I could start this report by telling you how life and work stress this year has pushed me to my mental limits, but you likely already know that. I could list all the things I did wrong leading up to this race, but you've heard that sort of thing from me far too many times before.

I could give you a minute-by-minute narration of the 1000-Meter OC-1 Time Trial I raced the day before; 1000 meters of solo paddling a small racing boat down a lonely, narrow canal, at a hard enough effort that my forehead hurt when it was over...but this isn't a list for Dragon Boat racing, no a place to document my attempt to try and make the US Men's Team (however small my chances might be).

I'll say this: If I was one year older, I'd be going to Prague for the World Championships. But because I'm not 39, I'm competing for a seat against 100 guys all over the country in what's called "Premier," or the top tier. 20 will go in the Premier/Open boat from those 100. It was just the first of 5 time trials, and I placed very well; just not in the top-3. If I was racing Senior (39 and up), I'd be there. But you know how that saying goes - if my aunt had balls, she'd be juggling (or something like that).

I could also talk about how I left the TT, and drove straight to my brother-in-law's apartment to help him move to a 3-floor walk-up rowhome, complete with concrete staircase leading to the front door. But it's moving. Not moving, like the end of Steel Magnolias, I mean we just lifted things and put them in the truck. Hardly worth a section of a race report, but I digress.

By Saturday evening I was staring at my traditional pre-race beer at 8:30PM, completely and totally wiped out from head-to-toe. I just had a marathon left to go to end what I was calling my, "Urban Adventure Race Weekend." Just a bit of running, really. Left, right, left, right, left, right, repeated 42,000 or so times. No worries.

I would by lying if I said I didn't contemplate a DNS - Did Not Start. I hadn't run enough to be ready. Yet at the same time, I knew that I had to start this race. Running is one of the few things I can do right now; I can pick a race, train, and go. To take a DNS would mean that work would get to take one more thing from me. No matter what, I would start.

The race might be ugly, slow, and a far cry from my sky-high dream of making Boston someday, but I would start. Experience, miles, it's all good. Maybe in the future I'll be able to put in the 50-60 mile weeks Boston requires, but just because all I can manage is 20 or so a week now, so be it. To DNS would move me much closer to the has-beens that play golf, all those guys in the locker room at the gym that break a sweat reaching for a towel The same guys that tell me that my days of running will soon end, "When your knees give out, and your back hurts, and it's just too hard...you'll be there. Enjoy it while you can."

Enjoy this, chump. I don't quit. I don't care how bad this day will be, I will not yield.

The weather looked traditionally dicey: Chance of showers, temps in the 50's, some wind. If it didn't rain, it could be a fast day. If it did rain, eh, whatever. Might still be fast, or could be a full day of enduring clammy chamois. When I walked down to the lobby to catch the shuttle to the start line, I spotted 4 guys huddled around a PC. They all looked at the screen, shook their heads, and looked at the floor.

I figured I didn't need to worry about sunscreen, then.

Speaking of worries, with all my travels the day before I'd forgotten to pack my usual stash of bagels and peanut butter, so my breakfast plans were going to be ad-libbed. When I spotted a table with some bananas and water, I figured I had a choice: Start with an empty stomach, or eat a banana and hope for the best. I chose option "B."

At the start line it was still dry. The skies were brightening, and things were looking up. Of course, when the cannon went off, evidently it scared the cr@p out of the clouds, and they immediately launched a full-frontal rain assault. In less than a half mile, I was pretty much soaked. I was sore, I was tired, and despite my attempt to get psyched to suffer the night before, I was totally overwhelmed with the desire to just quit.

After a few moments of serious brooding, my internal grandfather-tough-son-of-a-bleep-voice asked, "Okay, are we done with the pity-party? Yes? GOOD Shut up, run, and get through the first lap. By then, you'll be in a rhythm."

I usually take note of people around me in races - the scenery, the colors, and the company. But on this day, I just crawled into my own little pain cave and got on with the job. One mile at a time, one step at a time, knowing that each one would bring me closer to the finish.

Things were fine, until I was passed by a guy in a yellow rain jacket. As he went by he quipped, "Never rains on those glasses, huh?" After a moment of trying to decipher my own momentary, "What's the frequency, Kenneth?" moment, I recalled that I'd seen him pre-race holding two pairs of shades. I said, "It's never rained on these lenses..." pointing at my yellow tints, "...so plan on clouds but no rain."

So I guess I got it wrong. But then, for reasons I still can't fathom, he went somewhere you never, ever go in a race, especially in the company of other men: He started to sing. "I can see clearly now, the rain has gone.." Of course, it was still raining sideways at the time. I asked, "Dude, please - no soft rock. It's too early."

Did he stop singing? No.

Did he choose a better song? No.

He went with the Enola Gay approach.

Full. Thermonuclear. Launch.

Without provocation, for no reason I can fathom, he broke out into a song from the musical, "Annie." I won't share it here - it's against the Geneva Convention, several county and municipal laws, and explicitly forbidden in the Koran. Friends, it was here, without question, I officially realized that this was just going to be another Sunday in Hell. I was dropped by a man wearing a yellow rain jacket, running faster than I could, singing SHOW TUNES.

And it was still raining.

And I was only at mile 5.

I stopped taking splits, cleared my watch, and switched on the cruise control. Yelling up to yellow jacket man, "You are absolutely evil. If I knew you on Facebook, you wouldn't be my friend! You deserve every blister I hope you get today!" I was kidding, sort of. Show tunes? Bah. I'd never friend a guy like that in the first place.

Luckily, I was able to forget about the musical merry-go-round fairly quickly. Unfortunately, this was because I was starting to experience a sadly familiar GI ache that told me things were heading South, rapidly.

Perhaps it was the banana for breakfast. Maybe it was the Hammer Gel; I usually use Power Gel, but had to switch at the last-minute because it was all the bike shop had on Friday when I made my last-minute-why-the-heck-didn't-I-do-this-sooner-nutrition-plan-shopping-trip. Then again, it might be the banana, the beer from the night before, and the Hammer Gel coming together in some form of awful internal combustion. Regardless, I made a pit-stop.

Four miles later, I made another one, and that wouldn't be the last. Incredibly, I would set one PR on this day: This pattern would repeat itself a total of five times through the race. Five complete stops in 26 miles. Yougottabekiddinme.

Still, I managed to plod through the first lap in 2:06. After the initial pity-party at the start, things were looking up. The rain had stopped, and it was cool, windy, and overcast - comfy running conditions. In a perverse way, I started looking forward to my unfortunate nature breaks, because I knew I'd pretty much run 4 miles, have a nice sit-down break, then get back to work.

I didn't really mean to, but I was passing people, stopping, then re-passing them a mile or so later...only to stop again, get passed, and re-pass them (sing - wait, no! What am I thinking! No singing - say it with me), a mile or so later. As you can imagine, this sort of thing grated on people's nerves.

One of life's key rules is that nothing good happens after 3:00AM.

In a marathon, the parallel law is that nothing will feel good between miles 15 and 20.

So as I kept passing the same people over and over again, I just tried to do so quietly, if you can imagine a 6-foot, 189-pound guy doing anything quietly. One woman finally spoke up and said, "You need to quit showing off. It's just not fair."

In a moment of total clarity, I was able to look back and say, "Ma'am, I know, and I'm sorry. But I'm running quickly because I've got a GI that just won't quit. I guess you could say that for whatever reason, I just can't get my sh*t together today."

I'm not proud. I laughed at my own joke, 19 miles into a marathon. I even told myself, "That's a line in the race report..." so there you go.

She didn't laugh, however. I did my best to move on.

By now the field was pretty well spread out, but I was still moving up. As mile 20 approached, I realized that I actually had decent legs. Not fast, but decent, most likely because I wasn't running fast - it was just another long training day. But I was moving up. I had to think about it, but the last person to pass me at speed was back around mile 14. As people started to feel the last 10KM approaching, I wasn't slowing down...and was moving up.

For the rest of the race, I just looked down the road to the next person and tried to close the gap. When I got to mile 24, I was actually surprised. Without a watch to worry about, I hadn't been paying attention at all. I descended out of Brandywine Park, hustled up the grade next to Rodney Square, and galloped past mile 25.

The last mile was downhill, and I just relaxed and tried to keep my turnover high. I didn't think I'd negative split, but I knew if I ran well to the end, I'd be close to even.

When I thundered under the railroad bridge and onto the finishing straight, I could see I'd be under 4:15 by quite a bit! I finished in 4:14:50, with splits of 2:06 and 2:08. Nothing fancy, nothing special, and a full 26 minutes slower than my run at Philadelphia in November - a minute per mile slower.

But I got the medal. As I stood there at Tubman-Garrett Riverfront Park, I had the hardware. Marathon #29 went into the books. It wasn't the fastest, it wasn't the strongest, but it was another one of those days that reminded me that when all else fails and things look really bad, you have to keep running. Just keep running, or as my friends often spell out - JFR. Things will eventually take care of themselves.

As I walked back towards the hotel, Coke in one hand and my medal around my neck, someone on the street said, "Hey, is that from that running race? What place did you come in?" I said, "No idea. Somewhere in the middle." He seemed surprised and said, "Everybody gets one? Really?"

I said, "Yep. 26.2 miles, and it's yours."

His eyes got huge, then. "TWENTY-SIX MILES? IN ONE DAY?! DAAAAAAMN."

I was going to remind him of the zero-point-two (people always forget that last 0.2), but I figured it wasn't worth it. I just smiled and walked away, standing a little taller.

It might have been a slow day to me, but at least I'm still a long way from heading to the golf course.

Hurricane Bob
* A Good, Bad Day. *