In short, my triathlon life had been shoved out of the way by my real life - my "grown-up" life. I had lost control of the balance one needs to keep one's sanity in check, and as a result I'd pretty much burned myself to the ground by June. I found some of my old spark in a new sport (Dragon Boat Racing), but I knew that even the brief joy I'd known there was akin to ironing the White Star Flag attached to the aft rail of the Titanic just before it hit the water.

It was time to get this race done, get this season done, and archive 2004 to the "Lessons Learned" file.

It would be the usual cast of suspects: Dave Decker, Dave Jones, Lisa Jones, and myself starting together. Aaron Schwartzbard would play a role as the rocket-man ahead of us all, and Dave (Jones) was looking to find himself another Boston Qualifying slot in the low 3's, or perhaps sub-3 if the day was right.

Lisa Jones was still recovering from IMC; Decker was still recovering from the Vermont 50-miler in September, and I, well, whatever. I wasn't recovering from anything other than not training enough to require recovery. To add a bigger wrinkle to the picture, Lisa had a troubling relationship with her right hamstring leading up to the marathon, so she'd gone for some ART treatment to have it hammered into submission.

This worked - her hamstring loosened right up! Unfortunately, the hammy had loosened up because her back had somehow been launched into a serious of most righteous spasming two days pre-race. After a two-day drive from London, ON to Philly, Lisa was pretty much happiest, well, how can I say this without sounding rude...

...flat on her back.

After we'd all gone to packet-pickup, had our traditional lunch at the Manayunk Brewery and returned home, Lisa laid flat on our living room floor for most of the evening. The cat was confused. She was too big to attack, but was clearly injured and therefore, fair game.

So Sunday morning came all too quickly, and Lisa asked the question, "Is it worse to not start, or not finish?" None of us could answer, but she knew it - there was just no way she could run when walking hurt. Dave and I headed off to the start in the pre-dawn darkness, and Lisa headed back to bed.

We met Decker at the parking lot with perfect timing, and strode towards the Parkway with the thousands of runners seemingly appearing from all directions at once. By now our routine was familiar: Hit the Little Blue Box lineup, take care of nature calling, head to the steps for the Art Museum, sit, eat, ogle the other runners, play the "He looks fast, he doesn't, she's someone to follow, he isn't" game, and then proceed to the final step - the "Shameless Application of Body Glide and Vaseline" while surrounded by strangers on the most famous set of steps in Philadelphia.

It was just another last Sunday before Thanksgiving in Philadelphia, really - my eighth time through this drill.

We headed for the line - Dr. Jones headed towards the sharp, pointy, skinny, fast end, while Decker and I seeded ourselves somewhat more realistically in the "8 Minute Mile" bracket (which is really the 9 Minute Mile bracket, natch). We wished each other luck as we had at Boston, the LI Greenbelt 50K, and Ironman USA last year. This time, I knew I didn't have any expectations at all - just finishing would be fine with me. Anything under 4:30 would be grand. 4:15 might be possilble if the weather stayed cool and overcast...

...but with a blast of the horn, I was able to stop thinking and finally just get to the business of running. Dave and I stayed together for the first ½ mile or so, cruising up the Benjamin Franklin Parkway beneath the flags of all nations. But soon the ground started to open up between us, and I waved "Bye Bye!" to the figure of Dave as he headed up the road. There was no need to dig deep with 25 miles left to go - why hurt now, when I know I'll hurt later?

I zigged and zagged through what seemed to be a huge pileup of runners at mile 2; both sides of the road were filled with non-moving people, leaving only the smallest of lanes through the middle. As I skated over a sea of crushed cups, I knew I'd passed the first water stop, and probably about 1,000 people in no time at all. It was cool, cloudy, and still - I was barely sweating. This was fine with me - no need to drink at every stop, so no worries by skipping the first one.

As we cruised past the Delaware Waterfront and the Battleship New Jersey, I found comfort in the fact that I was running in the low 9's - 9:06, 9:11, 9:09, and 9:17 for the first 4 miles was time in the bank. I didn't expect to PR (which at 3:53 seems almost unreachable now), but a goal was a goal - each mile under 10:00 was time in the account; an account I'd be sure to draw from in the late miles.

I had to find peace and happiness in the little things: I was running on closed roads, I was running a familiar route, and I was running towards a warm shower and lunch-date that had become my favorite post-race tradition. Most of all, each mile meant that there'd be one less mile to go to the end of 2004 for me. For that reason alone, I could always find a reason to keep moving.

When I've had races like this, I've always had fun looking around at the people near me. I've enjoyed listening to the first-timers chatting away nervously in the early miles where it all seems so easy, and watching how their expression and moods change through the day. I'd tagged onto this one group of guys running together through their first marathon.

As the field headed up towards mile 10, I pulled alongside the one who was in charge of splits - he'd been announcing how far ahead of their planned pace they were. I asked him, "So what's the goal today, about 4:15 or so?" He smiled and said, "About that - 4:14:56." He could see I was searching for the significance of that time, and before I could start to guess he said, "We've got to beat P.Diddy at NYC last year. If that doesn't work, we're going after Oprah." Classic!

As I ran past Memorial Hall and mile 10, I started to hear a knocking. It was the usual knocking that has plagued me for most of my marathon life - my lower GI announcing that we'd need a pit-stop somewhere in the next few miles. I knew this was coming (Imodium be d@mned), because of a business trip I'd been on Thursday and Friday.

I'd flown to Kansas City to meet with some Desktop Support guys from our KC site. They were manly men. They drove pickup trucks that actually went off-road. They drank beer at lunch. They ate steak whenever possible. Great guys one and all, but not guys that'd be running a marathon, period. When we went out to dinner on Thursday night, I knew I was in trouble. We went out to a restaurant that served both kinds of food - Beef and Pork. As I knew whatever I ate Thursday could have large, long-reaching consequences for Sunday, I tried to order smartly...

...but ordering a Chicken Caesar Salad in front of these guys? I might as well have put on a Tutu and started singing tunes from "Cabaret." "SALAD? SALAD! What kind of candy@ss comes to Kansas and orders a SALAD?!" My order was immediately overruled and replaced with a sirloin steak.

I thought about defending myself with a brief discussion of digestion rates of beef, but then thought about it: What's worse? Being thought of as a candy@ss, or proving it by describing complete (with circles and arrows) the digestive process of beef by a marathon runner? With shaved legs? Drinking a Diet Coke while they had beer? I try to choose my battles in this life, and this was an easy choice.

I had the steak. It was fantastic, by the way. Worth every bite.

But now, descending towards West River Drive, the results were all too easy to predict. Somehow moving forward with both gleuts firmly locked in the "ALL STOP!" position, I managed to make it past halfway in 2:03 - well on goal pace for my 4:30, with even 4:15 not entirely unpossible. I trundled past the start/finish line at 14 miles before the leader had crossed the line (8 years in a row - whoot!), and down the hill towards Lloyd Hall - the one Boathouse along Boathouse Row open to the public with clean bathrooms.

Just like last year I dove across the shrubbery, through the gardens, across two sidewalks, and into my own personal Pit Stop. This year, I remembered to take a split - 3:51 total, but I was a MUCH happier Bob when I got back on the road. Without trying any harder, I was passing people - I was moving up! Maybe that 4:15 would be set, and I could work on turning the clock back with each mile? I checked my split for mile 15 - 9:16.

I knew that with 11 miles to go, I was feeling right on that edge of starting to feel bad - I could slow down, or I could fight and hang on. I had the energy to fight, even though it made no sense at all. I psyched myself up: "Okay - 11 to go, soon it'll be 10. We can run 10 any day of the week, so just run this mile as fast as you can sustain. Good form - relaxed shoulders - happy feet." I looked down the road, and locked onto the horizon. I started to pass more and more people, and let that energy run through me. If I could, I was going to change the course of my day - right here, right now.

As mile 16 drew into sight, I started to guess what the split might be: "8:45? 8:50? It's got to be good - I feel GREAT!"

I pushed the button.

I looked down.

9:26.

F*ck me.

I worked my @ss off, thought happy thoughts, and even ran with happy feet, to slow down by 10 seconds. It was perfect. It was the summary of 2004 for me - bass-ackwards. In my head the montage of exploding rocket tests from "The Right Stuff" played, complete with text captions of my races like, "Boston 2004..." "Tupper Lake 2004..." with each explosion and shower of expensive rocket bits.

It was actually entertaining - my imagination made me chuckle as I started to plummet back through the field. At least there was only 10 miles to go now - maybe 1:40 if I could hold on?

Around this time, I spotted Aaron heading back the other way towards the finish. Unlike the other whippets near the front of the field, he didn't look like he'd been through a car wash on a bicycle at all - his eyes were open, his face had color, and he was looking straight ahead, and not at the 5' of pavement before him. He looked GREAT! I managed to get both arms up and point, screaming "AARON!" as he roared past. He was going to finish in 2:3something - Ye Gods.

Jones wasn't too far back - he looked to be a safe bet for Boston, again. I yelled, he yelled back, albeit when he was 35 feet past me when his brain finally figured out who/what was yelling at him.

My focus now was just getting to Manayunk - the turnaround at 20 miles. I knew that making the turn for home could keep me moving, even as my legs were now REALLY starting to come apart. The lack of miles was starting to show in the grading of my performance by the watch - 9:30, 9:47, 9:50...10:10. Just like at Baltimore, mile 19 was the beginning of the end.

As I chugged down the road past 19, I spotted Dave Decker heading for home. He was moving well, but his focus was totally on the patch of road 5' in front of him. His face was totally blank. I yelled out, "Decker!" Immediately, he looked up, smiled, and high-fived me. "Hey, Bobby!", then went right back into his tunnel-vision. It was eerie.

In the back of my mind I thought, "Last year we were a minute apart. I hope I can catch him this time!" It wasn't much, but at 20 miles, anything had to help me. I made the turn for home, and looked straight down the barrel of 6.2 miles - the last 10km of my year, and most importantly, the last ~700 calories to be burned off that would give me both onion ring AND cheesesteak privilege at lunch.

I started chugging out of Manayunk, heading towards the short, steep climb over the Ridge Avenue Exit Ramp that has been my undoing in 6 of 7 previous runnings here. I committed myself to NOT walking this time, and despite people coming apart on all sides when faced with such a short, nasty grade so late in the day, I managed to make it over the ramp in stride, on pace, and with a big smile on my face. "That's it, Bob - small victories. Little things. Just keep it go- AUGH!!!!"

As I confidently tried to open my stride on the downhill, my right hamstring fired a warning shot and immediately cramped. It hadn't even been twingy before - and now it was NOT playing nicely.

I had to walk, and the cramp let go as quickly as it came on. I swear I thought I heard the ramp chuckle...it'd never beaten me on the downhill before, but the score was now Ramp 7, Bob 1. Arrrrgggghhhh. I hobbled on, slowly re-establishing a shuffle on my way to a, well, quicker, more purposeful shuffle.

It was here that I caught up to the P. Diddy Crusaders. I thought they'd been behind me, but then I figured they'd re-passed me during my Pit Stop at mile 15. They didn't look good at all, but were trying to finish together. "P.Diddy is coming, but you've got Oprah by days - hang in there!" They all smiled at me, and we shuffled onwards.

Mile 23 brought me the first 11-minute mile of my day, and the first walking break I'd needed. I hated to stop running, but I had just reached the point where there was nothing left. I'd run a total of 650 miles for the entire year - roughly half of what I'd needed. I'd been on the road for 3 of the past 4 weeks. I'd returned home at 1:00AM on Friday night. I'd eaten steak during my taper. Actually, I didn't really taper - to quote Mark Markley, I plummeted. Since Baltimore, I'd run a total of 6 times in 6 weeks. I knew this was going to happen, I'd just HOPED it wouldn't.

The marathon is no place to bring your hopes unless you've got the training to back it up. I knew that.

Regardless, I was less than 3 miles from the end. No need to be sad! No need to panic! No need to fret! Just then I looked around to see how people near me were doing, and I saw him. About 6 feet tall, and British. It wasn't that he looked British; he was speaking with a British accent, but that's not why I noticed him.

No, I noticed him because of the pink shoes. Barbie Pink shoes, that matched his Ferrari Red Dress.

Ye Gods. I'm about to get passed by a man in a red dress, wearing pink shoes.

"You'd better get moving - don't let me catch you!" He sang out to no-one in particular. Somewhere deep in my psyche, alarm bells went off. Although I barely had the energy to walk a straight line, how in the world could I ever explain to the Kansas City crew something like THIS? I had to run. I HAD to run!

I picked it up and started running with whatever was left. I came up to a big guy in a stars-and-stripes bandana, and he was walking. I patted him on the back and said, "You've got to start running." He said, "I know it - we're almost there." I assured him, "No, it's worse than that. Look back."

Bandanaman looked over his shoulder, and came face to face with the possibility of being seen on the climb to the finish line by all of his friends...being seen as he was passed by a 6-foot tall Brit, wearing a red dress, pink shoes, and waving regally.

"Oh. My. God." was all he could say, and he was gone - running far, far ahead, fueled by testosterone, fear, and GU. Freud would have loved the whole scene.

As mile 25 came up I looked back, and the man in the Red Dress was now safely out of sight. I had struggled with the last 2 miles, alternating walking, shuffling, running, and wishing the next mile marker would hurry up and arrive. 4:15 was long gone, 4:20 was looking to be gone as well, so 4:25 was the time I was determined to beat.

I worked my way up the final climb towards the line. A climb I'd run on the weekends of August and September when we'd had Dragon Boat practices on the river, hoping that my training on the course would lead to something grand on Race Day. Something grand might not be happening, but any day where you can finish a marathon? Hey - that's a pretty good day, even when the race is pretty bad.

I rounded the final corner towards the finish, and spotted Lynda and Lisa in the crowd. I closed my eyes and put my head on my hands in the universal gesture for "Sleeeeepy" as I trundled past (being careful not to plow into the guardrail while running my 26th mile with my eyes shut), and headed towards the banner.

I couldn't sprint, and thankfully didn't need to - the red dress was far enough away that I was safe. I raised my arms at the line, and breathed a sigh of pure relief as I crossed under the clock in 4:24:07...managing to touch the bottom of the timer with both outstretched hands as I took my final step.

As I walked towards the blankets and medals awaiting all of us, in my head the music started. A familiar riff from Edge came from nowhere...as one of my favorite U2 songs just started to play, accompanying the thoughts in my mind - the scenes from a season that had gone mostly all wrong, but now was in my past - to be learned from, looked up from, and walked away from.

The best part about a bad year - it has to end.

It always has to end, sometime.

"Walk on, Walk on..

What you got, they can't steal it

No they can't even feel it

Walk on, Walk on...

Stay safe tonight"

"All that you fashion, All that you make, All that you build, All that you break..."

"All that you measure, All that you feel, All this you can leave behind..."

"All that you reason, All that you care,

It's only time, And I'll never fill up all my mind.."

"All that you sense, All that you scheme...

All you dress up, And all that you see

All you create

All that you wreck

All that you hate..."

Hurricane Bob

* Walk on, walk on. *