Such a beautiful beast is the marathon.

This year would be run with one simple constraint: Time. More accurately, no time to train. On October 12, 2005, Kathryn Ruth Mina entered the world, and with her entrance came the departure of whatever slim grasp I held on a training schedule. I knew this would happen - I didn't care. She was worth it; it had taken St. Lynda and I four years to hold our little girl, so running a little slower and a little more sleepy than before? Heck - easy choice.

So with a long run of 15 miles (done once in early October and once in Early November), and about 3-4 hours of sleep per night, I lined up on Sunday, November 20, as I had the previous eight years - in front of the Art Museum, beneath a clear, windless sky, with good friends nearby and a great lunch planned 4-5 hours hence.

Aaron Schwartzbard had made the trip up from Virginia with Steve Smith; Aaron had already run the Marine Corps and Baltimore Marathons as 'training runs,' and would be making a serious attempt at running a personal best at Philly. Worth noting - Aaron is scary, scary, scary fast. 2:40 is always within reach; he ran a 3:10 at Boston this year carrying a camera and stopping 30+ times to take pictures of the event, from Hopkinton to Boston.

You can view his spectacular tour here:

Also running as a late-entry was Dave Decker. Dave was coming back from a year-long knee injury that came from running a 50-miler, a 50K, Ironman USA, and the nohtaraM notsoB 50K, a little known event Dave created this year when he attempted to run the traditional Boston Marathon route backwards before the start...but ended up taking one too many wrong turns before logging nearly 31 miles and calling it a day. Dave's training was like my own, only with less mileage but more sleep. Lucky guy!

So there we were - Aaron at the front, Dave next to me, and Steve off behind the barricades going, "Better you guys than me! See you at lunch!" When the starting gun went off, I smiled. I had made it - I had told Lynda that I was going to run Philly even if it meant lining up with nothing but hope, so at least I'd made it to the start line as promised: Now I just had to run. "Start slow, don't slow down." That was the extent of my race planning.

I had no time goal. Wait, no, that's a lie. I didn't tell anyone I had a time goal, but I had a time goal. 4:40:49. Why that number? That would be my Boston time in the Spring, run on a day when I took the best running form I've had in my entire life, and matched it up with the most asinine race strategy ever conceived - taking it out hard, ignoring my heart rate monitor, and trying to run through the problems I was having...for 24 miles.

That didn't work out so well. Ended up crying on Boylston Street. Again.

Today I had a better plan: No plan. I also had no watch, no HRM, nothing. I was just going to run, or as my brother-in-law likes to say, "No Brain, No Headache."

The mile was going well, when suddenly the crowd ahead of me split - there was a woman down on the road; she'd taken a spill on a crack in the pavement, and was sitting there trying to take inventory and get moving again. She wobbled up and shuffled forwards...gingerly. On the back of her hat was a paper tag pinned on like a bumper sticker: "FIRST MARATHON!"

Ouch. I had to say something. I knew all too well what that was like.

"Don't worry about it - just keep moving and you'll settle down." I said, falling in-step with her. "In 1996 in my first marathon, I did the exact same thing you just did - right at the half-mile mark. Turned an ankle, hit the deck, scared myself silly. Don't worry about it - you'll recover from this - you're going to finish." I wasn't kidding, either - I'd biffed at Marine Corps '96, nearly taking out Mark Markley in the process. Helluva' way to start your first marathon.

"Thanks so much..." she said. "I think I'll be okay - I just feel so stupid...!"

"Don't worry. You are stupid. We all are - we're running a marathon!" I smiled. It was such an easy joke. I managed to get a smirk out of her, but with the Oakley's on, it could have been a polite grimace.

I cruised on down the road, slowly letting my legs warm up to the day. From the race clocks it looked like I was running about 9:40's or so - groovy. In the first hour, I always get a kick out of watching the first-timers, especially the "teams" that start together. 2-3 people, often sisters, in matching shirts. "Marathon Virgins." "Team Westerbrook." "We Dared Each Other." When there are two men (or more), it's usually a brother-to-brother dare, or a bar-bet gone madly wrong. "It's His First Marathon" on one shirt, with the other saying, "And I Didn't Train." They've all got so much energy - so much chatter! If only they knew that this first-hour buzz was never going to last...

As I cruised through the 5-mile mark in 47 and change, I came to the Valley Forge Striders water stop. There I managed to spot Tom McGinley, the man who tried to pace me to a sub-4 in 2001...we'd gone 4:03, thanks to a balky GI on my end (ba-dum-bump). He yelled out, "Wow! I didn't think I'd see you! Congratulations on the baby!" News obviously traveled well.

I was feeling decent, which meant I was only feeling somewhat slightly exhausted as opposed to completely exhausted. I could smile - I could chat - I was being smart. The first hour would end soon; I'd be around 6.4 miles.

In comparison, Aaron would be well past the 10-mile mark.

Ye Gods.

We cruised up Market Street, through the shopping district beneath One Penn Plaza. We made the right turn at 34th Street, and headed through the University of Pennsylvania and Drexel University, grinding up the lower slopes of Fairmount Park. Past the Fraternity Houses that somehow, were awake and banging pots and pans for us as we passed.

As we headed towards the 10-mile mark and Memorial Hall, I heard someone say, "I hope this is the last hill on the course..." I asked him, "Is this your first marathon or first Philly?" He said, "Both!" As we shuffled uphill I took the time to give him the lowdown: "This is the worst hill, and the last 'big' one on the course. There will be some tough rises later on in Manayunk, but nothing like this. Get through here, and you're set."

I couldn't resist adding, "When you come to the top of this we're going to turn right. Get on the right side of the road." "Why?" He asked me. "Is that the short way?" "No," I replied..."There's going to be a woman on a cell phone on the right side. Make sure she sees you. Her name is Joan. When she sees you, she'll relay your number to the DJ at the water stop at mile 10, and he'll call you out."

"THAT'S SO COOL!" He beamed. "Really?"

"They've been here every year I've run - you bet." As I said it, I prayed to God Joan would still be there in the same spot.

Sure enough, I was lucky - there was Joan, there he was on the right, and all was right in the world...save those last 16 miles or so left to run. I hoped the good karma would help me later on - if I wasn't going to be fast today, I was going to help everyone that I could. Why not?

We all descended towards West River Drive, and made the right turn towards the Art Museum. Soon the halfway mark would come and go; we'd see the skyline, and we'd leave the skyline. It was very quiet on this stretch - it always is, save the whooshing of cars on the Schuylkill Expressway above us (and the occasional cheering "Beeeeepbebebebebebeeeeep!" of someone behind the wheel). Most of the spectators stay near the start/finish line at the Museum, so West River Drive is the first "reality check" of the day.

12 miles down. Legs okay? Stomach okay? Mental check: Ready for Kelly Drive? Just 10K out, 10K back. Two 10K's. It always sounds so much easier than it will be!

I crossed 13.1 miles in 2:10, feeling fine. Could I break 4:22? Could I run 10-minute miles all day on almost no training? Nah. Why worry? "Just run..." I said to myself. "Just run, Bob." As I climbed the hill to 14 miles and the Start/Finish line at the Museum, my lower GI sent a memo to my brain: "Hey. It's me. Again. I need a pit stop."

This has become a very strange tradition for me. Same mile marker, same race, same place, three years in a row. Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot? At least I know where to go: "Hang on, GI - 1 mile to Lloyd Hall." I passed the museum, and continued my streak - I've never arrived at 14 miles prior to the leader crossing the finish line. This year was close - I made it by less than 2 minutes!

As the winner headed the other direction, I spotted Steve Smith on the left, and announced my feeble plan as I trundled past: "Even splits! Even splits!" He probably thought I said, "Steven Smith! Steven Smith!" or something equally weird.

Just down the hill I veered off the course and into Lloyd Hall. About 3 minutes later I re-entered the road a MUCH happier Bob. Early goal for 2006 - no pit stops, dadgummit! But, with just 12 miles to go, I knew that I could make it to the end without any further GI drama.

Soon after my stop, there he was - Aaron. In the top-20, and unlike the rest of the agonized anorexics around him, he was smiling ear-to-ear, waving at me with both arms. Not bad for a guy running his 15th mile at 5:50 pace. He would grind up the last climb to finish 16th overall, in 2:33. Like I said, scary fast.

Around mile 15 I realized that I was sore; my legs were getting sore!? Usually soreness is a luxury saved for the heady days post-race when you're walking down stairways backwards, wincing and smiling, recalling your race; being sore with 11 miles to go? Well, I figured it might have had something to do with the lack of mileage. That my long run was 15 miles, and my pain started at, whaddyaknow - 15 miles, probably related.

Regardless, I shuffled on. I was still on pace for a 4:20 finish, and if I didn't do anything completely stupid in the last 11 miles, I was going to make it. "Slow and steady. Ow. Slow and steady. Ow." Just ahead of me I spied a familiar hat: The banner was slightly askew, held on by just one safety pin...but the message, "FIRST MARATHON!" was still intact.

"Hey, Crash! Good job! How you feeling?" I asked. She grinned back at me, "Okay. A little sore - my knee hurts, but I'm okay." "You're doing great! Just 10 to go soon - keep it up!" I told her. "Thanks so much - your words helped me a lot back there. I needed that."

You ever notice how sometimes when you smile, your legs don't hurt as much? At least, for maybe a mile or so.

By mile 18, I was officially a hurting unit. 10-minute miles were the best I could manage, so I just took what my body was able to give me and kept on moving down the road. I high-fived the Guy's Multisport Tailgate party (my club), and then saw the Hash House Harriers Beer Station. Hmmm. Beeeeer.

Nine years I've run this race. Eight times I've passed up the beer.

Not this year.

"Hook me up, bro'!" I grinned as I stuck out my hand...and into it was placed a full cup of my first-ever, mid-marathon beer. It was a nice dark brew - definitely not cheap stuff. Yuengling, perhaps? I'd wished Markley was here - he could tell the style of any beer, even mid-race. During the Pittsburgh Marathon in 2000 when it was eleventy-thousand degrees out, he espoused on the light taste and wheaty flavor of a Hefeweizen as we ran through Shadyside, when I could barely speak in words over two syllables in length.

I nursed the beer to the turnaround at 20 miles in Manayunk, and finished the entire thing. As I looked up the hill towards the long stream of runners coming towards and running away from me, I could see all these gorgeous patterns swirling; the tapestry of colors from singlets, hats, and the mid-morning sun, blending into this ever-changing, moving mosaic.

"Holy Shit." I thought to myself. "I'm drunk."

At least I had 10K to sober up.

I spun a 360 at the turn marker, and started heading up the road, giggling, and inexplicably, singing Bobby Darin. "Somewhere....Beyond The Sea, Somewhere, Waiting For Me..." I even tried to dance a little when that song came to the horn break, but I couldn't really find the beat, or more accurately, the beat couldn't find my legs. Regardless, even as I was slowing down and nearly hurting from head to toe, I was nearly done with my 24th marathon. On a beautiful day. With a cheesesteak waiting for me.

And I was still pretty drunk.

As we trundled back onto Kelly Drive, I took the race one mile at a time. At 22, I thought about getting to Falls Bridge. At 23, we passed the St. Joe's University Boathouse, and Strawberry Mansion Bridge...site of the starting line for the Philadelphia Dragon Boat Festival. I replayed the race in my head, from the starters calls to the victory salute...and got goosebumps at mile 24 looking out at the empty patch of water that had meant so much on that day...

At mile 25, I thought about mile 26, and how great it was to get here. Finally. Again. And I was nearly sober (it had been almost an hour...).

As I ground my way up the last climb to the Art Museum, I felt great! I had taken what little my legs had, and gotten through my 9th Philadelphia Marathon - and had a great time doing it, even if I didn't run a great time. Heck - this would be my slowest Philly ever, but that didn't matter. As I turned the final right-hand bend to the line, Steve spotted me and yelled out, "Even splits my @ss!"

It took me a moment. I thought, "Did he just totally diss me?" I was going to finish in about 4:27 - a positive split by 7 minutes. Wait, no - that's Steve. He's not like that. *PING!* The light came on over my head: When Steve saw me at mile 14, the clock said 2:20. I bet he thought that was halfway. Gotta' be it.

In the sunshine of the day and the glow of the clock, I ran to the center of the road, and just like I'd planned...in a shameless, completely unoriginal display, ripped off the victory salute of the 1994 Italian Men's World Cup Team: I "Rocked the Baby" all the way to the line...my own little tribute to little Miss Katie. Lynda had hoped this would be her first race, alas, that would wait until 2006.

Dave Decker finished not much longer after that, and then we headed off to find Aaron. He'd only been waiting for about 2 hours (Ye Gods), and was somewhat slightly hungry.

I can't imagine why. I mean, he only ran for half the amount of time that Dave and I did. So it goes when you're scary, scary fast. Even if I was that scary fast, I think it's going to be hard for me to pass up the beer next year. That was just too much fun.

Happy Holidays!

Hurricane Bob
* Somewhere, Beyond the Sea... *