When the smoke from my taper cleared, I would be lining up for the Delaware Waterfront Marathon with precisely 3 runs longer than 15 miles - only one of them over 20. At least I would be somewhat slightly undertrained as opposed to overtrained, so I had that going for me, which was nice.

The field was small - just 650 entered in the marathon, another 400 in the 4-person relay, and around 150 in the 10-miler. All of the relay runners had to wear signs on their backs that said (amazingly enough), "RELAY," so you could just let them blow past you and be instantly absolved of any obligation to chase.

My plan for the run was simple: Start off at a good pace, settle in, then avoid the big collapse in the last 6 miles. Even though I was short on long runs, I'd learned a lot from Boston the year before. I'd managed a negative split, and that intoxicating feeling of getting faster in the second half was something I wanted to try and capture once more.

No heroics in the first miles - save it, save it, save it. As the last words by the VIP's and Race Directors echoed over the PA, I said to myself, "Don't race like a dipsh*t, don't race like a dipsh*t, don't race like a dipsh*t." The guy next to me turned and said, "That's a good plan. Simple, easy to remember. I like it. Good Luck."

When the gun went off, I only needed to wait 10 seconds before I crossed the line. I made a quick pit stop in some shrubs around 4 minutes in (nervous bladder), and cruised to a nice, gentle 9:30. I felt good, so I let my legs just find a nice groove.

Soon I was clicking off 8:40's pretty easily, feeling good. The course was a 10-mile loop, followed by 3, 5.4 mile loops. It made breaking the race up very simple: An easy, steady first 10 miles, then in my own mind my plan was to pace one lap, have patience on lap two, then have guts on lap 3. Everything I did in the first and second hour would be focused on setting up a strong third hour.

I knew I was in a good place - a focused place, because I had people around me talking, and it was driving me crazy. Normally, anyone who knows me pretty much knows I AM that guy; the one who can make conversation anytime, anyplace. But today, I just wanted to be quiet, and run.

Behind me for about 4 miles was Tom Dantoni. He's a 50-stater. He's run 267 marathons. He used to be able to go out and run a 3:40 anytime he wanted, but now just breaking 4:40 was good enough. After hearing this same introduction three times, I realized something. Tom wasn't insane and repeating himself - he was talking to a different person each time. They would then hit the gas, and motor off. So he'd start all over again with someone new.

After a few more loops, Tom started targeting people.

"Hey, Brooks! Brooks! Brooks! Looking good, Brooks!" He called out. I figured he saw some guy named Brooks. Couldn't be Herb Brooks. He was a hockey coach. He's also deceased. "Brooks! What's your name, Brooks?" By now, I was confused; if he knew Brooks, why was he asking Brooks name?

I put my head down, and ran an 8:40 to get away. The last thing I heard was, "Good luck, Brooks!" Around mile 20, when looking down at my shirt at the salt collecting across my chest, I would remember that I got this shirt for buying a pair of shoes. The Brooks Adrenaline GTS-7's I was racing in...and on the back was a big, red, BROOKS logo.

I knew Brooks, and he was me.

I passed through mile 10 in 1:29:15 - under the 9:00 pace I thought would be patient enough. Now I just had to run these closing laps - pace, patience, guts. The nice thing was that no matter where I was, it could never be longer than 2.7 miles before I'd be turning around and either heading for home, or starting another lap. I'd been taking my gels like a good little runner every 30 minutes, and chasing them with water.

I had to make another quick pee break at mile 12, so I knew I was hydrated. All systems were good. Approaching halfway, I knew I'd be under 2 hours easily. All I needed to do was not race like a dipsh*t in the last 13 miles, and I might just break 4 hours for the first time in 6 years. I even thought to myself, "Man, this has been a pretty steady day. What the heck can I talk about in the race report?"

And just like Linus in the Great Pumpkin Patch, when he realizes he's said, "If..." about the Great Pumpkin and his possible existence, I thought to myself, "Oh, no, Oh, NO! Well, now you've done it. You are DOOMED."

I managed to keep things nice and steady through the "pace" lap, crossing mile 15.4 around 2:18. With just 11 miles to go, I was still on pace for a sub-4. It was nice to be in control of the race this late into it; some of my more dramatic meltdowns at Boston, Philly, and Pittsburgh had come unglued between 15-20, so I knew to be really careful this lap.

The miles ticked by under a warming sun; a sun that wasn't even supposed to be there. The forecast had called for clouds and showers, so I'd put the rose lenses in the Oakleys. Now I was enjoying the fact that yes, I was now getting hot, and pulling my hat down to hide from the sun. Awesome. I'll take heat over cold rain every time, baby.

Unfortunately, perhaps it was the sun, the heat, the gel, or a combo of all those factors, but between miles 19 and 21, the predicted "strange" things began to happen. Lets just say that I was thankful that I knew precisely where the little blue boxes were on the course because I'd passed them so many times. I had to make not one but TWO pit stops; mile 19 was a 9:41, and mile 20 a brutal 10:52. I knew there was no holding on with so far to go; I had to stop, deal with the issues, and then try and make the time up on my last lap.

As I approached the start of that last lap, I was passed by a fellow in a blue and white singlet. I'd seen the style before, so I asked, "Hey there - that's a BAA singlet, is it not?" He looked back over his shoulder and smiled, "It is. Thanks." I asked, "So are you good? Got the qualifier?" He glanced at his watch and said, "Got 10 minutes - I should be fine."

I crossed the line to start my final lap in 3:09 - 6 minutes under what I need right now to earn a qualified slot. So looking at it on the road, I was still 4.8 miles behind the Bob that will someday earn his slot. Dang. Those guys are GOOD.

But things were looking up for me; I was past mile 21, and my legs were there. Sure I'd had some GI troubles, but I'd stopped, dealt with them, and now I knew I'd be good to the finish. I dropped back into my groove, and ran back-to-back 9:07's at mile 21 and 22. So long as I could hold that pace, getting under 4 hours would be a done deal.

If only this d@mn side stitch would stop.

It started small, so I worked on breathing out - no good. It got worse, and worse. Soon I could tell I was hunching over; I was losing my form, and taking shorter strides. Mile 23 was a slowing 9:11, but the pain was getting wicked bad. Even though I hated to do it, I took a 30-second walk break approaching the final turnaround of the day.

I started running again past the turn, but even though I only had 2.7 miles to go now, I couldn't do it. The stitch spread across the front of my torso; I was desperate, I held both hands up to the sky and walked again to try and ease it out.

I was trying not to panic, but after nearly 14 months of waiting, 4 months of injury time, 4 months of training, I was on my way to a sub-4. I'd had it in hand, but now it was heading up the road without me while I tried to remember to breathe. Something I'd been doing all day was now just edging out of control.

I managed to get running again on the slight downhill from the turnaround, but the pain was still there. The good news was that it seemed to be holding - it wasn't getting any better or worse. "Two miles? You can live with this for 2 more miles. Take your pain - you can recover next week..."

On my last walk break two women had passed me; one running the solo marathon, the other the final relay leg. The relay runner was coaching the solo runner, and they were moving well. Like a break in a bike race you know is the one to get on, I thought to myself, "Get with them - they'll get you home."

Mile 24 was my worst running mile of the race - 10:05 with all the walking. I was now at 3:39 race time - I had 21 minutes to cover the last 2.2 miles. I settled in behind the two ladies, and soon found myself to their left. We approached mile 25 three-across, side-by-side.

I thought I was running well, but I'd only managed a 9:13. It was here I finally did the math; I was at 3:49 on the clock. 9:15 pace from here would mean being over 4 hours, no question. I thought I had time in the bank, but I'd lost it all in the last 4 miles.

My race was now precisely 1.2 miles long. The previous 25 miles had merely set the stage.

On idle roads in the middle of February, speedwork is a game: Get to that light - beat it. Run that return leg under 40 minutes. Make that last mile under 7:30. Here and there, I would give my body something to chase. Some imaginary line to try and duck under. All of those with one goal in mind - what happens when it's real? What will you do if it matters?

Her name was Rebecca. She was starting to cry now.

"I...hurt...so...much...can't...keep...running..." The relay runner looked over at her and said, "You're going to do it. You're running great. Stay strong. Stay with it."

I hadn't said much of anything all day, but I looked over and talked to her, "The next 10 minutes will define how you remember this race for the rest of your life. Make the right choice!"

After letting that linger for beat I added, "We're all going under 4:00. Let's go."

"Okay..." she replied.

I caught a glimpse of the mile 9 marker and remembered that the 10 mile mark was also the finish line; this was one mile to go. I took a split without even thinking about it - race time was now 3:51:00.

Nine minutes left to run one mile.

The stitch was there, but I had to ignore it now. I was in pain. I was fading. I was losing my grip, but there was one thing that was clear in my mind - fear. The fear of rounding the final corner, giving it all I had, and watching the clock flip to 4:00:01 as I reached for it...

I was going to break 4 hours, or I was going to be carried off the course trying.

As we turned into the wind, I could see Frawley Stadium off in the distance. We'd passed it 3 times already today - I knew exactly where the road would be taking us. We were running into a block headwind, and I could hear Rebecca panting behind me. "Get behind me - draft! I make a big hole - use it. Good job!"

I knew I'd have to leave her, though. If she couldn't stay on my wheel, I couldn't wait.

I opened my stride more, and tried to will my legs to turnover faster. All those lonely treadmill runs in January. All the times Brian asked me, "A cutdown run, what the hell is that?" And I'd explain that a cutdown run meant getting faster as you got more fatigued, so you could learn to manage speed through pain. You want to slow down - you want to quit, so you speed up the treadmill and make it go faster. You hurt, but you get stronger.

You do those things, and people shake their heads. They say, "That boy is crazy. That's just nuts. That hurts too much. Why?" You do those things because you know that this pain - this creeping, torching agony that stretches from your feet, to your legs, through your core, to your heaving chest - it will go away. When you reach the line, it will go away.

And the sooner you reach the line, the sooner that happens.

You know the physical pain now won't last.

You know that a mediocre effort will.

You know if you let that clock slip away while you let it go because it 'hurts too much...' that is something that will stay with you for the rest of your life. Sub-4 was something I'd done pre-baby. Sub-4 had only happened in Philadelphia. Sub-4 was something I thought might not happen again, but here it was. It was right there, just ahead of me.

I just had to find the speed to catch it.

So now as the little yellow sign for mile 26 appeared in my sight for the 4th and final time, I had nobody around me but my unseen fear. I didn't look down at my watch - I didn't need to. I was running as fast as I could go - there was nothing the watch would tell me that could help; I was committed all the way to the line.

A volunteer pointed at me and yelled, "Last LAP! LAST LAP! RIGHT TO THE FINISH!" I moved into the right lane, and saw the clock with my own eyes...

3:59:30.
3:59:31.
3:59:32

I was going to make it. Just. With an 8:42 final mile - my fastest since mile 2 - I'd taken back the time I needed with a few seconds to spare.

I half laughed, half cried, and looked to the sky. For the first time in 6 years, and for the first time at a course outside of the Philadelphia Marathon, I was going to break 4 hours. With one final, painless kick, I crossed the line in 3:59:43 on my watch, 3:59:53 on the official clock. Only two more runners out of 551 finishers would be closer to the 4 hour mark - I finished 197th out of those 551.

Behind me, Rebecca held on. While I'd been only 10 second back on gun time, she had a minute in hand. She would cross the line 40 seconds back, but be under 4:00 with a chip time of 3:59:33...actually finishing ahead of me. So there.

As soon as I stopped, I doubled over with wave after wave of massive relief...and in doing so, every single one of my abdominal muscles cramped. While a volunteer was taking off my timing chip, I was stuck bent over at the waist going, "Aaaaagggghhhh!"

This has happened to me before - Boston 2003. Same thing. Only there, my arms cramped, too. Before I could get that far gone, a volunteer came running up to my side; "Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine - I'm fine - just my abs. Cramps." I stammered. I guess I sounded bad, because she immediately started calling out, "Nurse! Nurse!" The nurse came running over, and I said, "Thanks, but my abdominals just knotted - no big deal. I've had it before."

She answered, "That's fine - I've been bored. Let's walk!" So she helped straighten me up, and we walked. Within 100 feet or so, I was fine. I said goodbye to the nurse, and headed over to get my dry clothes bag.

As soon as I had the bag, I pulled out my phone and took a picture to send to St. Lynda back home. It said everything that needed to be said.

3:59:43.

Six months to go until Philadelphia.

I can't wait.

Hurricane Bob
* Seventeen seconds = 145 feet. *

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