The
Baltimore Marathon October 19, 2002 -- Baltimore, MD
The
Baltimore Marathon
October 19, 2002 --
Baltimore, MD
New Job, no sleep, 26.2 miles...the hard way.
26.2 Mile Run
http://www.thebaltimoremarathon.com
"I can't wait to get back to the room so I can take a NAP!"
Thank God I wasn't a platoon leader heading into battle, or else I'd be forced
to simply fall on my sword and call it a career while someone else hopefully
wrote a fitting poem for me. The above is not quite the most motivating thing
you could think of before starting another 26.2 miles, but at least I was being
honest to myself. "I'm exhausted. I know I'm exhausted, but that's okay. Once
I get moving, things are going to be fine. Really."
I was standing on a sidewalk in Baltimore at 7:59am on Saturday, October 19th.
My coach had been sending me a perfect plan to get me ready for this early-fall
test of my fitness since lat July. However, a new job, a soft economy, and the
usual assortment of life-flavored obstacles had turned it into a
semi-regular-semi-often-when-I-could training plan. That basically meant 2-3
runs per week, 1 swim per month, and a collection of cob-webs on my bikes that
had them wondering if I'd simply gone off and left them for needlepoint.
A week of 12-14 hour days had taken my taper and turned it into a stupor
(needling only to add the 's' in the front, change the 'a' to a 'u', and
straighten out the 'e' to an 'o' if you were wondering how) in a matter of
blurred sequences that were only briefly interrupted by naps that posed as
nightly sleeps. Somewhere in those blurry days I had seen St. Lynda from time
to time, and coordinate a plan where she was kind enough to drive my strung-out,
wrung-out body to the expo on Friday afternoon so I could pick up my number and
stare at the ceiling the best that I could that night before pretending to sleep
peacefully.
I had gotten up and out of the room by 6:05am, and she was still asleep,
thankfully. There was no real need for her to get up and be cold - I'd be out
here for nearly four and a half hours (give or take), so I was glad she wasn't
out there watching me fall asleep standing up while waiting to start. She could
take her time, wander over to the finish by noon, and see me when she saw me.
Major bonus of the day: Her company was a major sponsor of the race, and she'd
have VIP seating (not to mention catering and drinks) all day long. So long as
there was beer, I knew no matter how long I'd be trudging around the city, my
lovely would find a way to enjoy the morning.
My eyes were closed, and we were all standing very tightly bunched. Using a
trick I'd learned in marching band, I leaned ever so slightly on the people to
my left and right, teetering and tottering between them while I tried to catch a
last-minute nap. When the horn sounded, I snapped out of my daze and stepped
into the day - for better or for worse.
It took me only 54 seconds to get to the line, and there was little shuffling at
that. We were pretty much running right at the timing mats - with 2100 runners
this year, that was pretty nice. The first three miles were somewhat uphill,
and that was fine with me. Seeing as how my legs felt like they were filled
with Bisquick, the hill gave me the perfect excuse to start plummeting backwards
immediately.
I'd had long training runs before. I'd had long races before. Days where you
felt bad immediately, and it never got any better. You just kept going and got
through them, and I was ready to pull that strategy out here once more if I
needed to. The main thing was to not panic, not get depressed about feeling
bad, and just keep moving. Knowing that I'd survived Ironman's feeling that bad
at the start (like IMC 2000) was of perverse comfort: "At least today won't be
14 hours long...."
"Man, that's one F#$*&!ed up thought, Bob." I thought to myself.
"I know." I replied to myself.
"Is this a bad sign, that I'm talking to myself in the third person, already?"
I asked myself.
Myself and I looked at Me, and he said, "Damned if I know. Just remember that
we only show up when something very stupid is going on."
(ahem)
So as I plowed through the opening miles, I was hitting mile markers in the 9:30
range (give or take 45 seconds). Michael Parente had told me, "NO TALKING!
Conserve your energy. One motion repeated 26,000 times can make a big
difference if you save it." I swore under my breath at Michael - "What can I
conserve when I can barely move this mass of me uphill? If I were conserving
any more, I'd be standing still." His one other caveat had been heeded, though
- I wasn't talking. I was too tired to talk, so I just withdrew and followed
feet. Very un-Bob like, but I had to do what I had to do.
At mile 6, a familiar foe came knocking. My ascending colon (which is actually
descending, but I didn't name it) started ringing its little 'ATTENTION' buzzer
in my brain. I had eaten enough fiber during the week to take care of this
before today. I had hydrated like mad on Friday, and made not one but TWO
pre-race calls to nature, and then taken 2 Imodium AD to lock things down. My
colon laughed at these defensive measures like an over-the-top bad guy in a Bond
movie.
"Do you expect me to stop?" I asked my descending colon.
"No, Mr. Bob. I expect you to stop NOW!" Cackled my DC.
In one second, I had one of those blinding cramps that appears before your eyes
as a white flash, and a red-hot poker pierced my stomach. Just as I rounded the
corner, I spotted the most beautiful thing a marathon runner can see: A
Construction Site. There, 50 feet off the road, was a little blue box. Despite
constricting both gleuteus maximus like watertight doors on the Titanic, I
hurdled a 3-foot high concrete barrier, sprinted over there in 3 seconds, opened
the door, and like a good marathoner, took a split reading as soon as I got
there.
3 minutes and 19 seconds later, I was back on the road...a much happier camper.
At mile seven we were rewarded with a long, downhill stretch, and I opened my
stride up a bit to try and pretend that I was someone faster. As I was booming
downhill, breaking dishes, scaring cats, and annoying bottom-feeding fish in the
Inner Harbor, a guy on a carbon fiber Look bike rolled by on my right, in a
yellow jacket. In a moment I recognized that jacket as a VERY special jacket.
It said "Ironman Canada" on the back, and I knew that it was a top-10 overall
jacket. Not being shy, I yelled out, "HEY! IRONMAN CANADA!"
The cyclist looked back, and I waved the international sign for, 'Come here!'
(which is like the British sign for 'Up Yours!' but with the entire hand). He
soft pedaled, and I picked it up, causing alarms on parked cars three blocks
away to chirp and bicker in protest. As I thundered alongside, I could see who
I was talking to - finally.
"They only give that to you when you're top 10. Hello Coach Troy!" Troy
Jacobsen was out taking in the day, and I'd been the only one to notice. That
may make me a supreme dork, but what the hell. "Wow! I'm surprised you
noticed!" He said. "Yeah, Well, I've done that race three times and I know
Gordo Byrn, so I know how important it is to get one of those." I piped.
Just then my brain went, "Good Job. Now not only does he think you're some kind
of tri-geek stalker, but now you're a name-dropping, tri-geek stalker, and on
top of that, you're a COMPETITOR name-dropping, tri-geek stalker. Way to go."
Troy just asked, "So how's your race going?"
"Well, okay. I'm just taking it easy for the first 10 or so miles, and then
I'll see what I can do in the last 16." That's what I said, trying to smooth
over my opening dorkness.
This was opposed to what was really going through my mind at the time: "Well,
I'm actually on my 15th Godforsaken Death March. I'm at mile 7, but I feel like
I'm at 27. I hate running, everything about running, and I'm seriously
wondering about having my entire large intestine removed because its too
@#*&!ing annoying to have to answer every long run like some high-maintenance,
nightmare, Prima Donna."
"Well, that's great! Good Luck!" Troy smiled, and pedaled away from me as fast
as he could, but in a polite way that didn't really look like a sprint, but was
just as effective. "I am SUCH a dork." I said to myself. Me and I replied,
"We know, but we're here anyway, your Supreme Dorkness."
As I passed through the Inner Harbor towards mile 9, someone came alongside me.
"Hey. How are you doing?" He asked. "So-so. Just trying to get through." I
answered. I wasn't interested in talking, but I didn't want to be rude.
"That's my hotel there..." he continued. "I'd really love to quit here..."
"If you try to quit, I'll kick your @ss." I popped back. "If I can't quit, you
can't either." I smiled, and we plodded on past his hotel. Mine could be seen
about 1/4 mile off to my left, and I thought about just now nice and toasty the
covers were going to feel when it was all over...
"My name is Ray. Can I run with you?" I didn't really want company, but I'd
opened my mouth - I was somewhat obliged to be polite. "Sure! I'm not talking
much, so I hope you don't mind." I really, really didn't want to talk, and I
shouldn't have said anything as we passed the hotel, but smiling just for a
moment had helped me feel a little better...
So as we trotted on towards mile 10, Ray chatted away. It was his third
marathon, he was under-trained, he wasn't feeling well, but he just wanted to
get to mile 10 and pick it up from there. I nodded when I could, but I really
just suddenly wanted to be alone again. Even though I wasn't answering him, it
felt annoying to have him chatting away when I just didn't need the company.
Again - very un-Bob like, but I was just too tired to deal.
As we passed over the mile 10 marker, I slurped down GU #2 and made my way
across the Key Bridge. About 2 minutes past the mile marker I remembered, "Oh,
right! I'm supposed to pick it up here!" Ray was still hanging on, and I
wordlessly accelerated away. Perhaps 'accelerated' is too strong a word - lets
just say I trundled ahead somewhat faster then before. I raised my knees. I
focused on keeping my shoulders relaxed. I worked on my breathing rhythm. I
dropped Ray (so sorry, mate), and had my solitude back.
I passed mile 11 in a blistering 9:15, precisely 15 seconds faster then the
non-accelerated mile 10. Bah. I suck.
As I crossed back over the Key Bridge, we ran back over the open metal grating
used in the middle spans of drawbridges, and each stride felt like I was running
across a gigantic cheese grater. I suddenly felt sympathy for the occasional
block of Pecorino Romano that meets its end in my kitchen, and got across the
anti-road as fast as I could.
Passing through the Inner Harbor (from a completely different direction for the
4th time), I was pretty much settling into the fact that this was officially one
very bad, no-good, slow-motion notion marathon...again. The concrete road
surface around most of Baltimore was starting to rattle my fillings loose, and I
was already getting sore. I still had 12 or so miles to go, so I comforted
myself the best that I could: "Hey - only 2 hours to go. That's not too bad."
Just then, I saw Lynda! We hadn't made any plans to meet other than the finish,
and I was shocked - so shocked, that all I could do was trundle past, giving her
the 'thumbs-down' sign for how I was feeling. I plodded by, but then deep in
trance, my brain sent out a message.
"That was your wife." it said.
"Yes, it was." I replied.
"Do you think you should go back?" it said.
"Yes, I should." I answered.
* Several strides pass *
My brain stared at me with that look, usually only used by Lynda when I do
something lacking any semblance of intelligence.
"Oh, you mean NOW?" Right.
I put the brakes on (a move that required precious little energy due to my
complete lack of momentum), circled a little-tiny U-Turn, and shuffled back.
Lynda, seeing the entire thought process expressed through my blank-yet-puzzled
facial expressions, waited patiently as I came back to her.
I kissed her hello (thankfully I'd grabbed an emergency Tootsie Roll from a
spectator only yards earlier, so she was saved from the horrors of GU breath),
and just put my hands on my thighs - I could barely stand up straight. "What's
wrong?" She asked. All I could say was, "I'm so tired. I haven't felt right
all day." She understood - she'd seen lots of bad days before. "I'll see you
in about 2 hours...maybe more." I kissed her again, and slowly lumbered down
the street, hoping she wouldn't worry too much.
"Lord, I hate bad days." I thought to myself. In all the marathons I'd run
(and there have been 14), 10 of them qualify as 'bad'. That's a pretty lousy
percentage when you get down to it, yet I keep coming back. I keep thinking and
believing that I will get it right sooner or later - I just have to keep
trying. This time I knew perfectly well what was up: I was tired, and I was
fat. I was asking a lot of my body, and it was doing the best that it could, so
there was no real reason to brood about it - I just had to keep knocking the
miles down and get the job done.
Each mile was another victory. 9:30 at a time, I picked them off. I wasn't
slowing down that much, but people around me were as the reality of running 26
miles slowly crept into their legs. Conversations ceased, and gaps between
people grew larger and more silent. I kept myself busy trying to close down on
the person ahead of me, one to two for each mile. I took a full cup of Gatorade
at every aid station, and drank it down without slowing down much at all.
"Relentless Forward Motion..." was my mantra of the day.
Senseless, potentially offensive, comic relief moment of the day: As the course
looped and traversed all over Baltimore, we passed through some sections of town
that were definitely NOT friendly. A strong police presence kept everything
safe for us, but running between buildings without windows, broken doors, and
collapsing stoops was fairly sobering. On one particular corner, a lone black
man stood with his eyes wide open, shaking his head. As a group of us passed
by, he turned immediately into Chris Rock.
"What the F(@*#!! is this? Invasion of the White People? Where the @#(*! are
all of you running to?" I laughed, but nobody near me did. I said, "We're
going all over, man. Up and down the city." He just kept on rattling off;
"What the hell for? It's COOOOLD out here! What's up with y'all?"
I thought the whole thing just added to the flavor of the day. This guy
probably didn't know about the race, but at least he was interested (in his own
way).
As I passed mile 19, the last long uphill began. It would be a series of
stair-step climbs to mile 23, so I was ready to lose a little bit of time with
each - I just wanted to keep my effort steady. I was actually starting to feel
better - not great, but not quite as dead-legged as the early miles. Probably
because I was approaching 10K to go - about 1 hour left in the adventure.
At the mile 19 aid station, every volunteer had on a football jersey. I
thought, "Cool - must be a local team." They were all wearing number 19. I
thought, "Neat! They're all Quarterbacks."
* My brain looks at me with that look, again. *
"JOHNNY UNITAS! BALTIMORE! NUMBER 19! AHHH! I got it!" In tribute to the
recently passed Baltimore Football Legend, they were all wearing #19 at mile
19. I thought that was pretty cool, when I eventually figured it out...about a
½ mile later.
I fought to keep my turnover steady as the road tilted upwards, and I refused to
walk. Many around me were now falling out of stride, and I'd try to pick them
up as I passed by. "C'mon - this is just a flat road, going up. Run to the top
- come on." Trying to boost others had the effect on me, and I just kept on
trucking. My mile splits were slower on the hills - 10:20's and 10:30's in
some places, but I was moving up by not slowing down as much as others. That
counted for a lot in my book - I was doing the best that I could.
As I crested the final plateau at Mile 23, I could see the Inner Harbor
buildings off to the left - a mere 5K away. It would be downhill to the finish,
and I knew I could hold on through the descent to finish under 4:20. It wasn't
much of a goal, but it was something to shoot for after all I'd been through.
I passed through the Waverly neighborhood, trotting past a family of 6 or 8 on
the grassy median telling everyone, "Good Job! Welcome to Waverly!" We took a
left, and then another left, and by now I was starting to gallop like a horse
headed for the stable. The end was near, and I was pretty darn happy to have
gotten through another long day.
There's a point in every marathon where you stop concentrating on the pain and
the fear, and all your worries melt away. For me its usually around mile 25,
when finishing is nearly a given. With one mile to go, I've almost always been
able to pick up the pace just a bit, finish well, and if I'm lucid enough, look
around and savor another epic day. Finishing a marathon is always special, and
I try to savor as much as I can before the end comes and the race goes from my
legs to the diary.
As we entered the growing crowd with 1 mile to go, we took a right turn into
Camden Yards - the home of the Baltimore Orioles. I was striding as well as I
could, smiling at the fact that I was going to get this thing done, I was
probably going to come in under 4:20, and now I'd have 5 weeks to recover and
try again at the Philadelphia Marathon on November 24th.
Most of all, I was thinking, "Italian? No. Steak and Seafood? Yeah. A big
steak, baked potato, shrimp, and ice cream - LOTS of ice cream..." Nothing
makes me happier at the end of a race than the thought of refueling my glycogen
stores. The fact that this was a Saturday race was even sweeter - I'd get to
have a shower, nap, then feast with my sweetie, sleep late, AND get room service
breakfast the next day. Ahh, it's the simple things that make me so happy!
I entered the home straight, and lifted my hand to my ear to get the crowd
cheering. I veered right, and they whooped it up. I put my left hand on my
other ear and veered to the other side, and they cheered in response. As the
course passed below two highway overpasses, the echo made a few hundred sound
like a thousand, and the goosebumps from the wave of adrenaline burned the
memory and joy into my memory once more.
As I rounded the final bend, I could see the clock at 4:19something...and I
scanned the VIP tents for my lovely. She was right on the fence waving, and I
locked in an approach for one more kiss.
My brain, sensing this, sounded a warning. "Bob, remember that you are
currently 195 pounds, very tired, striding for home, and remarkably
nearsighted. I suggest you take where you think you can stop and add 20 feet.
The last thing you need to do is head-butt St. Lynda like Bruce Grant did to
Martha that year at IMC..."
"Right." I replied to myself.
* Several strides pass *
* Several more strides pass *
"Anchors aweigh!" I thought, as I tried to stop. With the grace, stopping
power, and coordination of a moose wearing rollerblades I proceeded to blow
right past my expected braking point, and stuck out both hands to catch the
barricade. I watched Lynda's eyes go from their normal size to WIDE FREAKING
OPEN, but I managed to self-arrest on the fence...come to a complete stop...and
freeze there as my hamstrings immediately popped the champagne corks and
cheered, thinking they were done.
* SMOOOOCH! * "See you soon!" I piped, and I pivoted away from the fence, only
75 feet from the finish line.
Shame about those hamstrings. Have you ever tried to run without bending at the
knee? I looked like a stilt-walker for a few steps, but I was able to loosen up
just enough to cross the line, arms held high. Officially the clock would say
4:20:07, but to me those 7 seconds for the visit were worth it...plus, I had 54
seconds on my watch to spare with the start line wait, so my time was 4:19:11.
That worked for me!
After grabbing a blanket, getting a medal, and wandering around to the VIP
tents, Lynda showed me the buffet line - ahh! I skipped all the usual food, and
made a beeline for the cookies at the end of the table. A little girl looked at
me a bit confused, and I said, "When you run the race? You don't have to eat
your veggies. You can go right to dessert!" I sat down for my snack, and
watched some more finishers make their way home...content in the knowledge that
I'd done all I could with what I had on this day.
Next time? I think I'll try it with a little sleep, a proper taper, and a
little less Bob to carry around...but only after I have my steak, shrimp, and
Ice Cream first. Hey, you gotta' live a little, right?
Hurricane Bob
* "Without ice cream, darkness and chaos would prevail." - Dave Jones