like L'Alpe D'Huez." I picked my knees up more, and started to feel the tingle of muscles doing everything they could after 4 hours on the road...

"There are two bends to the climb - it will go on and on; don't let it beat you. Keep looking down the road for the barricade - that's the home straight." I've been here a hundred times in training, and this is another grade that just doesn't feel...right.

"Move to the right - take the short line, and you'll start to feel the slope release your legs as your come around the museum - you're almost there!" I moved to the left - Lynda should be up here somewhere, and without any need to work for a PR today...at least I can get a hug, maybe a smooch?

"When you round the bend - you're there! The banner is ahead and the road opens up wide before you. Aim for the middle - the picture looks best with the clock in the center!"

I looked, I looked, I looked, and so did she. Somehow, someway, we missed each other. I turned towards the line, wiped the sweat from my brow, and for the final time in 2003, crossed a finish line - this time in 4:14:59, making my "Party On!" goal by one second.

The collapse in Boston; The mental breakdown at Double Trouble; the physical collapse at Tupper Lake; the rain and disappointment of a personal worst at IM-USA; the overtime; the lack of training; all the baggage of "What if's"; all behind me...until I crossed the line: Then they were in my past. I wasn't in the season with them - 2003 and all that went with it, was closed.

Within a second - my body felt light. All the weight I'd been carrying in my heart about "Shoulda', coulda', woulda'..." gone. I didn't really have an understanding of just how much it was with me, until I let it go.

I took off the chip from my shoe, and took off the chip from my shoulder. I got my medal. I wrapped up in Mylar. I got my luggage, grabbed some water, and set off to find everyone else to see how it had gone for them. I was already smiling with relief - not just for finishing my 18th marathon, but because 2003 couldn't hurt me anymore - I wasn't going to let it. Now it was time for cheesesteak, pizza, french fries, ice cream...what was not to smile about?

EPILOGUE:

- Steve Noone won his age-group and the Masters title in 2:48

- Dave Jones finished in 3:03. Not the sub-3 he wanted, but another 2-year Boston Qualifier for the good Doctor.

- Eric Weiss clocked 3:31, exactly as he'd hoped he would.

- Mike Kelly knocked *25 minutes* off his PR with a 3:44!

- Without any help at all from her supposed teammates (that'd be Dave and I), Lisa Jones ran herself into the ground with a 3:52:01, all of 1:02 away from Boston. When she told me I wanted to cry, but she was so completely together it was inspiring. She'd done all she could do on the day, and knew that there was simply nothing more to be done. It will happen for her in 2004 - there's just no way it can't.

- Decker found that running 3 marathons in 6 weeks, 2 months after finishing your first Ironman? Yeah, that's a lot. He finished in 4:12, and maybe if I hadn't stopped for a drum-break at mile 22, we might have annoyed one-another all the way to the end...

But there will be another year, another time, another race to do it in. When you've ended a bad year on a good day, you can't really ask for more than that. It gives you just enough hope to look towards what could be, while allowing you to stop lamenting what might have been. Sometimes looking back is good, but often it just means you'll have no idea where you're going.

I used to keep this note in my swimming duffel in college, to cheer me up after a bad race, bad practice, or bad day - it works for here, now, just as it did, then.

"Not really sure where I'm going, but anxious to leave where I've been..."

"I know that success isn't ever falling; it's rising when I've fallen again."

Hurricane Bob
* Happy New Year! *

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