Philly 2008

The 2008 Philadelphia Marathon
November 23, 2008 -- Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

I knew there would be a point in this race where the elastic would be stretched to its breaking point, and I would have to either grit my teeth and suffer just a bit more, or realize that no matter how many images of righteous and courageous running I had in my mind, the water was just too deep for me. That point was now here.

Joe Bator and a simple plan - 'Just (bleep)ing Run.

"Pick it up! Pick it up!"

We had just crossed mile 1 in 8:21. When I went to pick it up, my legs simply said, "It's already been picked up. Got nothing. Please try your call again later." With 25 miles to go, this was not a time to be heroic. I hated to do it so soon, but I waved Joe ahead. Unrelenting, he dropped back to my side. "What's up?" He asked. "It's just not there yet - not warm. I'll run what I can and find a rhythm, and see you guys later." I replied.

It was only 24F at the start, and at 7:00AM there was no sunlight on the streets of Philadelphia - that wouldn't come for another 2+ hours. At this point, despite wearing gloves, a headband that St. Lynda had procured for me with a last-minute blitz to the local Target (say it "Tar-jay," it sounds much more continental), I was still dealing with the fact that I was not warm, I was probably not going to BE warm, and I was going to miss the train.

Joe understood. "Okay, man. Run your race, and we'll see you soon." By 'we' he meant Brian Gatens and himself. I was supposed to be the third man in the formation; we were going to go out at 3:15 marathon pace and just hang on until we could do no more. It was going to be the best run of our lives - maybe it would end with a Boston Qualifying time, maybe it wouldn't. No matter what, it was going to be the fastest marathon Brian and I had ever run.

At least, that was the plan. This plan, fair readers may recall, was remarkably similar to my 2005 Boston Marathon plan. That day ended with me walking up Heartbreak Hill backwards to keep my calves from cramping, and people on my athlete alerts list asking, "Whoa. Did he get hit by an airstrike in Newton?" Didn't end so well, that day.

This day in Philadelphia started back in June when Brian wrote to Joe Bator - a multiple Boston marathon finisher and member of the BAA (with a 2:54 marathon personal best), and copied me. He simply said, "Bob and I want to qualify for Boston. We need a 3:15. You can get us there. Interested?" Before I could even say, "The who in the where said what now?" Joe said, "You bet."

This was crazy talk. My best at the marathon distance was 3:53:27 - 38 minutes too slow for to qualify. I'd run that time in 2002 - six years ago. However, before I could even begin to pile up the excuses and slowly back away, Joe replied, "You guys can do this. Start running now - 30 miles a week. On August 4th, we start for real."

Race Start - 7:00AM, with 16,000 runners.

For the next 16 weeks I ran more often and farther than ever before. More hills, more speedwork, more back-to-back long runs than ever. As Joe said, "This time you're training like a runner - not like a triathlete who also happens to run."

As I watched Joe and Brian pedal away from me on Columbus Boulevard I knew that 3:15 was already gone, but I also knew I had the best running form of my life with me, and 25 more miles to put that to pavement.

A matter of seconds can make all of the difference between, "Too fast..." and "Just right." In my case, 8:00 minute miles were too fast now, but 8:15-8:20 pace was very comfortable. For the first 10 miles I just found my own groove cruising in the 8:15 range, even managing to uncork a 7:52 mile 6 during the slight descent of Chestnut Street - the first time I've ever run a sub-8 mile during a marathon.

I knew there'd be a bit of a reality check climbing through the Fairmount Plateau up to the Philadelphia Zoo, but it wasn't too bad at all. I reached the summit at mile 10 in 1:23:29 - 8:22 pace. I was 6 minutes ahead of PR pace, but knew it was still way too soon to think about such things. In the first 10 miles of a marathon, everyone is a hero. After three weeks of resting up and cutting back on mileage, it all seems so, so, so easy. Not so easy that a Caveman could do it, but easy enough he'd be going, "Unngh, aaagh. This not so hard. What big deal?"

After missing the 2007 edition of this race (my first miss since 1997), It was here that I got my first dose of course re-design. From 1997 through 2006, nothing changed at all - nada. I could have run the race blindfolded. But now? Instead of cruising through the Japanese Gardens and descending to West River Drive, we just turned away from Memorial Hall and plunged right downhill.

And then I remembered the Half Marathon. For years the Philadelphia Marathon was just that - a marathon. In 2006, they added a Half Marathon. That same year they put the Half Marathoners on a shortcut and had them rejoin the marathon route, with different mile markers. Unfortunately, nobody knew which was which. So on West River Drive you passed mile 11, then mile 11. After you swore a bit you came upon mile 12, and then mile 12...which just made everybody cross.

So now we would skip the Japanese Gardens completely, and run towards the finish line. The navigator in my brain furrowed his brow, and thought aloud, "Okay, so now we're going to need to make up that mile somewhere else. But where?" It made me uneasy. I'm a guy. I don't ask for directions when I'm lost (and now that I have a GPS it just tells me), but I like to know where I'm going. Sort of.

So I followed the rest of the merry band of penguins motoring up West River Drive into the (finally!) rising sun. For the first time all race, I felt warm enough here to take my gloves off for a bit. They were the same bright yellow gloves I'd worn at Boston in 2007, and many other local cold races. They were loud, obnoxious, and could be seen from space.

So when I went to tuck them in my waistband and missed, I thought about turning around to get them...but knew it wouldn't be worth it. I didn't want to waste a second. I looked back and watched my Jazz Hands - my yellow hands that had been with me since Eric Weiss sent them as a joke in 2004 - were trampled into the crowd.

Lisa Jones would later tell me that she spotted them on the left side of the road and thought, "Hey, aren't those Bob's gloves?" Indeed. Jazz Hands, no more. I plowed ahead knowing that the halfway mark was in sight, and this was no time to be looking anywhere but ahead. I would miss them!

Miles 11, 12, and 13 passed in 8:19, 8:28, and 8:29. As I passed the Art Museum, here I learned about the second change of my course: Now the marathon runners would be put in one lane, while the Half Marathon runners took the inside. They would get to run a short loop while we headed up the Parkway (covering a part of mile 1 all over again - ack!), then doubled-back to start the Kelly Drive out and Back.

There is nothing as hard in racing as watching someone FINISH and head for warm clothes, a cup of soup, and a nap, while you're about to go out and do what they just did, again. Sure, I know - I signed up for 26.2, and I shouldn't hate those who opted for 13.1, but still, at that moment, I was thinking all sorts of mean things about them. Burnt toast, shrunken blanket, pouring the coffee before you realize you're out of milk and sugar, cat puking on your back while you sleep, no good very bad awful horrible wishes for every single one of them.

In the middle of that font of negativity, I crossed through the Half Marathon point in 1:48 - on pace for a 3:40, 13 minutes faster than ever before.

But then I got on Kelly Drive and had work to do - all was forgotten (but not forgiven, yet). It was here that I realized just why I had been so warm on West River Drive, running in the opposite direction. The tailwind that I hadn't noticed over there was now a headwind that I very much did notice.

Within a mile, my no-longer-Jazz-Hands were pretty much numb, much like my brain for dropping them in the first place. Even though we'd been running for nearly 2 hours, it was only 9:00AM. The sun still hadn't made its way onto Kelly Drive. The wind chill dropped into the teens - it was January in November.

But before I could start to seriously fret about turning into a Bobsicle, remember that question the navigator asked about making up the mile? Right - me neither. Which is why when I saw people turning off of the nice, flat, winding road that is Kelly Drive, and turning right onto the hilly, climbing, very-much-not-flat Lemon Hill Road, I thought, "Oh, please, no. Don't make us do that. I know that road - I rode that road in June during the Philly Tri; it's so not flat!"

But that's the way we had to go. We had to run farther AND uphill so those Half Marathon runners could finish their race without a shortcut and extra mile markers. While they were in the warming tents having soft pretzels and soup, I was out here freezing my Sicilian nay-nay's off, running the Lemon Hill loop. It was at this point my wishes for all of them began to involve having their cable boxes get stuck on a Lifetime Televsion marathon during the NFL playoffs, complex acts of self-fornication, and having Rachael Ray and Oprah put out a Christmas Album that looped on their iPods.

But as I plunged down the 10% grade back to Kelly Drive, again, I let my frustration go. I had to; my fingers had frozen stiff - I couldn't hold onto anything. The lack of sun, the headwind, and the fact that I was running faster than ever before added up. I was starting to feel it - the real miles. People look at me and tilt their heads when I try and explain that halfway at the marathon distance is mile 20, but as you run the miles between 13 and 20, that's when the honeymoon miles end and the real race begins.

That's when you start to feel the pain - the fatigue. That's when the pacing you ran in the first hour and the fueling you've been doing through the race come into play.

Mile 17 was an 8:54. Perhaps I could hold this pace now and not slide anymore?
Mile 18 was an 8:53. Yes! I can do this - No 9:00 miles today. That's the goal.

But then I noticed another one of those things that had been changed since 2006. We used to run this entire stretch on the left side - the "wrong" side (unless you're British - in which case it's still the wrong side, but because you still follow a Queen and read "The Sun," you don't know it). Now, I was on the right, which was now, wrong. But since everyone else was with me, it had to be right, right? Right.

It's just a simple highway ramp from Ridge Pike to Kelly Drive. Perhaps 20 feet in elevation, less than 1/8th of a mile long. After making the turnaround in Manayunk at 20 miles, it came at you at 21.5 and was simply the final hurdle - both psychological and phyiscal - between you and the finish.

Yet here it was at mile 19.5, because of the course changes. So I had about 10 seconds to get ready to get it overwith now, then enter Manayunk.

As I leaned into the slope and tried to get my legs to climb this sudden bummer, I could feel the speed just bleeding away. Like fully loaded Yugo going over a speedbump, I voluntarily moved to the right side of the road to make room for everyone else. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a cluster of large red balloons - it was the 3:40 pace group. They were huddled together in a tight pack, and absolutely flying.

As I struggled over the top of the climb and tried to pick up some kind of stride on the descent, they still pulled away from me. You know you're in deep sh*t when you weigh 190 pounds and you can't use gravity anymore - that's bad. I knew now that "The Slide" had begun for me - I was not going to be running 8's anymore today. I didn't panic - I had plenty of time in the bank. So long as I could settle and hold some kind of pace and not cave in and start walking, I was still going to PR.

If you know me and you've read my reports, you know that I have had my share of racing disasters. It's at times like this I feel fortunate to have screwed up so very many times, because I knew what NOT to do. In my head I made up a 3-point to-do list:

As you can see, the cold got to me - I forgot to stop counting after 3. But still, some of the plan made sense. I carried on doing the best that I could entering Manayunk, knowing that in not too much time, I'd be turning around and heading for home.

There were plenty of runners on the other side headed out - I did my best to try and recognize people along the way. I didn't see Joe and Brian - they saw me. As they ran by they both turned sideways, and were waving their arms and yelling, "BOB! BOB! BOB!" I just barely caught a glimpse, managed to wave, and got back to business.

The turnaround was just a half mile ahead - despite the frozen state of most of my brain, I could do the math. I was 9 minutes back; over the first 19 miles, I'd lost 30 seconds per mile to them. They were flying!

I however, was not. I hit mile 20 and the turnaround in 9:24 - 2:49:52 race time - with my slowest mile of the day. Running into the sunshine and climbing out of Manayunk, I grabbed a gel from a volunteer - a double-espresso Clif Shot: Now we're cookin'. I chased it with as much water as I could stomach; drinking had been really, really hard for me, all race long.

The Gatorade was so cold, it felt like an icy dagger every time I took a sip. It was like drinking something so cold it burned, yet gave you an instant ice cream headache. This was tough, but there was also a new hazard I was running into - the road was getting icy.

Spilled water and Gatorade from the 2,500 or so runners ahead of me was freezing as soon as it hit the pavement. People were slipping and hitting the deck, and volunteers were yelling, "Watch out - ice! Ice!" Thankfully, they didn't add, "Baby" to that line like my brain did to me - as I just did to you (sorry).

Despite the ice (both on the road and the Vanilla one rapping in my head), despite the cold, despite the lack of Jazz hands and style, I was now headed for home. I knew that I just had to run one mile at a time and not give in, and I'd break my PR. Even if I ran 10-minute miles from here, I'd still make it.

Coming out of Manayunk I did the best that I could to think about all those long, solo runs on quiet Thursday and Friday afternoons. All the times I'd be 2 hours in with 1 hour to go, but knowing that getting through the rough days then would make me stronger for THIS day - this moment - this mile. There are very few times in life you are aware that you're in the middle of something tremendous, and that the decisions you make in the next few minutes will be the difference between a good day and a great one. I had 5 miles left. I knew this was a chance I didn't want to let escape.

People ask me, "Why do you do these things?" It's a tough question to answer, especially when you read about just how hard this stretch was. Nobody likes pain; that's never the goal. Most of us work, take care of our families, our homes, and all that grown-up-responsibility stuff. When we watch the Olympics every 4 years, who doesn't think about what it's like to win? To set a World Record? To push yourself and do things you never thought possible?

I'm not going to the Olympics. Most of us won't be. But a marathon lets you ask a question about yourself, then go find the answer. You slap down your entry fee, you train, and you line up with 16,000 other people asking themselves the same question: What am I made of? What have I got? 26.2 miles is 26.2 miles. It's a few hours out of one day, one day out of the tens of thousands of other ordinary days you will live.

As bad as I was starting to feel, I knew giving up would be much worse. In the middle of this really tough patch, I thought about Katie. I've been racing for 19 years, but only for 3 as a parent. This year she's been much more aware of what I do, asking, "Did you win today?" "Can I go for a bike ride with you?" "Can you take me to boat practice?" I know she sees me now, and wants to be like me.

As I could feel my legs getting ready to give in as my mind teetered on the same edge, I thought, "What are you going to say to her if you let go now? Are you going to tell her, 'Daddy quit because it got too hard?'"

I once read that being in love is like the wind running with you in both directions. Now I know that being a parent can often be just as much help when the going gets rough. It's one thing to let yourself down - it's infinitely worse to think about letting someone else down, especially someone who still thinks you can do it all.

Mile 21 was a 9:15 - YES. I had turned the clock back a bit, "45 seconds in the bank there." As I made the right-hand turn onto Kelly Drive, I made a quick pit-stop in the shrubs. Despite not drinking much all day, my hydration was good - almost too good. I was wishing I hadn't stopped, but I needed to - I'd been thinking about it for 2 miles. I made the stop, and knew I'd be even faster for it.

Mile 22 - 10:03 with the pit stop, but a 9:20 without. I ran past Falls Bridge - less than 4 miles to go. The wind was at our back here - the sun still wasn't shining on Kelly Drive, and the ice was curb to curb when skating through the water stops, but I knew it wouldn't be long. I just focused on the next bend in the road - the next small pack of people - and willed myself to get there.

Mile 23 - 9:15. Another 45 seconds in the bank. At this point, unless I somehow fell down on the ice or suffered some other unforseen disaster I knew I was going to go under 3:53 - with 3:50 suddenly looking within reach. I was feeling better - I was feeling like I could hold the pace.

I glanced at my watch and tried to do the math, but just shook my head - my mind had lost that process; it kept answering, "Trailing throttle oversteer, with late apex, glaze with melted butter, and bake at 350F for 5 days."

Just then someone next to me saw me looking at my watch and asked with a killer German accent, "So, how's your race going?" I managed to reply, "On pace for a PR - looking to get under 3:50." He looked at his and said, "Oh, hey, ya! 'Ve got dat. I'm Bernd. You stay vis' me - I get you zere." Bernd was 6 feet, 24 inches tall. I wasn't in the mood to politely decline help at this point, especially from a towering, Teutonic, statue of a man.

I locked onto Bernd's feet, and just hung on. Mile 24 - 9:22. Two to go - 3:50 is there if I don't screw it up and get greedy. "Goot! Goot! Veddy niiiice! Stay strooong!" Whenever Bernd talked, I smiled.

That's Bernd in the red. You going to say "no" to anything he says?

When the gym I belong to bought new treadmills last year, they had this option for a Digital Assistant - a computer generated coach that appeared on the display to tell you how you were doing. It was always nice and sweet, but I joked, "It would be way more accurate if one of the choices was a German coach to kick your @ss when the going gets rough..."

Bernd kept on the pressure, but with each step I was feeling better and better. As we made the bend near the Columbia Bridge, we turned into the sun - FINALLY. It was like entering another time zone. Suddenly my body thawed a bit, I could move my hands, and my legs really started to move. I wasn't going any faster, but I wasn't slowing down the way 90% of the field in a marathon does. We were moving up - passing people with every step.

And now 3:50 was done - I had it. How much more time could I lower my own record by? How much more could I wring out before I ran out of road and time?

"Ve are flying! Goot job, Bob! Veddy goot!" Bernd was the pacesetter - I just hung on, knowing that the next mile marker I saw would be the last one. It started in August, it would end today. After six years of wondering if I'd ever be that fast again, I had my answer...and a full mile to savor it.

As we approached Boathouse Row, I tried to kick up just a bit more, and my right hamstring instantly locked. It was a quick "warning shot" cramp - a spasm that told me, "This is fine - this is as fast as you go." I told Bernd, "This is all I've got - keep it here..."

Just then I saw him. I wondered if he'd turn around, and he had - Joe had run Brian all the way to the line, and then turned away from the finish line and run BACK down the course a half mile to pick me up. He stopped just across from the first boathouse, pointed at the road and said, "Get here - let's go!"

Joe and Bernd fell in step and introduced themselves. Bernd said, "He's going to go 3:50!" Joe replied, "No way - he's going to be way faster than that!" The two of them fell into step shoulder to shoulder, and I slotted in right behind them. I hadn't counted on this, but now I had my own set of chase planes leading me home.

As we ground our way up the long, straight false-flat towards the Art Museum, I could hear the finish line. Joe yelled out, "Just 3 more minutes - give me 3 good minutes!" I knew it was less than that, but this was no time to argue. "Get me to the break Bob - bridge up!" Joe recalled a conversation we had about my job on cycling teams - the big guy who closed down gaps and chased people down. He was cracking the mental whip the best that he could, and it was working - we were going faster and faster with each step.

I saw the sign for mile 26 - even with the climb we'd run an 9:14. My fastest mile since 18. The climb lessened, and I knew I was going to make it. Joe and Bernd were just ahead of me yelling to the crowd, "This is Bob! He's going to break his PR today!" Normally there were barricades to keep the crowd off of the road in the last 1/4 mile, but today the crowd had spilled over them and onto Kelly Drive.

Instead of a wide-open lane, there was barely a 10-foot wide corridor of people to run through. Joe and Bernd cleared the path, all the while working the crowd into a wonderful din...just for me.

It was the greatest running moment I've ever had. I was thankful I had my Oakleys on; each time Joe looked back, I'm sure the grimace looked a bit like a smile...and he couldn't see just how much I was starting to lose it. It was awesome. There was no more pain - there was no more fatigue. I was 22 years old again, invincible, living without a sense of limits.

As we cleared the crowd and entered the last 200 yards in front of the Art Museum, I could see the clock. It was real - it was really real! I was really going to break 3:50! I made sure I ran right down the middle of the road, and started punching the sky with 50 meters to go.

And just like that, it was over. Bernd shook my hand and disappeared. I wobbled through the chute, got a bottle of water and a mylar blanket, had a medal draped over my neck, briefly saw TRI-DRS member Lisa Limper (I'm told - I have a very foggy recollection of shaking her hand), and found my way to the baggage check to get some warm clothes. Brian had finished just up the road in 3:44, and looked like a man who'd left it all out there along the way. We slowly made our way up the Ben Franklin Parkway towards the hotel, heading towards City Hall.

I remarked to Brian and Joe, "Hey, it's only 11:00AM. What do you want to do with the rest of the day?" Needless to say, cheesesteaks were definitely in our future - shamelessly.

I know I still have a long way to go to get that Boston Qualifier. Going from 3:48 to 3:20 (my time next year as I age up), is still a tremendous task - more than a minute per mile faster than the 8:43 pace I just ran. But I know I can do better. I know it. I know it's out there if I keep after it. But even if it doesn't ever happen, days like this one will keep me running until I'm boring my great-grandchildren with stories about it.