I'm sitting in the corner of a pizza shop at 22nd and Race Street. It's a little after 2:30 in the afternoon on Sunday, and another 26.2 miles have passed under my feet - the second time in two weeks. Right now I'm tired, hungry, sore, and I feel like I've been riding a roller-coaster for 4 hours. I'm very happy to be off my legs for the moment, while the steadfast St. Lynda takes care of ordering lunch along with Eric.

Michael Parente is sitting across from me. He worked the 7 mile water stop with the Bryn Mawr running company and rode his bike up and down Kelly Drive in the last miles of the day to escort Eric and I in to our respective finishes. I'm proud - but reflective. Any finish at the marathon is special, and this was my 12th - my 12th! Twelve marathons - and even more out there, my 17th if you count Ironman run segments.

Who the hell would run that many marathons in only 5 years? Better question: After 12, do you think I might know what the marathon was all about? Do you think I'd know exactly how to run one and finish it according to plan? No way. No chance. I'm not even close.

More mysterious than a woman; More deceptive than James Bond, the marathon will seduce you. It will let you think you've got it figured out; It will let you taste strength and confidence in the early miles; It will let you bathe in thoughts of finishing with the same speed that comes so easily at the beginning, and with the thoughts of savoring the last mile with time to spare, knowing you'll set that PR, make it to Boston in April, or even be headed to the Trials.

It is always without warning that the Marathon will turn from Seductress to Siren and turn your whole race upside-down. She'll use the final miles to ruthlessly tear you apart and leave you with your confidence in pieces while she disappears like a Cheshire Cat, grinning...knowing she's gotten you again, and the fool that you are, you'll be back for more.

It's why after you PR, you want to do it even better the next time.

It's why even when it all goes wrong, you know you'll be back to try another day.

"So how were your splits?" asks Michael. I haven't really looked - but I know they were fast early, steady in the middle, and downright awful for the last 5 miles. "Hey, my HR averaged 153 - that's where I thought it would be. One goal met, eh?" I toss. I press the 'Recall' button to start reading the story of my race much like an investigator looks at a recorder to see if he can tell from the data where it all started to go wrong.

My watch blinks. It lets out a sick little 'meep!', and the screen goes black from left to right. Then it displays the simple word "FULLRESET"

Just like that, my watch thinks it's January 1, 2001 at 12:00am. The damn thing must've gotten some Gatorade inside it's flight deck, because it has now done what I think we all wish we could do - it's gone back in time. Of course, so did all my splits, so that would be the end of the review. "Well, I guess that's a sign, isn't it?" I grin to Michael. For now, it's time for other much more satisfying data to enter my life, in the form of a large Chicken Cheesesteak that my bride has just put down before me.

Comfort food: It's the essential Band-Aid for wounded pride.

The plan for my final race of the year was a simple one: I would latch myself to Eric Weiss' pace at the start, and hang on until the finish line or death occurred. I wouldn't think about how it felt, how far was left to go, or how fast we were going. I had run more during this Autumn than I'd ever run before: 2-20 mile solo runs, and the NYC Marathon 2 weeks prior to Philadelphia, plus speedwork with the Valley Forge Striders on Tuesday nights, and their weekend runs (which to me were pretty much 8-10 mile threshold runs). I had done all the homework. I had rested, I had tapered, and I was ready to take my pain and see what showed up at the end.

Was this brave? Was this foolish? Sure. But I had nothing to lose; I had to try something desperate to break my PR and get into the 3:40 range, and ignoring all the signs my mind was putting up that said "You can't do THAT!" and simply going for it would be the way to go. It was liberating - a relief. There was little strategy involved - Simply run as fast as you can, and let Eric do the thinking.

At the start the sun was already strong for a November day, and there was little wind. Temps were in the 40's, and there weren't any clouds in the sky to offer any shade. I opted to run in short-sleeves (black) and with the same Stars and Stripes bandana I'd worn at NYC 2 weeks earlier. I had 4 GU packets pinned to my shorts for fuel, and I was just ready to get started so I could stop thinking and start running. For 8 weeks since I'd gotten back on the wheel after Ironman Canada, my total focus had been on the 26.2 miles to come - I was ready. Perhaps I would fail, perhaps I would succeed - Regardless of the outcome, I was going to totally and completely give it everything I had on this day, and I couldn't wait to see how it would play out.

With the sound of a simple horn, the answer that would be revealed slowly headed down the Ben Franklin Parkway for the 5th time in 5 years. I followed.

The first miles take place on the Parkway, a wide open, majestic stretch of road with City Hall on one end, and the Art Museum (and it's famous steps) at the other. We headed up, then down, then back up, covering the first 2 miles in under 17:30 despite the traffic. I figured we would start in the high 8's and work down to 8:40 or so and then hang on. So did Eric. Somehow, that message never got to our legs. Mile 3 was 8:25, and we both went "Whoa!" at the same time. It had felt a bit fast for me, but what the hell - I was sure the whole day would feel fast, so I was just taking it. "Lets slow it down a bit this mile." was Eric's advice, and there was no argument from me.

We throttled back, and proceeded to clock an 8:24. I figured this was a good thing - if we kept 'throttling back' at this rate, we'd be running 7:59's for the last miles. My HR was pretty well up there - it hadn't left the 160's for the first 4 miles, and Eric asked me "Is this too fast? How do you feel?" In my mind, I felt terrible. My legs were struggling, I knew it was too fast, and every sign in my body was telling me "Too fast, too soon!" But was it too fast for real, or was that simply the reaction of someone who didn't have enough confidence in his running to try and go beyond his limits?

Yes, it felt like hell...but I wanted to see where my fears ended and the truth began. "It's fine. It feels a little fast, but I'll just hang on and see." It had the feeling of my first road races on the bike, when I thought that I simply couldn't hang on for one more minute, so that every minute was a surprise when I was still there. Soon I learned that this was the 'normal' feeling of racing on the rivet, and that was the breakthrough. I wanted that feeling here - I wanted to prove to myself that I could do this.

As we neared the 5-mile water stop, Eric was overheating. He had opted to wear a long-sleeve Coolmax under his short-sleeve shirt, and he knew at mile 2 it was too much. Luckily, the water stop was run by the Valley Forge Striders - the group I'd joined only weeks earlier that triggered this desire to push my running to new heights. It would be great to see familiar faces (even if they were newly familiar), and also good for Eric: We could unload his shirt and be sure it would find it's way back to him later on. I spotted Tom McGinley first (he would be pacing me from mile 14 to the end) and yelled "Tom! Hang onto this! I'll get it Tuesday!" and tossed it a good 3 feet over Tom's head.

I managed to slow down long enough to eat a GU, drink a cup of water, and say hi to Striders Aimee, Tom, and Joe, and then it was back to business. We had slowed down a bit - now our mile splits were pretty much in the 8:40's to 8:50's, a pace Eric said "We can maintain this until 15, and then re-assess how hard to go from there." I could see that this was now a pace Eric was comfortable maintaining - he had that bounce in his stride that suggested more to give. On my side of the road, things weren't so rosy. There was no bounce, there was no energy waiting in reserve. 8:40's were as fast as I could run, so any thought of a 're-assessment' at 15 miles seemed too far away: I was too busy thinking about how to make it through THIS mile - I'd deal with 15 when I got there. Was I scared? Yes. Did I think about slowing down? Not for a minute. I didn't know what to believe - the voice that told me "You can't do this!" or the voice that whispered "Sure you can. You just haven't done it before."

Miles 8, 9, and the long uphill grind to 10 passed quickly. Aside from seeing Michael Parente, Bill and Diane Hauser, and the rest of the fast folks from the Bryn Mawr Running Company at mile 8, there was little I recall other than the uneasy feeling like I was running far too fast, too soon. I focused on staying on Eric's "wheel" as it were, and just let him tow me. I was gassed, but each mile was another win for the doubts. I had expected these things - the unending fear from within; The unending chorus of doubts; The lack of confidence that I could hang on to such a pace. In a way, it was comforting - my psyche was reacting as it always had, but this time I was just ignoring it. I didn't care. I was going to run this hard until I couldn't do it anymore, and hopefully that wouldn't happen until the finish line.

It hurt like hell, but in a way, it was thrilling at the same time: I was daring myself to do it. Cool.

Eric and I rounded the arboretum and descended to West River Drive, which would mark the halfway point of the race. Here he decided it was time to pick things up again from the 8:50's and take it down to the 8:30 range. I nodded and said "Let's go." He picked it up, and I dropped in formation directly behind him. That way I wouldn't have to find the gaps. Eric would find a space (or make one) and I'd just slip through, focusing on keeping up and running as hard as I could.

We ticked off mile 12 in 8:29, and it hurt like hell.

We ticked off mile 13 in something like 8:30, and it hurt like hell, too.

As we passed 13.1 miles in 1:55, I was surprised that we hadn't gotten there faster. I had set up my watch to only display the last mile run and my HR so that I wouldn't get caught up in math games and could focus on the current mile with all I had. I really thought we'd be there in 1:48 or 1:50, but there it was: 1:55 - about pace good enough for 3:50, unless we negative split. For the first time all day, I thought "Uh, oh." because I knew that barring a leg transplant, I was not going to negative split after having worked so hard in the first half. Last year I had passed halfway in 1:53 without really trying: This time was 2 minutes slower for what really felt like a lot more effort.

Last year it was 31 degrees and cloudy. This year it was 50 and sunny. Could that have been enough?

As we rounded the Art Museum circle and passed through the finish line from the wrong way, Tom McGinley came roaring in from the left side as planned, and fell into formation with Eric just ahead of me. "How are you guys doing? You both look great!" he said. I didn't think I looked all that great, but it was good to hear. I explained to him how we'd gone out hard for me, but I was just trying to hang on. "Good. Wait until we get to mile 22, because I'm going to yell at your ass like there's no tomorrow." He knew I wanted to go 3:40, and that meant a 1:45 second half - so that was the plan.

I gulped. Now I knew I was in SERIOUS trouble.

Tom moved ahead and fell in stride with Eric for a moment, and I slotted in behind them. The view was uncanny: They were in step, both 6' 3", thin, and looking like they could take off at any moment with ease and grace. I felt out-classed, out-gunned, and out-matched. My mind started to race with wave after wave of negative thoughts...and by now I was fatigued enough to not be up to fighting them as much as before. We passed Lynda at mile 14, and I didn't even stop to kiss her hello (a decision I regret- that's just plain rude). I waved as I ran by just behind the Twin Towers, hanging on by a thread.

Lynda said she could see that I was chasing: In her words "Hanging on to Eric and Tom..." as I passed down from the Museum and out of sight on Kelly Drive.

Here, without words, Eric followed his flight plan. At mile 15, he slowly stretched the elastic and slowly opened the gap from me: Five feet. Ten feet. Twenty Feet. Soon I could barely make out his bandana towering over the field...and then he was gone. I was totally unable to respond, but I expected that. In bike racing, it happens in breaks when someone strong makes a move late in the race and tests to see who can come along: I couldn't respond to the lift in tempo, so now I had to focus on running my own race from here in. I was hurting, but I wasn't caving in by any stretch - Tom wouldn't let me. Everytime I looked down, Tom was right there: "Head UP! No looking down. Relax the shoulders. Open the stride. You can do this!"

Tom is incredibly energetic. He was telling me how he'd been up until 3:00am the night before working, making desserts for his new business "Tom's Treats." Then he stepped out for a bit, watched the meteor shower, took a nap, then got up and was in place at 7:00am to work the water stop at mile 5. Now he'd run 14 miles with me, and then head to dinner with his girlfriend like it was just another day.

I thought Michael Parente was the only person in the world that could do that, but now here was Tom. I imagined what might happen if I went out for a trail run with the two of them: It involved lots of friction burns from passing through the air too quickly while they talked about the Big Bang and good Mutual Funds ahead of me, completely unaware that I was melting into a pile of goo with nothing more than a bald-spot and a pair of smoldering New Balances to mark my end.

I gulped again, and looked down.

"Dude! Get your head up! Relax your shoulders! Run this mile well! C'mon! Follow me!" Tom zigged over to the yellow line, and darted down the lane like he was making his own move. Without looking back he yelled "C'mon Bob! Open the stride! Move it!" I gritted my teeth, and followed him. We were headed to mile 16, but I felt like my race would be over very, very soon. His pace was suicidal to me - and I could feel that I was losing my grip. I could no longer fend off the questions - "How can I hang onto this? How can I keep this up?" I was now on the dark side of my dare to myself: I would run out of ability far sooner than I'd hoped. Not at mile 26, but at what felt like the very next step.

We passed mile 16 in 8:45, but it felt like a 7:30. I had been here before, and I knew what was happening. Tom jogged back and high-fived me: "Great job! That was a gutty mile. How are you feeling?" I was honest: "I'm in deep shit, Tom. I think I may have played this one all wro- "

"BULLSHIT!" he roared. "No way. I'm not letting you concede a thing here. Lets run this mile strong, and then we'll see how it goes. HEAD UP! C'mon Bob! You've got plenty of blow in those legs! You've done the miles! You're ready! It just hurts - you can take it! Open the stride!" He jumped ahead, and waved 'follow-me!' once more...and there we went, again. Tom running ahead like a pied-piper while I tried to hang on, just like I had been since mile one on this day. Only now, it wasn't quite a dare to myself anymore - it was turning into a whitewash of pain as my legs slowly slid into the abyss.

Tom was doing everything he could to keep me motivated. He was encouraging, pushing, pulling, prodding, and using every trick in the book to keep me moving. This routine would repeat itself each mile for the next 4: "Run this mile, then we'll see..." was the promise. He'd force me to look hard, dig deep, and really take my pain...and each time we'd be a mile closer to home. They weren't pretty, and there was more and more pain with every mile, but each mile he got me through was one less we had to cover.

Of course, this routine had the expected side effect of making me hurt enough to be able to see through time and space to the 9th Dimension. I was disappointed, embarrassed, and even a bit ashamed. This was my first run with Tom, and I'd really wanted to hang in there to the end. We had talked about it - how one could run a strong marathon and really wick it up for the finish, but today it just wasn't going to be. I wanted to have the energy to answer his charges, but I was just totally out of leg. I didn't have time to explain that I was okay with this...that after all I'd done this year this one bad day - this gamble and dare gone so wrong - wasn't a bad thing. I wanted to slow down, hurt less, and just finish at a pace I could manage...but to give credit to Tom, he wouldn't hear of it. He'd whip my draining ego into the next mile, and in a flurry of lactic acid and ragged breathing...I would flop along behind him - wishing that it would all be over soon.

I knew someday we'd laugh about it, but at those moments - Tom had amazingly come from nowhere to zoom up to second place on the list of people I hate, right behind Eric (who has permanent #1 status, of course). If I'd had the extra breath I'd have invented some new curses to describe how bad I felt, but I was too busy trying to run a straight line.

As we descended into Manayunk, I started talking about how hard the last 10K might be, and Tom cut me off: "No, no. Forget that shit. Run THIS mile. Get to the turn, and then we'll deal with those miles." His advice was good, but I was already looking ahead to the pain to come. Death Marches are nothing new to me: I've had more of them then good races, so I just steeled myself for Kelly Drive one more time. As I headed to the turn, I saw Eric coming out. He was only 2 minutes or so ahead - much closer than I thought. Maybe I felt worse than things really were? Maybe I could still hold it together and just take this pain?

We hit 20 miles in 2:54. Amazingly, Tom had whipped me well enough and kept me in the game so that I was still running an 8:42 pace, only 2 seconds per mile off my pre-race goal. With 10km to go, even a 60 minute final 10K would have me near a PR...so all was not lost. I spotted Dave Krieger in the crowd and high-fived him as he called out "USE THE FORCE!" Hell, I'd use anything at this point. Get Yoda on the line, will you?

I was really in trouble and I needed to slow down, but there was that same problem every time I tried: Tom. Everytime I looked down, Tom yelled "Head UP!" Every time I shuffled a bit, Tom would command "Open the stride! Up! Up!" I couldn't get away with anything. "I think maybe NYC was too much..." I'd whisper, and he'd cut me off. "Dude - Shut the f*ck up. You're strong. You can do this, it just hurts. Open the stride - let's go!"

There was irony in that Tom was following through on what I had wanted to do from the start - run the whole thing and run well beyond what I thought I was able. Tom was stepping in when my own psyche had called it quits, and he wouldn't dare back it off. I hated it, but I knew what he was doing and did my best to give it everything I had. Soon, however, everything I had was pretty much nothing: The wick flickered, and in a subtle puff - went out for good coming out of Manayunk. It wasn't so much that I hit "The Wall", as the wall was dropped on me from a height of 11 stories.

We headed over the cruel little exit ramp to Kelly Drive past mile 21, and it shattered what was left of my legs. Tom had given me the charge "Run it hard! Hit it hard! Roll up it!" and taken the lead...and all I could do was watch as his sky-blue shirt and white singlet pulled a horizon job and disappeared. I was completely and totally cooked, and no amount of motivation or coaching would help now.

He circled back as I came down, and I joked "You might want to think about running ahead, and then running back to get me - you'll get almost 20 miles in!"

He was unamused. "Dude. I'm not letting you concede a thing here. No way." I knew he was right, but I didn't have the legs to do much of anything else. I would finish, but it wouldn't be much faster than the 10 minute pace I had now slipped to. I was okay with that - content with the effort and in the knowledge that it was complete and total: I had nothing left for these last miles, so I knew I wasn't lying to myself.

Tom, however, didn't buy that for a second. "Bob, lets GO! Run through this water stop - pinch and suck! Pinch and suck!" He'd been working on teaching me to run and drink since mile 15, but now all I was doing was pinching and pouring the water down my face. As I was trying to line my hands up somewhere close to my mouth, Tom pulled another horizon job and disappeared, still waving to me to follow him with the same intensity as when we first hooked up.

"If only I could..." I thought as I watched his slim figure bound out of sight.

As always, he circled back for me...trying to prod me into picking it up. "Okay, we'll run this one easy, then pick it up for mile 23." Of course, no bad day is complete without stomach cramps, and a dull ache that had been present became a sharp pain just past mile 22. I took a few breaths and thought "Wow. I think I can hang on, I took those Imodium this morning, they should do."

Precisely 42 feet later, that sharp pain found a hammer and nail and pounded the ever-living-stuffing out of my lower GI, and I knew that waiting much beyond the next 4 steps might be too much. I doubled-over and fought the cramp, taking short-lamaze breaths as I was reduced to a hobble in pain. Tom came back with a look that seemed to say "What now?" so I made sure I spoke first before he tried to solve my GI woes by tearing out my small intestine and tossing it in the Schuylkill River.

"I hate to say it, but I need a port-a-loo at the next aid station. Do you remember if they had any on the way out?" I managed to straighten a bit and walk forward as the wave passed - momentarily. "Nah, there aren't any. Hit those bushes there, I'll wait." It always amazes me how your sense of what is or is not acceptable just evaporates in direct proportion to the miles covered on any given day. Vis: Would you ever think about getting out of your car on the average Tuesday afternoon and diving in the bushes when nature calls? No? Me either. But after 3:30 of endless running, it somehow becomes perfectly understandable should the need arise. After all - you can't get ahead when your mind's on your behind.

I dove for the 'shrubs' to the left, which (since Autumn has arrived here in the Northeast) was really nothing more than a collection of leaf-less sticks at acute angles. This arrangement had the net effect of providing ZERO shelter (much like a dog that hides his face under the sofa while the rest of his body sticks out into the living room, believing that because he can't see you...you can't see him), but as I said, late in the game the rules are just different.

2 minutes later, I was a new man.

As I rejoined Tom (with my mood somewhat better than before) it was pretty clear to me that this day was just about done. 3 miles to go, and it would be cheesesteak time, and I just wanted to put marathon number 12 behind me. I had dared, I had gambled, and I had come up short. I would still finish, and any marathon finish is something special, even if it goes nowhere near your plan.

Tom kept right on coaching me, all the way to mile 25 as we approached Boathouse Row and the long final climb to the finish at the Art Museum. Tom chided me once more "Bob, we can go under four hours! Let's do it!" I was still lucid enough to do the math, and knew that this stunt would take an 8:20 split for 1.2 miles - about a 7:40 pace. "Tom? I'm tired, I'm shattered, but I'm not that gone. Sorry, friend. Let's just get it done and live to fight another day."

As we headed past the last boathouse, Michael Parente pulled along-side on the other side of the road on his bike. As Tom started to apply the final whip to get me up the hill from the left, Michael began to do the same from the right.

Tom: "Open the stride! Knees up! You're going to kick this in now! Knees up!"

Michael: "Go Bob! I'll buy you a milkshake!" I smiled.

Tom: "Don't talk! Head up! Shoulders down - loose hands!"

Michael: "Is Bruno's open on Sunday? Hmm. I'd like a Milkshake."

Tom: "Forget Milkshakes! Run to the end! Get that guy! Pass him!"

Michael: "C'mon Bob! I'll even buy you Fries! You're doing great!"

Tom: "Good Job! Get her! Pass HER! HER! YES!"

I was stuck between Drill Sergeant McGinley, and Emeril Parente. Between the lactic acid in my veins, the fog of exhaustion after 25 miles, and the complete collapse of my digestive system, I really began to wonder if getting hit by a passing Leonid meteor would be the only way I could top this day off. Even though I was starting to lose my sight with the pain, it was a funny scene - 25.5 miles down, 7/10ths to go, and there I was: Torn between sprinting to the end with all I had, and planning the post-race dinner.

Michael peeled off (I'm assuming to get a table for 4 at Bruno's), and Tom kept laying on the pressure - working what I had left to give into a decent finishing surge. I wouldn't miss 4 hours by much, so it would still be an okay day by my standards. Every person I passed in the last meters, he'd keep me looking up the road: "Good! Now get him! Go! Go! Box him in! Yes! Go get it! I'll see you at the line!" He peeled off to the left, the climb to the finish ended, and the right turn brought the long yellow banner that marked the end of this long day into sight.

I thought of my grandfather, and how I'd prayed for his wings to finish here last year. As I tried to focus on the clock, all I could think was "Not even a 747's wings would have helped me today, Grandpa. See you!" I squinted ahead and could see 4:03:something...whatever. It would be my 3rd fastest marathon - good enough considering the way I ran it.

I crossed the line in 4:02:28 on my watch - not 3:40 as I'd hoped; not the 3:45 Eric would carve out with his tired legs; but still a proud finish for me.

I had committed myself completely and held nothing back. That I had come up short was a victory of effort: I knew I had nothing left to give on that day.

I found Eric right after the finish, and Tom made sure he came over to say goodbye. I told him how much I hated his guts, how I never wanted to see him again, and how totally grateful I was for all his help in getting me home. He had done everything short of throw me down Kelly Drive like a 189 pound javelin, and I'm sure if the rules allowed for it - he'd have done it. I promised him a better day in the Spring once I'd gotten through a Winter of Strider Track workouts, and he said "You better! Good job!" and took off running for his car, which I think it was parked a good mile from the finish line.

Lynda popped up out of the crowd right after Tom split, and I made sure I gave her a big, sweaty, smelly hug - and then I needed a place to lean. I was so very happy to finally be finished, I just couldn't stop smiling. I leaned on the side of a parked ambulance, drank some water, and just enjoyed that I was standing STILL. I didn't have to run anymore. I didn't have anymore races to worry about. The 2001 season was behind me, and I was still pretty damn happy with it even if this day didn't turn out as I'd hoped.

As we all took the walk down the Parkway towards a shower and some lunch, the gears were already going in my head about the Spring marathon I had mentioned to Tom: "Maybe I can run a Winter marathon? Maybe there's one in January or February nearby...I'd hate to lose this fitness without trying again. Maybe I don't need to recover all that much? There's so many websites out there...I can check on Monday when I get to work..."

By myself I chuckled and grinned: Here I hadn't even stopped sweating yet - my face was still covered in dried white rivers of salt, and there she was again - whispering to me of how close I might be, and how I really needed to just try it again...I might get that PR, you know. If next time I started just a little slower...maybe let Eric go his pace and see what happens when I run my own race...

Whatever. Lucky marathon #13 is in the future for me - where and when can be sorted out later. I just want to sit here and lean on my bride while we share this cheesesteak, and swap war stories from the road with Eric and Michael.

Where else can a bad day still seem like a good day?

There's no cure for the marathon - and as far as I'm concerned, I hope there never will be.

Hurricane Bob

* Even when it's bad, it's still pretty good - at least, when it's over. *