Philadelphia 2006

The Philadelphia Marathon is the one race in my palmares that has withstood the test of time, life, and work. Going back to 1996 when I spectated some friends running their first marathon, it has been a part of every racing season I've had. I stood at the side of the road once, and gone on to run the race nine times in a row. I've been running Philly since before I was an Ironman; before I was married, before I was a father.

The third Sunday in November just means covering the familar 26.2 miles around my hometown. Sometimes I've been fast, but more times than not I've been slow. However, I've always made it. Even when Katie was 5 weeks old and sleep was coming in desperate, 3-hour bursts, I faked my way on a long run of 15 miles to a 4:29. I was sure that in 2006 with the baby finally sleeping through the night, I would get back to running well enough to threaten the 4 hour mark once more.

My 2006 season had been surprisingly solid: Despite all the changes in life and recovery (e.g., getting used to having none), I'd raced well at all my events - top 10 at the Got the Nerve Sprint in May; my fastest Half Ironman in 3 years at Tupper Lake; I'd even nearly equaled my bike course and run split PR's at Wilkes-Barre in August.

The absolute shock of the year came at the Philadephia Distance Run on September 17th. On the flat, fast course around the River Drives I'd cover during the marathon, I'd managed to break a 5-year old PR for the Half Marathon with a 1:42:52. I never saw it coming - I had no right to be running a PR, but I'd just gone out, floored it, and done it.

And that, as they say, was a dangerous thing. Because that got me thinking about Philadelphia, and what I might be capable of. One of my secrets through 2006 had been basically racing 'for fun,' with no pressure or expectations at all. So now I had to somehow train for a marathon like it was an "A" race without actually admitting that I had a goal, and therefore, putting pressure on me. Which didn't really work out, because to have a goal in mind made it a goal race...which is what I was trying to avoid, so I spent most of September and October ramping up my mileage while following a plan that wasn't really a plan, lest I stress myself out.

There was one other matter of my non-plan-plan: I guess I didn't tell Katie. Or I might have told her, and since she's only 13 months old, she didn't feel like listening. Regardless, the mileage and leadup didn't really matter, for on race morning Katie woke up for a bottle. Since it was 5:06AM, I just hopped out of bed and got to the crib. I figured I'd just feed her, settle her back down, and then get ready to go.

As she happily drank away in the morning darkness, I looked down at the clock. It looked strange - the "5" looked backwards. It looked like a "2." That was mainly because it was a 2. As in 2:00AM. 2:16AM to be precise. Dangit. Unlike Lynda, I don't fall asleep quickly post-feeding. She can be in bed and asleep in 2 minutes, whereas if I'm up for a minute, I'm up for an hour.

I'm sure most of you know that rule about getting a good night of sleep two nights before the race, because the night-before sleep doesn't matter? Well, that might be true, but only if you've had sleep sometime in the previous 402 days, which I can't say that I'd had any part of. At least now I knew that I wouldn't have to worry about running well - there was no sense in stressing out over it now.

So I took a brief, shallow nap from 3:30 until 5:00, and got up without the alarm. I headed downstairs to make some coffee, and make sure my houseguests were awake and moving. Staying with us at Chez Mina was my sister, Karen (she was running the half-marathon), and Aaron Schwartzbard (running the full, rapidly). I'd hoped that neither of them had awakened when the Katie-Siren(tm) went off earlier, and thankfully, they hadn't. Karen was hoping to run 2:05 for the Half, and Aaron was hoping to run 2:30-ish for the full. Seriously.

Images at left: Karen and I, Aaron, Lisa, and Dave, and then me, my father, and sister the day before at the Manayunk Brewpub.

In the kitchen nobody really said much. We made coffee; Aaron ate oatmeal, while Karen and I had bagels with Peanut Butter. After awhile Aaron said, "You know, it's times like this I really, really hate races that start early." I don't think any of us were in a mood to disagree.

By 5:59 we were fed, packed, and shuffled out the door in to the chilly (and still very dark) morning. We caravaned downtown and parked by 6:30, arriving in our traditional lot with Dave Decker, Lisa Jones, and George Reid pulling in less than a minute later. Perfecto!

My father met up with us a little later as we walked towards the start line. This was the first time he'd be spectating once of my running races in nearly a decade. The last time he came to a marathon was the last time my sister and I ran together: The 1997 Marine Corps Marathon. That day was a cold, miserable, rainy nightmare of a day. Not only did we run a borderline-hypothermic 5:08, but we'd run too far when the finish line arch had collapsed from the rain and wind, and they'd pulled the timing mats up (or maybe they were covered in mud - I can't recall). And, to make the day a complete nightmare, Al Gore and his daughters had passed us with less than a mile to go.

Pre-race was the usual shambles of figuring out what to wear (or not wear), what to eat (or not eat), and trying to figure out which line for a little blue box would move quickly enough to get you to the start on time. Adding to this was the new drama: Where's the Baggage Check?

In previous years, it used to be in a tent marked 'BAGGAGE CHECK.' near the start line. This year American Express stepped in as a title sponsor, and made some changes. One of which was to apparently, dispense with the baggage check. We wandered to and fro asking volunteers where the baggage check might be, only to be told any one of 3 different replies.

So in the end, that's what we did. We left our bags on the ground next to the signs that should have been in the missing tent, or bus, or whatever. Aaron made his way towards the front for the start, my sister placed herself somewhere towards the middle, and I just stepped in and figured that I'd use the Buckaroo Banzai start: Wherever I was, from there'd I'd go. Without any announcements or cannon or much of anything, the mob started to move forward, and away we went.

I was going to take the first mile easy, and then just settle into whatever rhythm I could find. Maybe I'd pick it up, or maybe I'd just keep it slow - I wasn't going to think about it. I passed the first mile in 9:03, and then tried to slowly build up the speed. I opened my stride, relaxed my hands and shoulders, and thought, "Happy feet, happy feet!"

I crossed mile 2 in 9:03. Hah. So THAT'S how the day's going to go, huh? Actually, no. It's going to be even weirder. Somewhere in-between miles 2 and 3, my watch decided that it'd had enough of this silly timekeeping thing, and it was having none of it. You imagine my surprise when I went to take a split at mile 3, and my watch showed me 8:31. I was stoked! Then I hit the split, and it stayed. And stayed.

That's because the current time was 8:31AM. The stopwatch had done exactly what its title would suggest, and stopped. I still have no idea how, but it was definitely no longer keeping score. "Hey, ho. One less thing to worry about!" I thought. As my brother-in-law likes to say, no brain, no headache.

I just cruised through the early, flat miles the best that I could. My legs were already feeling a bit sore - right up the front of the muscles, but I'd hoped the pain would work itself out sometime in the next 23 miles.

You know, I seriously thought that during the race. "Boy, I hope this pain will work out in the next 23 miles." I've run 22 marathons. I know better than to think such things. This, boys and girls, is an example of LYING to yourself. Or sleep deprivation. Probably both.

While cruising along the waterfront, I spotted a woman on the sidewalk. She looked familar, because she was familar. Kinga works for Wyeth, and is in my Pilates class - I see her at the Fitness Center all the time. I didn't expect to see her in the middle of mile 4, so we were both pretty surprised. Nothing like a familiar high-five; free energy!

As I chugged along the downtown section headed up South Street, I was amazed at just how familar this race had become to me. I knew the volunteers coming up at the water stop, and could say "Hi!" by name; Tom McGinley, who'd tried to pace me to a sub-4 in 2001 (4:03, dangit); Aimee Louise, a runner turned Dragon Boater (sound familar?), and many of the Valley Forge Striders. I knew each bend, each corner. Turning onto Chestnut Street at 4th, I knew the next mile would be my fastest because of the slight descent from 20th to 30th street. It was automatic - it was familiar - it was fantastic.

Coming up to 22nd street, my father and my cousin Mark were standing right where'd I'd hoped they'd be (a short walk from the start/finish). I asked, "Where's Karen? Ahead? Behind?" We'd done a short run on Saturday morning, and Karen had basically dragged me around the neighborhood like a kid with a kite that wouldn't fly. I was sure she'd smoke me; when he said, "Back - back..." I was surprised.

While working that out, I got my second surprise of the morning: Katie Hobson came motoring down the street, having spotted me well before I'd spotted her. Resplendent with a big smile and her Flying Spaghetti Monster hat (you gotta' see this thing), she caught me with my gel flask in my mouth and my hands shuffling to tuck my gloves into my shorts - in short, I was a complete shambles. I'm pretty sure I managed to smile and get my hand out quickly enough for another high-five, but Katie, if I tossed a glove at you - sorry!

I made the left past mile 7 at 34th street and started the long, steady climb towards the Fairmount Park Zoo. This part always sucks, and today was no exception. The grade felt steeper than I remembered (always does), but passing the Frat Houses of UPenn and Drexel helped keep me smiling. Every year, hangover state be damned, these guys are usually out on their porches just banging pots and pans and making a helluva racket.

I managed to crawl up the last of the steeps to mile 10, feeling somewhat slightly less than okay, but not too bad. My legs were still sore, but that was fine. I had another 16 miles to work out the pain, right? (I actually believed this at the time, too. There's some more serious stupid right there).

I watched as the Half Marathoners turned off the course and took a shortcut, and then re-joined us about ½ mile later. I hated those guys. They were going to be done soon. Then I thought about Dave Decker. Dave was going to be running the Half Marathon, but when he got to the expo and went to sign up, the race was full. Without missing a beat Dave simply changed lines and signed up for the full marathon. So he'd be running roughly twice his planned distance, on a long run of 13.1 miles - September 17th, at the Philadelphia Distance Run.

No matter how much I hated those guys, I was sure Dave was going to hate them a whole lot worse. I knew my sister was back there, too - I hoped she was doing okay. I didn't really hate her, but I knew she'd be all cleaned up before I'd even reached Manayunk. I know this because she handed my father a makeup bag double the size of Aaron's overnight bag that morning for her post-race shower. The thing was the size of a Yugo. "Hair dryer, makeup, different shoes..." She explained.

Speaking of having nothing, it was here I noticed that the mile markers were all over the map. The Half Marathon had one set, and the Full Marathon had another. Sadly, some were red, and some were blue, and nobody had a clue which was which. It was now that I was really glad that my watch had tanked early; I could hear people all around me attempting to do math. Math and Marathons - Poltics and Honesty. Some things just don't work well together.

I passed the mile 11 marker(s), the mile 12 marker(s), and then the mile 13 marker(s). I crossed halfway in 1:57, or 1:59. Either way, the last possible bit of hope that a miracle would occur and that on this day, and that I'd just nonchalantly cruise to my first sub-4 in 4 years, went *poof* with nary a whimper. I knew I wasn't going to run another 1:5x half marathon - I knew it would only get slower from here. My legs were strangely enough, not getting less sore as the miles passed (now there's a surprise).

My cousin Mark would later tell me he was absolutely baffled by that exchange, as would anyone who happened to overhear it. Allow me to translate, with the required background info.

You see, my father hands out bananas every year the NYC Marathon at 71st and First Avenue. He buys a crate, and just hands them out. If you've run NYC, been on the right side at 71st and First, and then grabbed a banana from some guy, that some guy is my Dad. He's been doing that for at least 10 years now, and he's got three NYC finishes - 1984, 1991, and 1995.

Sadly, I cannot eat bananas when I run - they do bad things to me. It's not like they re-arrange my cabinets when I'm not home, or call those 1-800-How-Am-I-Driving Numbers on the backs of cars and say, "Like your either stoned or old - not sure which." It's just that bananas and I don't get along.

So instead of a banana I had given Dad a gel flask, filled with 4 GU's for my second half. He would hold it, and if I happened to see him, I'd grab it. So now you can fill in the gaps.

As I plodded down the hill from the Art Museum, once again Katie Hobson beamed herself right to my side, and ran along for a bit. The girl was simply everywhere! "You look great!" she lied to me, "Keep it up!" I knew I didn't really look great, because I didn't really feel great, but what can you do? I had 12 miles to go in my favorite marathon, and it wasn't raining. What's not to look forward to? I backed off the pace a bit, and put my body on 'Cruise Control' on the way out to Manayunk.

I started checking out the leaders as they headed back, a mere 11 miles ahead. They all looked fast, and skinny, and generally miserable. Then there was Aaron. Literally bounding from stride to stride, smiling the whole way. "AAAARRRONNNN!!!" I yelled out, and he yelled back, "BOOOOOOBBBBB!"*

(* = It should be noted that this outburst sounds like a long-form annunciation of my name, Bob, and not the part of the female anatomy that every single guy reading this report just imagined. Get your minds out of the gutter, the lot of you.)

The guy next to me asked, "Wow, you know him?" I replied, "No. No idea who he is. Just once in awhile I yell out 'AAARRRONNN!' to runners headed the other way to see what they'll do. I guess I got lucky."

Guy next to me looked long and weird at me. I heard the sounds of a joke screeching across the pavement, and crashing against the rocks beside us. I tried again. "Yes, yes, I know him. I'm president of his fan club." That worked a little better - I got a smirk.

On Kelly Drive, the race always gets very quiet. The early fun factor is gone - you either feel good at this point, or you don't. Nobody really talks too much, you just focus on the miles to go, and hope that you're on the other side headed for home soon. I just plodded along, one mile after the other, fighting the urge to slow down. The river on one side and the cliffs of rock on the other make for a very pleasant training run, so long as the wind isn't blowing. On this day, it was calm and nearly warm. Perfect.

The Philadelphia Hash House Harriers (The Drinkers with a Running Problem) were just ahead, and that meant it was time for a mid-race beer! This year they were serving a local brew, Yuengling Lager. I snagged one, and polished it off in about 1/4 mile. It tasted fan-frickin-tas-tic. As I chugged up the interminable false flat into Manayunk I didn't go any quicker, but I suddenly felt much more chipper.

I hit the 20 mile mark at 3:11 race time. I knew that if I held it together, I'd probably finish in 4:15. Not too shabby - way better than the 4:29 and 4:26 of the past two years. Since this was now a social-and-beer run, why not add some snacks? On the way out of Manayunk I passed the Guy's Multisport Tailgate, and standing in the middle of the road (as always) was Laurie Hug - your ITU Grand Columbian Triathlon Elite Female Chanpion for 2006. And she had BROWNIES. I snarfed a brownie, chugged over the bridge that kills EVERYONE over Ridge Pike, and motored back towards Kelly Drive for the last few miles.

It's always a relief to get to this point on Kelly. You're headed the right way (finally), there's a little over 4 miles to go, and now you can start thinking about the finish to come. I knew I wouldn't be breaking 4 hours (or even 4:10), but from the look of things on the split clocks, 4:15 looked to be a safe bet. Then I spotted this fellow on a familar looking bicycle...

"Hey, Michael!" I yelled out. Sure enough, Michael Parente was out on the course. Back in Philadelphia after 2 years of sailing the Atlantic on a 26-foot sloop with his wife (and 2 cats), he was riding around looking for friends in the race. "Bob! Hey! You look great!" he lied to me, just like Katie had 10 and 17 miles earlier.

"I've got a printout of your race results from 2004 and 2005 - you're ahead of your pace!" He wasn't kidding, either - he had the paper in hand. If you've read about Michael in any of my previous reports, you shouldn't be surprised by this at all. "I'm going to ride around and see who else I can find. Who else should I look for?" he asked. I told him about Lisa Jones, and Dave Decker - I was sure Lisa was up the road, and Dave was somewhere behind me.

A few minutes later Michael returned to my side. "I couldn't find anyone, but I stopped and gave my jacket to some guy from Hawaii. He was laying at the side of the road, shivering. He said he wanted to run a cool weather marathon, but I guess this was too much." It was probably in the high 40's - but if he was from Hawaii? He might as well have been running on the moon.

Coach Michael got back to work. "Okay, Bob, I want to see you negative split these last three miles! Pick it up! Let's go!" He was like one of those coaches you see on the river in a nice, comfy, motorized launch, screaming through a microphone at the suffering men (or women) rowing the boat. "Michael, I want to see that too, but since Lynda and Katie are probably waiting, I can't really pass out and chunder at the finish line, you know? I've got to stay upright."

He rode along with me just the same, and coached me all the way to the last rise up to the museum. At last, I could really relax - the finish was here! It was official - my legs never did get better. Hell, they'd been sore from mile 1, but at least they'd made it. As I shuffled past the boathouses, I started to hold up ten fingers, working the crowd. "This is 10 in a row for me!" Yeah, I was fishing for applause. So? Ten marathons in a row? You bet I'm going to bathe in the moment. After 4+ hours of work, I wanted a minute or two of shameless applause.

Mile 26 to the marathoner is confession. Mile 26 is where all the sins you committed in training are forgiven, for if you get to mile 26, you've done enough. Mile 26 is where the pain you've been fighting all day - pain that might have had you on the ropes, tempting you to just stop and quit - surrenders. Again. It leaves you - every ache, every pain, every thought you had that you weren't good enough or strong enough is banished. Mile 26 is where you know it was worth it. Unless you've arrived there to feel it, capturing what Mile 26 feels like for someone who doesn't run and thinks you're just crazy for even bothering is nearly impossible. But once you've been there, you never want to leave, and you can't wait to get back.

That's why I've run this insane race 23 times. Eric Weiss once said to me, noting that I'd only gone under 4 hours on 3 tries, "Maybe the marathon just isn't your distance."

As I turned the last bend before the museum, the day's coolest surprise happened. "Hey, are you Hurricane Bob?" Nothing like being recognized out there, and with less than 100 yards to go, it couldn't come at a better time. Thanks, Frank! (I told you I'd put this in the race report - see, I'm not proud that way).

So with my head expanding by the second and ten fingers held aloft, my 10th Philadelphia Marathon went into the books in 4:15:27 (4:18:13 gun time). Lynda, Katie, and Lynda's brother Matt were waiting just beyond the finish line for me, so that made the moment even better.

I kept walking, cut off the timing chip, and then wandered around to try and gather up my bag (which had been moved to a tent that was now apparently the emergency replacement baggage check). Aaron had cruised it in and finished in 2:35:59. "I was aiming for 2:36." He mused. My sister had finished the Half in a PR of 2:01, and had showered, had a manicure, and endured a hot oil treatment to cure her split ends. She looked like she was ready to give a tour of the Art Museum, and not like someone who'd covered 13.1 miles.

Lisa came walking over next, having finished just behind me. I never saw her out there - I was sure she'd finished well ahead of me. She announced (while still wrapped in Mylar), "That's it. I'm done. Forget marathons - I'm becoming a ballroom dancer. Better shoes."

So now there was just Dave we were waiting on. He'd said beforehand, "I know where we're going for lunch, so don't bother waiting for me. Just go - I'll see you guys there." Without a long run to bank on he was thinking 5 hours or so...

...which made his arrival to the group really, really impressive. "4:29. This starting out slow thing works if you stick to it!" He summarized with nary a limp in his shuffle.

And with that, there was no need to wait. The whole crew was there, and it was cheesesteak time! We wobbled up the parkway yet again, past the people headed to the museums or towards any one of the tours near City Hall.

We'd already had our tour, and it was way, way better than anything some open air bus could offer. The scenery never gets dull to me, either. I'll be back for number 11. You bet.