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The Philadelphia Marathon
November 24, 2002  -- Philadelphia, PA

I just wanted to end the season - who knew it would end so well?

26.2 Mile Run

http://www.philadelphiamarathon.com

March 24, 2002 - Ocean Drive Marathon Race Report:

"I knew that the seductress that is the marathon had just given me a good day, and it was great to savor it for once instead of wondering what had gone wrong....and I just let myself feel good.  Good like a cup of coffee that never gets cold, or the blanket that fits just right.  The kind of good you can think of for days, and it brings that quiet smile right back to you.  

The Philadelphia Marathon is November 24, 2002.  This time, I can't wait!"

Ahh, the naieve foreshadowing of a season to come.  I was sure - certain, even - that I'd started to learn how to run a good 26.2, and that it was a great stepping-stone to a solid 2002 season.  Bah!  How could I have known what was to come?  I didn't know that there would be a house bought within 3 weeks of that report, and that the summer that was supposed to bring a visit from a stork would be nothing more then month after month of looking into a vacant sky, wondering what was so wrong with us.  Little did I know that my consulting firm would near collapse, and only an 11th hour job offer would get me out the door just in time.  Of course, even that came with some drama, but what in life doesn't?

Little did I know that my tri-season would all but stop after Tupper Lake in June, and my cycling would end definitively with a flip over the bars (and then one Steve Carrington flipping over me) on July 12th.  I basically backed away from  everything athletic and worked on getting the house together instead.  It was worth it - I certainly had no regrets at all, and Dave Wiesenhahn told me that you end up doing more in your first year in a new house then you will in the next 9, so I knew it was just that 'start-up' right of passage I was more than happy to go through.  I'd have a workout room, I'd have a lawn to mow, a driveway to run and ride from - we'd have a place to call our own, and that was a blessing itself.  One year of sacrifice for a long-term home?  More than fair in my book.

Of course, I kept some races on the horizon to keep my motivation sparking, no matter how dim it seemed.  I ran the Baltimore Marathon on October 19th - an exhausted, sleepwalk of a plod in 4:19, but a fine training run at that.  I ran a few 20-milers, a few 18-milers, and some solid track work in-between, but that was pretty much it.  I wasn't cycling, I was barely swimming once per week, and the net result was that I felt positively obese.  I felt as fat as I'd been in the past 5 years, and there were some days where I'd just look in the mirror and want to smash it into a million pieces.  "How could this be?  I'm barely eating, I'm running, and I'm still disgusting..."

If Yoda were to come for a visit, he'd look upon me and surely say, "Much anger in him.  Much anger with himself.  To step back, needs he.  Much more right then he willing to see.  Focus too much on the negative, does he."

By the time my traditional year-ending race at the Philadelphia Marathon rolled around, I was ready to end 2002.  I had already closed the chapter on the season, and was looking forward to 2003.  It had to get better - I'd get back on the bike, back in the pool, and the fat would come off, eventually...I hoped.  I was sure this would be a good, entertaining 26.2 miles on a course I could run blindfolded (thanks to 5 previous runnings), and the marathon was always epic enough to earn respect.  I would run the best that I could, I would hopefully finish, and put all that had been in the books.

St. Lynda and I would be hosting a house full of guests; Dr. Dave Jones and his wife Lisa would be staying with us, as would Steve Smith, and my usual nemesis Weiss.  I was looking forward to meeting Dave - he'd been mentoring me at the marathon game over e-mail since November of 2001.  He'd always given me good advice that I'd somehow screw-up beyond belief, so having him there in-person couldn't hurt one bit.  He was running as a 'pace-bunny' this year to try and bring Lisa a coveted Boston 2003 slot, for which she would need a 3:50 to claim.  Since my PR was 3:54:12 and I wasn't in any shape to break it, why not run alongside the train and peel off when the pace got too hard?  Sounded fun to me.

Eric was still unsure of how he'd run after a earnest-but-suicidal attempt to qualify for Boston at NYC merely 3 weeks earlier.  He'd been on pace to mile 18, but then, as they say, it all went horribly wrong.  He'd run himself into the ground so hard he'd caught a nasty flu-like bug that wiped him out for days afterwards, which pretty much meant he was coming in with zero expectations as well.

Steve?  Steve is one of those guys that runs beyond fast;  He would be running the 8K instead of the marathon, which also showed he was smarter then the rest of us.  We were all jealous.  That most likely meant he'd be done like 2 hours before we'd even make it to mile 20.

Dave and Lisa were all set to arrive in Philly on Friday night by 10:30pm.  Thanks to Air Canada, they came wheeling into the driveway at 1:40am.  Lynda and I had carefully planned out all the housework that week so I didn't have to clean or stay up late Thursday or Friday night...just so I could avoid the lack of sleep I'd run with like sandbags in Baltimore.

So much for that plan.  I guided the Jones-mobile into the driveway via map, cellphone, and sheer luck, and then we were all off to bed almost immediately.

The next day started off right:  I made pancakes, and the Jones' shared a bountiful stash of smuggled wares with us - the best kind.  They'd somehow managed to carry on a box of 20 Timbits, and a case of Butter Tarts.  Hey - he's an MD, and Lisa looked like an Olympic hopeful - if they eat them, they HAVE to be good for you, right? 

We shipped off from there to pick up Eric at the train station.  Amtrak was amazingly on-time, so of course, we weren't.  Once we'd turned a lap of the place without a pickup, Eric dinged me on the cell phone and asked me to jump up and down so he could spot me, or at least run to the epicenter of the quake.  It worked, and we were off to the expo.

Luck smiled on us again, and were able to snare some serious rock-star parking a mere 100 feet from the front of Memorial Hall and the expo.  Dave Decker was busy trying to hide from us on the steps, but we were able to coax him out into the open with some Timbits and Lisa's blonde locks.  With the crew all together numbers were picked up, chips were checked, goodies were purchased, and we were gone from there in 30 minutes.

A late lunch at the Manayunk Brew Pub on a beautiful Autumn afternoon fueled us up a bit, and then we headed home to eat a proper dinner.  26.2 miles = fuel, fuel, fuel.  I was already fat, so I didn't worry about it.  To prove this fact, there was a grain scale in the foyer of the pub, so Dave asked for a team weigh-in.  Dave Decker, Dave Jones, Lisa Jones, Eric Weiss, and myself weighed in at just over 900 pounds - or 3.4 Judy Molnar's , depending on how you look at it.

By the time we'd made it home, Steve Smith (STV) and his roomie Aaron Schwartzbard had arrived at the pad.  Aaron set off (staying with friends near to the start), so the rest of us settled in for cookies, college football, the IMH mini-broadcast (minus some football), cookies, and then pasta and chicken for dinner...with Timbits and Butter Tarts for dessert.

As we all settled into our rooms for the night, I just couldn't wait for the day to come.  At least if I was going to have a miserable race, I'd have a good crew around me.  Dave was a total hoot, Lisa was sweet beyond words, Decker was running his first marathon, and Weiss had nothing to lose.  It was really looking to be a great time!

The only person with serious aspirations was Lisa.  She was running for Boston, or nothing at all.  Dave had qualified already, so Lisa wanted to get her ticket punched to join him, but there was more to the story than that.  Her father (also a runner in his own right)  knew she wanted to run it, but was very, very ill.  She'd kept that fact to herself, lest everyone know what kind of pressure she was under.   She'd get in for herself, for him, and that was that.

The weight of two, running on one set of legs.  How often does a story start like that?

The next day came too quickly.  Alarms rang in four parts of the house, and sleepy eyes squnted and stared down the steps to the kitchen...where they'd be met head-on by Dr. Jones and his demonic pre-race routine.  "MORNING.  HEY.  I MADE COFFEE.  I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO PUT IN THIS HERE PRESS THING, BUT IT MIGHT BE A BIT STRONG."

I cut myself a slice of brew, and immediately achieved a higher plane of being.  I could hear birds and squirrels snoring in the woods behind the house.  I could hear waves at the Jersey shore, 75 miles away.  I felt like I'd had a combination of solid-rocket-booster and Hazelnut creamer.  "WOW.  THAT'S STRONG."  I replied, through my unblinking eyes, as my brain whirred through a complete 720-spin inside my skull.

"YEAH."  crooned Dave.  "EAT A POP-TART, eh?"  My doctor was in, and he was right - time to eat.

We ate and packed up the car in under 30 minutes, and then we were off into the sunrise.  Driving due east on a cold morning, for the last time in 2002.  Just 26.2 miles and a few hours to go, and my season would be over.  I couldn't wait.

The pre-race rush always goes by in a blur, but Dave was there to think for all of us.  We checked our bags, hit the blue boxes, and tried to keep warm in the 35-degree chill.   I ate one more Pop-Tart  before we headed for the steps, and upon seeing the mascot of the local baseball team (the Philadelphia Phille Phanatic - a big green guy), I got a hug for good luck.  Why not?

So What's a Phanatic?  This: http://images.usatoday.com/sports/_Photos1/2002-04-26-phanatic2.gif

I can't explain it.  It's just one of those things that is Philadelphia.  Ask Weiss.  He lived here longer.

Anyway, we made our way to the traditional meeting place - the steps at the Museum of Art.  The 'Rocky' steps.  Everyone meets everyone at the Rocky steps.  Plans are made to have pictures taken at the top of the steps post-race by everyone there, as the finish line is directly at the base of them.

A few hours later, it's no real surprise that there's nobody walking up those steps.  All 205 of them. 

We met Mr. Decker once more, and then Team Canada Plus Three walked down to the start.  I wasn't nervous at all - I just wanted to get going and get this one in the book.  Dave Decker was showing no signs of first-timer nerves (a sign that he was either very well-prepared, or so nervous he was actually calm), and Lisa was totally silent.  Eric was as Eric is - stoic before the storm, and Steve was laughing at all of us - 8K as opposed to 42.2K?   Why not?

As we waited for the gun, Dave (Jones not Decker) cued up his tunes for the day.  I should tell you now (before I forget) that Dave (Jones note Decker) is a fast guy.  Dave has run Boston.  Dave has run a 2:57.  In order to slow himself down to a 3:50, Dave decided to become a combination pace-bunny and running sherpa, with a Wurlitzer thrown in for good measure.

He'd be carrying (1) an MP3 player, (2) 3 speakers, (3) 2 bottles, (8) GU's for Lisa, Dave (Decker not Jones), and myself, (5) Vaseline for anyone who needed it, and (6) Toll money, just in case.  Had to be 8 pounds of gear, not counting any clothing that Lisa would later hand-off as the day warmed.  Could you even think about running a 5K like that?  No, me neither.  The man's got a gift, and he was willing to do what it took to get his wife to Boston.  The fact that Decker and I would reap the benefits was just a bonus, and one that Dave (Jones not Decker) was more than happy to take on.

Weiss would be dropping us all immediately, so we just waved "Bye!" before the start.  No tunes or snacks for him.

The horn sounded, and just like that we were off.  We crossed the timing mat in a quick 20 seconds, and settled into a fast clip right out of the gate.  "I like Sarah MacLachlan..." said Dave (the Doctor, not the Financial Planner).  "She keeps me calm at the start."  The song playing loudly an clearly from the three little Sony speakers was "Full of Grace", a soothing ballad.  Of course, we obliged with an opening 9:22, and then a more on pace 8:50 for mile 2.

What I loved were the head-turns, looks, and finger-points at Dave (the DJ, not the other Dave) as he calmly ran by carrying what wouldn't fit into a Yugo on his hips.  "He's a 2:57 marathoner..."  I'd drone on.  "We needed this to keep him slow with us."

I'll say it now.  I used this line approximately 46 times throughout the race.  I think it got on Dave's nerves after awhile (both of them).  I apologize publicly now to you all - sorry.  Couldn't come up with any better dialogue at the time, so any inflation of Dave's ego (the 2:57 one with 5 hours of music) is all my fault.

By mile 3, the pace was locked in.  "8:48" spoke the pace bunny.  We were coming up to the first water-stop, and I asked Dave which side I should go to.  "NO WATER!"  He coached.  "I'll get it - all of you, run through."  Like that he was off ahead with his two bottles.  He stopped, filled them up, and then caught back up as Lisa, Dave (the non-sherpa), and I trotted through.  "First Gel - NOW!"  He commanded.  It was early, but that's what he said I'd always screwed up - my nutrition.  "Someone your size needs more than 4 gels, dude.  That's why you fall apart at mile 18 every time."  So now I was carrying 4 gels, and a flask of Hammer Gel - a total of about 8.

Actually, Dave (the camel) was carrying my flask.  I was doing nothing but running and grabbing what I needed, feeling like I had an unfair advantage...but this was just a fun run, so what the heck.

I ate, Dave ate, and Lisa did the same.  The miles were ticking off now, and we were in the groove - early.  Dave (eh? and not Hey) was the rabbit.  I followed his pace-setting, blind to what I would have done.  I would have been running slower, but in Jones I did trust, even if my brain cells began to shake their collective heads at the pace.  "Suicidal."  They thought.  "You did this with Weiss last year."

Mile 5 was an 8:48.  Mile 6 was an 8:48.  Mile 7 - the downhill mile that always comes out in the splits as the fastest, was an 8:31.  "EAT!"  Dave (O Canada) ordered.  Another shot of gel.  Another water stop we'd blast through without breaking stride as we'd be able to grab water whenever we needed from our own KC-135 mid-air (on the ground) refueler.  I knew now there was no way I was going to hold this pace - I'd do my best, and then shuffle in the remaining miles all the way to lunch, just like always.

The music was blaring all the time, and not stopping was kind of nice.  There was Meatloaf (the singer, not the entree), Starship (Jefferson), Coolio, and Lord knows what else - more music than I could remember, I guess, since now that I think about it, I can't remember another song...except one (which I'll get to in a moment).

Headed uphill towards the Philadelphia Zoo, miles 8 and 9 were 8:53 and 8:54.  The pace-bunny was a metronome, that's for sure.  Approaching the worst climb in the race, I felt that 'bladder knock' that meant it was time for a pit-stop.  "I'll just go ahead guys - I'll see you in a bit."

I don't know what I was thinking I would do, but I kicked ahead for about 15 seconds, which probably gained me about 6 seconds of space.  I knew it wasn't much, because just as I got to a good tree and hid behind it, I heard "We Are Family...." go rolling by before I was even starting.
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By the time I was done, I couldn't hear the music...and we were now on the steep climb to mile 10 and Memorial Hall.  I knew here that if I took it too easy, 15-20 seconds could easily grow to a minute, and perhaps too much for me to catch up on my own.  I knew it was foolish, short-sighted, and impossible, but I picked it up and ran up the climb as hard as I could.   I strode hard, knowing that it was only a 150 foot gain.

I kept panning and looking for them, and then I heard the tinny sounds of beauty - Dave (of the Bethlehem Deckers) was right ahead of me, next to Lisa.  I caught back on just at the top of the hill, and passed through mile 10 in 9:00 flat - the climb barely making a dent in the splits so far.  It couldn't last.

As we started winding our way through the Japanese gardens (no, they grow TREES there - not Japanese people), the song of songs came on DJ Canucky Dave's player:  "It wasn't me."  For the next ½ mile, it was a sing-along.

<Shaggy> "She caught me in the shower.."
<Group> "It wasn't me!"
<Shaggy> "Said she caught me on camera..."
<Group> "it wasn't me!"

I had energy to sing.  Decker did too.  Jones was leading the parade, but as I looked over at Lisa, there was a member of the band who wasn't looking all that happy with things (and I knew it wasn't because we were off-key).  Lisa was wearing mirrored Oakley's - the kind that hide everything.  Even still, her head was tilting forwards, her hands were tight, and her mouth was open - a pose I've been in at least 100 times before.  Her rhythm was off - the pace felt forced, and it hurt to see it.  She was carrying the bottle, so I did what I could:  "You want me to take the water?"

She handed it across her body without moving anything beyond her legs and her right arm, still focused straight ahead.  There wasn't much I could do but say, "Hang in there, we'll be headed downhill to West River soon, it flattens out there and you can recover."

"Okay."  She managed, but it wasn't a good okay.  I worried, but all I could do was run and hope she'd recover.  It wasn't like I expected to hold it together too much longer - we were still on 3:50 pace, a full three minutes faster than my PR in 2000.  Whatever.

As we descended to West River. we made the turn back towards the Art Museum and the halfway point.  This is where the ease and flow of the early miles usually starts to wear off, and the reality and the pain start to sink their teeth in.  I was starting to feel it, but it wasn't with the sense of closing doom I'd had before.  It hurt, but in a manageable way.  Dave (Rookie, not Beantown) was hanging in there showing no signs of pain, and Dave (eh?) was still leading the charge.  Lisa was silently hanging on, her face unchanged.

Mile 12 - 8:34.  Mile 13 - 8:36.  We passed through halfway in 1:54:49.  Impossibly fast, and with a mere 11 seconds to spare with 13.2 miles to go.  I was lucid enough to know that even though it was impossibly fast for me, it wasn't fast enough for sun 3:50:59.  Looking at the need for a negative split, even here, was daunting.  As we climbed up the rise at the end of West River Drive into the crowd, the noise, and the festival that was the finish line (in another 12 miles, natch), I felt absolutely alive.

Since I was sure I'd be imploding at any friggin' second, I made sure that I soaked in every moment.  I waved, I implored the crowd to make some noise, and probably went too near my AT for my own good, but I just felt FINE.  It was the food - the gels.  My body had calories to work with for once, and the difference was simply night and day to me. 

I spotted Lynda, and she couldn't believe I was there already.  "These guys are fast!"  I managed to yell as I trucked around the museum, and I looked back to see where Dave, Dave, and Lisa were.

They were about 25 yards back...and closing, slowly.  Dr. Dave was keeping everyone in sight, and making sure the group stayed intact.  I felt bad for letting my emotions get the better of me, and slipped back into the fold.  However, my emotions hadn't really seen anything yet.

As we descended to mile 15, I saw something that still makes my blood boil to this day.  On every lamppost, every sign, every 50 feet for nearly 3/4 of a mile, was a protest.  An anti-abortion protest.  Not just posters of words - 6 foot by 4 foot, full-color, detailed images.

And then there was the guy with the megaphone, yelling at the passing runners like they'd all done something wrong.

In short, Bob checked out. 
I lost my mind. 
I mean, I completely lost my sh*t.

I started yelling and screaming at every single protester I could see.  "What are you doing here?  Why are you picking on a MARATHON for God's sake?"  I couldn't believe it.  Hey - everyone has a right to free speech, but why here?  Why now?  Why protest a marathon with 4000 runners?  It didn't make any sense then, and still doesn't now.  I'm just not screaming now.

I was bleeding energy into space like a Supernova.  I was running angry, stupid, and blind with emotion all at once.  I felt like I'd been having this great day with my friends, and now this had just turned me inside-out.  Dave (eh?) saw it, and for the first time all day, raised his voice like a parent to a child:  "Bob!  Settle down, okay?  Don't let it get to you!  Let it go, alright?"

I felt uncomfortable - one, for having lost it, and two, for needing someone I'd just met face to face 2 days ago, to reel me back in.  Even though I knew him really well from e-mail, it was still embarassing to have needed that, and I'm sure it was awkward for him to have to toss a net over the runaway emotions of an Italian on the brink.

"I'm sorry, Dave..." I growled.  "But now I'm pissed.  I'll f'in PR now - I'm so pissed..."  He handed me my gel flask, and I finished it off.  I chased it with some water, and settled back down.  In my mind, I was already winding up for my charge past the protest at mile 24 - when the back part of the out and back brought me through there once more.

Just thinking about it, my pace picked up.  I didn't even really think about it, but the anger I now was holding inside looked for the easiest way out, and that was through my legs.

Mile 15 was an 8:55, and mile 16 was a 9:08.  Somewhere in those miles, the gaps from myself to the rest of the team -  DJ Canuck, Lady Lisa, and D. Decker, grew.  A few feet at first, then 15.  Then 20.  Then 50.  Soon, I couldn't hear the radio anymore.  When the music was gone, I knew I was too.

Pity.  I still had one GU left to use, and it was in Dave's (eh?) pouch.  At mile 20, I'd improvise if he didn't catch up.  He'd have to catch up.  I mean, here I was, running angry with 10 miles to go.  Clearly, the end had to be near for me at this pace.  I mean, Manayunk was just 2 miles away now.

Manayunk was 2 miles away?  And I was still running?  Weird.

Mile 17 - 9:00 flat.
Mile 18 - 9:18.

"I've got two miles to 20.  I feel strong.  What's up with that?"  I thought.  I really didn't think I'd have to think about running well the last 10K, but there I was.  I wasn't supposed to PR today - hell, I wasn't even supposed to go under 4 hours today, really.  I'm overweight.  I'm out of shape.  I can't run a good marathon, I just like to finish them.  Now what?

"Hey, Michael!"  I spotted Michael Parente (who was supposed to be running ahead of me) on his bike, clearly (unless he had decided that Rosie Ruiz had it right), he'd called it a day early.  "What happened?"

Mike's head swiveled towards me, and then tilted with surprise, much the way a puppy tilts its head when it sees something really strange for the first time.  "Bob?  What's going on?  You look great!"  He asked, as he looked past me...wondering where everyone else was.  "Yeah, weird, huh?  I've never felt this good this late.  It feels odd to be lucid headed into Manayunk.  Everyone else - Dave, Lisa, and Dave - they're right behind me."

As I took the left onto Ridge Pike, Michael's reaction confirmed what I was starting to feel:  This wasn't going the way I'd thought it would.  For the first time in my racing life, a marathon was playing out WAY BETTER then I'd thought.  I'd head into Manayunk, make the turn at 20 miles, and be 10K from a PR.

Impossible.  Can't happen. 

Past the drummer who's always there, all marathon long, headed down the long drag into "The Pit" in Manayunk.  The crowds and the music return for about a mile, and the 20-mile mark comes up all the way at the end of Main Street.  I focused on keeping my turnover together, and I also started to look for something like a snack.  Without a GU, what to do?

Mile 19 - 9:21 (climbing to the turn).
Mile 20 - 9:04.

10K to go.  Race Time - 2:57.  PR Pace.  Even if I don't want to - even though I hadn't planned to, I have to run this all the way in now.  I can't waste the chance that has played out.  I don't care what the scale says, I don't care what I think about myself today - I have less than an hour of pain to go for a PR that should never have even been given a chance.  I wheeled through the turn, grabbed a banana that a spectator held out on a tray (fate!), and got ready to run those las 10 kilometers with everything I had left.

Less than 100 meters away, Dave (Decker, of the Bethlehem Deckers) pointed at me and said, "Good job!"  In that tone that means, "I'm coming for you!"  He'd said he same thing to me at the Lancaster Triathlon 2 months earlier, and I knew he meant it.

Another 20 seconds later, I saw this madman weaving in and out of the pack, arms above his head like a Muppet on speed.  Beaker broke out of the pack, and extended an arm to me, with ABBA blaring from his fanny-pack.  "Here's your GU!  You look great, Bob!"  I don't know how he remembered, but he did.  Just like he did everything else that day - selflessly.  I checked for one second - Lisa was still there, right on his hip, her face still frozen in pain.  It hurt to see her like that - she had to know that unless she ran a sub-50 minute 10K, Boston wasn't going to be at the end of the road today.

Quickly, selfishly, I drew in.  I couldn't help her - Dave could, and would.  All I could do was hope, and run my own race...which was now, really, a race.

At Mile 21, I ticked off another 8:59.  I'd never run a post-20 mile split like that.  I was lucid - I recalled my splits from my PR in 2000, where I'd hit the turn at 2:55, but then nearly lost it all in the final 59-minute plod to the line.  Now, I knew I just had to keep the pace where it was, and that's all that was needed.  Each mile now was just another challenge in the books - another 9 minutes, another mile, another victory.

Mile 22 - The Ramp.  It's just 25 vertical feet.  It's a highway on-ramp we run in reverse direction, from Ridge Avenue to Kelly Drive.  Every year, she would see me coming, tear my legs off, and beat me with the stumps.  Every year, the ramp was my island of sirens.  My Moby Dick.  My personal Waterloo.  This time, I wanted to kick her ass.

"You see me?  You see me coming?  You see me running?  Bob isn't scared of you this year!"  Yes, I was talking to a hill.  Michael Parente was there, and took a picture of the whole thing.

"You ain't nothing!  You ain't nothing to me now!"  I hit the grade, got on my toes, and hit it.  "Is that all you got?  Is that all you got?  You can't stop me!  Not this year!  You ain't nothing but a flat road, going up!"  Over the top and down, the ramp, for once, did nothing but boost the growing and blooming seeds of confidence that were growing where they had never seen purchase before.  After another 9:02, there were 4.2 miles between myself and what would be at the very least, a good day. 

I knew with a little pain, it could be great.  "Turn 'em over, stay in your groove."  I was passing people now, even though I was running the same speed as before.  The same speed as Mile 10, 15, and 20.  To go faster at the marathon you don't have to go faster - You just have to not go slower like everyone else.

Mile 23 passed in a silent 9:00.  3.2 miles, PR pace still there.  The protest on the other side, ignored this time.  Best to keep my energy to myself, now.

Michael Parente caught back up to me, on his bike, and with his camera.  He started snapping pictures of me as I ticked off the miles, and he started doing something to me he had never done when we'd run together before:  He complimented my form almost every mile.  "Wow, Bob, you look great.  I mean, strong.  Keep it up."

He said it.  I knew it.  The extra food, the company, the music, the cool weather, and the complete lack of expectation on my part - my legs were free to do what they wanted, and today, that was run like they'd never run before.

Mile 24 passed in 9:10.  I gulped for a second, but it was okay.  With 2 to go now, I just had to run one, then gun one.  Even if I had nothing left, I could always fake one more mile.

It was going to happen.  I was going to break my PR.  The best part - I knew it.  I knew it with 18 minutes to go, and could drink up every last second of every last minute, savor it as it passed, and long for there to be more.  I was tired, I was hurting, but I could take it.  There was enough strength left to get the job done - it wasn't the desperate struggle I'd always had when I danced with the marathon - this time, it was a soaring flight I'd never felt before.

As I passed Boathouse Row and spotted the towering columns of the Art Museum in the distance, Mile 25 passed in 8:55.  One to go - mostly uphill.  I had faltered so badly here in 2000, it took a prayer for borrowed wings to get me across the line.  This time, I was flying all on my own.  As I started to lift my aching knees just a bit more, and I started to lean into the grade, the burn began.  The final surge of the day - the last pain I would take in 2002, and a year I'd wanted to just rush behind was suddenly passing too quickly.

Through the canopy of trees, curving gently to the right around the side of the museum, Michael yelled out one final time, "Go for it!  Go, go, go, go!"  I'd never heard him yell to me like that - it was the sound I last remember, before I started yelling myself.

At first, it was a short yell...but then, I was screaming.  All I could do was raise my arms, look to the sky, and cry out.  With my legs and lungs alight with all that they could give, my voice matched with all I had left.   My fists were pumping over and over, and I just couldn't stop yelling.  I passed three more people on the way to the line, and then, with one last burst, the banner passed overhead, the red mat bleeped below, and it was over.

3:53:27.  45 seconds off the old PR. 

A 26th mile of 8:33.  Only one second slower than the fastest of the day, 19 miles ago.  40 seconds.  Dave had saved me 8-10 seconds for each water stop I'd run through.  It was easy to see that this record was a two-man show.  He wasn't there yet, but I knew it wouldn't be long.  I turned and looked back, waiting.  Waiting.

Boston was gone, now.  For all I had felt, I knew Lisa and Dave would be feeling the same intense emotions, but on the other end of the spectrum.  I waited until the clock turned to 4:00, and then I walked through - I had to keep moving.  I got my medal, my blanket, and a bottle of water.  I spotted Lynda on the fence, and RAN over to her(!).

"HOLY SHIT!"  She beamed.  "Where'd that come from?"  I was already feeling good about it, but if I floored St. Lynda?  Now I was on cloud 9.  There's nothing like making the woman in your life think, just for one hour, that you really are all that and then some.

And then, there they were.  Dave on one side, and Lisa on the other.  They'd finished in 4:05, and the face that had held it all in all day long - a 26.2 mile poker face that fought the uphill fight to the last stride, finally let it go.  The weight of wishes unfulfilled escaped in heartbreaking sobs, one, after the other, after the other.  There was nothing I could do or say, so Dave held her as she cried it out...and let it go.

In the middle of all this, we lost Dave Decker.  He'd finished in 4:02, and walked to the other side of the road to be a good triathlete and drink his Endurox within 30 minutes of finishing his exercise.  He sat on a bench in the sun, and we sat in the shade on the other.   It was just that easy to get it all wrong when we weren't on the same road anymore.

Eric found us, and Steve Smith was with him.  Steve had paced Eric from mile 15 to the end, and Eric had finished in a respectable 3:30.  Aaron - remember him?  He struggled with a sore knee after mile 20, and finished (effectively on one leg) 2:50.  Amazing.

Over lunch, war stories were told.  Smiles, laughs, food, laughs, and more food.  The post-race feed, especially when it's a post-season feed, is always a good time.  Eric caught a train for NYC (with some breakneck, inner-city driving from Lynda to get him there in 4 minutes), and then Dave and Lisa headed off to the airport.  Lynda and I both felt for Lisa, and talked about it all the way home.  I felt a sense of guilt - just like I had at IMC 2001 when I'd PR'ed on a day when Mike, Kim, and Eric all had horrible days.

Unbridled joy, when mated with unbridled sorrow, makes the difference painfully huge.  I was still glowing about the run I'd had, but inside, I wished I could somehow get Lisa the time she'd wanted.  For her, for Dave, and for her father.

The next day, Dave (The Financial Wizard) took care of that.  I don't know how he did it, but he reached out, touched someone, and built a bridge out of the scraps of Sunday.  Dave, Lisa (and somehow, ME!), are going to be in Boston on April 21, 2003.   Dave (eh?) says he wants to run this one without the jukebox, so it's up to Dave (of the Bethlehem Decker's) and I to keep Lisa entertained.

It's a challenge I think I'll accept.  If this race will be anything like the last one, it'll be easy.

I'll get by with a little help from my friends, that's all.

Hurricane Bob
* 3:53:27.  Damn. *


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