“Give me your watch.”

He said it without any leadup, windup, or fanfare.  It wasn’t a request, it was an order.  I knew something like this had to be coming, but still, I blinked.

“Give me your watch.”  He repeated, with no additional emphasis.  None was needed.  I knew I didn’t want to do it, but I also knew that I had to do it - I had to let go.  After 20 miles, there was nothing left to save it for.  There was no tomorrow – there was only now.  Without a word I undid the band, handed him the watch, and got ready for the tsunami of suffering in the final 10KM. 

Brian didn’t look back, he just said over his shoulder, “Let’s go.  Let’s run these mother f*ckers down.”

---

The 2010 Philadelphia was my 13^th time at the race, and my 30^th marathon.  As impressive as those numbers might seem, I still must confess to having no idea how to run a good marathon.  Out of those 30, only 5 were under 4 hours, and none of them had been run well – strong from start to finish  They’d all started off with strong first halves, then faded with varying degrees of physical, mental, or the rare duplex disaster of the duel-component meltdown in the final 13.1 miles.  When my training started in earnest in September, I was pretty sure that running anything close to a PR…well, that ship had sailed.  It was too late in the year, yet again.

Two years of trying to survive the Pfizer/Wyeth merger had pretty much laid waste to any real consistent training.  For 2010, I was averaging 14 miles a week – barely enough to run a half-marathon, let alone a distance that killed the first guy to finish it.  But still, not starting wasn’t an option.  Through September and October I did what I could with the time that I had.  I ran some huge speedwork sessions under the tutelage of Coach Debi Bernardes, and did everything I could on the long mileage runs when time permitted.  In the end I had 2 runs over 3 hours, a 2 in the 2:30 range, and that was pretty much it.  There wasn’t a lot of hay in the barn this time, but I was hoping there was another piece of this mystery I could work on more than ever before, just to see where it might take me.

Life is made up of moments – specific, clear, sharp peaks of emotion – high or low as they may be, filled with ebbs and flows in-between that make up daily life.  You rarely know when they’ll hit you, but when they do, only when the aftershocks have passed and the smoke cleared can you look back and go, “There…that was a life-changer.”

On October 10^th, at around 12:30PM in the afternoon as I stood in the middle of a backyard full of Katie’s Pre-School friends attending her 5^th birthday party, my phone chirped.  It was a text from Joe Bator, who simply wrote:

“Leeroy qualified.  3:14:46”

Leeroy, of course, was Brian Gatens.  Brian said to me in 2008, “We’re going to Boston.  You and me.  When we qualify, it’ll be the greatest thing.”  That year he ran a 3:44, and I finished less than a half-mile back in 3:48.  I knew I had a ton of work to do, and really, dropping 28 minutes?  Huge.  Probably too huge.  Brian was undaunted – size of the dream be damned.  Over the next two years he lost 30 pounds, rode incomprehensible distances in training, and built up an aerobic engine the likes of which neither of us had ever seen.  In short, he did what he needed to.  He put in the miles, watched what he ate, and simply willed it into something real.  Because he wanted it.

And there, in the middle of that backyard, one thousand tons of reality came crashing down out of a clear blue sky in the form of a simple question from my own mind:

“He’s going to Boston.  You aren’t.  What will you do to get there?”

I tried to find a middle ground; I had a five-year old - His kids were older.  I’d been working way too many hours trying to survive the bloodbath at work, and had managed to keep a job while most of my friends were gone.  I had no regrets about what I’d done – I’d played the hand life had dealt and done the right things – the things that I had to do.  But maybe now that I’d gotten to this point, it was time to stop waiting for the “right time.” 

I had 6 weeks to race-day at that point.  In those 6 weeks I dropped 7 pounds.  More importantly, I started to think about what I had to do – how fast I would have to go.  I wouldn’t go 3:20 this time out, but just how fast could I go?  My head had been programmed through years of slow running to stop believing I could go faster.  What if I just dropped all that BS from my memory?  What if everything I’d ever thought about what was possible simply disappeared, and I really ran – truly ran – up to my physical limit?  I might not get 3:20, but how close could I get?  What if I stopped hoping, and started to believe?  What if it’s in there, and I just need to tell all that doubt to step aside…and let it out?

In my final tune-up run on October 31, I raced a half marathon in 1:45:50.  I had locked into the pace really well, and at mile 12 I asked myself, “Could you keep going like this?”  Yes, I could.  Who knew for how long, but I would get out there on November 21 and see just how far I could take it.  I had nothing to lose.  I started to look at this year’s race as a new beginning – the gateway to something else.  Brian had gone there – I had a path to follow.

Sunday night after that last race, though, my joints started to ache.  The next day, my neck stiffened up.  By Tuesday, there was a 3” red mark on my chest.  By Wednesday, it was a 7” bulls-eye.  By Thursday, it was 9”, and growing.  A Google search of my symptoms returned 25 hits, all titled, “Tick Bite Symptoms…”

Aw, hell, no.  Really?  Yes, really.

On November 4^th my doctor took one look at my chest and remarked, “WOW!  Classic case!  That’s a perfect bulls-eye!  I’m getting a picture of this…I’ll use it in my lectures.”  I left his office with a prescription for Cefuroxime, or Ceftin, 4 weeks worth of semi-nuclear antibiotics to be taken twice per day to make sure that I beat back any Lyme Disease that was trying to get to me. 

As I walked to the car that night, I was torn.  After trying to get myself turned in the right direction, I had a tick bite?  In OCTOBER?  Yougottabekiddinme.  Still, at least there were 2 weeks to race-day.  Two weeks to get used to whatever it was they were going to do to me.  “It’ll just add to the story…” I tried to laugh off.  Sort of.  I was trying to leave that sort of drama behind.  Who gets a tick bite in October?

Regardless, I took the pills.  Twice a day.  I ran when I could.  The bulls-eye shrank, my symptoms faded.  I managed to find my way back to a pretty good place, and would be healthy enough to start, no question.

I was able to find a good place to be pre-race, and the traditional pre-race gathering at the Manayunk Pub had 25 people attending in one long, laughable table.  It was great to finally meet Ken, Shawn, Linae, Jim, Dave, and see once again the usual suspects, Brian, Joe, Dave, Tom, Nancy, as well as Beth and Mafalda from Pfizer, who’d been in the same too-much-work-too-little-mileage situation I’d been in. Dave Decker decided he didn’t need a hotel room that night – instead of sleeping he’d go for a run, starting at 2:00AM.  He planned to run the entire marathon route, finish at 7:00AM, and then do it again with the rest of us to complete a 52.4 mile tour.

I chose to sleep. 

The nice thing about having Brian (and his wife Kathie) as roommates is that Brian is a motivational machine.  As soon as the lights were on he had his iPad setup, and was playing Versus promos, Dropkick Murphy’s, and more Versus promos. 

Like this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LccxeBMLibY

Or this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-zZO1Qwa8E&

By the time we’d gotten dressed and headed out the door, I was pretty much ready to hit the race like it owed me money.  I didn’t care about Lyme Disease, or work, or what I should have been doing, or what races I’d done before, or what the scale said.  The sky was clear.  The air was cold.  I was going to go out there and leave everything behind – everything.  I was a new me.  This day was a new race.  Nothing that had come before would matter – no failures would go with me.  I had written to my friends following by email updates the night before, “Why do I run these things?  Because today is the day where it could all finally go right.”

If I was going to change, it had to start today.

Debi gave me a plan – Run 15 minutes, walk 30 seconds.  Start at the back of the corral, ease into the first 3 miles.  Warm up to the pace gently.  Her last piece of advice, “Most of all, DO NOT RUN WITH BRIAN.”  Well, she didn’t say he couldn’t run behind me.  I wanted help.  Brian said he’d follow me, that was that.

After all the usual pre-race speeches, announcements, and the wheelchair race start, we finally got rolling just a bit after 7:00AM.  Heading through the pre-sunrise shadows in Center City, our first few miles ticked off in the mid-8’s.  When I reached for the throttle at mile 4, however, I couldn’t pick it up.  What I expected to be 7:50’s to 8:00’s got stuck in the 8:10 range.  “Not fast enough…not fast enough…where is it?” 

By mile 5, I had a feeling I knew what was wrong.  Since I’d started on the antibiotics, I hadn’t run longer than an hour, and with 2-3 miles at race pace at most.  Now that I was at full speed, full speed wasn’t quite where I expected it to be.  I could taste the Ceftin; worse yet, I could feel that things were going to get complicated.

“Buddy, I’m going to need to make a stop here – I’ll let you know when…”  I warned Brian.  We passed through the 10K mark in just over 52 minutes.

At mile 7 I saw my chance, and told Brian, “Pit stop!”  I dove for a line of little blue boxes.  Two minutes and twenty seconds later (yes, I took the split), we took off again.  I felt like a new man – lighter, faster, and hopefully, with the worst moment of the race behind me.  With 19 miles yet to go, there was plenty of time to put things right.  Debi had told me two weeks earlier, “Start to visualize what will go right, and what could go wrong.  Then figure out how you’ll deal with it.”    The answer was easy – I’d put it behind, and get back on pace.

As we entered the long climb through University City, the crowd was incredible – easily the largest, loudest I’d ever heard it.  We passed Kathie somewhere in here, and I let the cheering and noise carry me.  We made the turn onto 34^th Street, and pounded uphill through Drexel.  I was feeling better – my body was relaxed and back on rhythm.  I still wasn’t going under the 8’s like I’d hoped, but keeping it steady.  If this was to be the pace today, so be it.

When we crested the climb at Memorial Hall, up ahead there was a pace group complete with balloons.  Brian asked, “Is that the 3:40 group?”  I tried to do the math, but as usual, my brain shrugged and pointed at the large pile of numbers that somehow triumphantly spelled out ‘POTATO.’  I muttered to Brian, “Don’t know.  Maybe?”  With that he answered, “I’ll check – be right back.”

He roared up the road, and came back a minute later, “Yep, 3:40.  Can we catch them?”  They were at least 200 yards ahead.  I shook my head no – there was no sense in closing the gap now with so far to go.  If we were going to run them down, I’d do it over the next 16 miles.  As we turned to descend to West River Drive, Brian asked me, “When was the last time you suffered in a race – really, really suffered?”

I hated the question, because I knew what was likely going to follow:  I didn’t want to look deeply into myself and face truth right here, right now; I thought about it, and told him, “PDR, 2007.  I went 1:38:54 in the half that day, but was fit enough to know going in that I could suffer like that.  I remember telling Lynda, ‘I’m going to PR, or DNF because I’m injured.’  I don’t have that kind of form today.”  I hated to sound so negative – but a fact was a fact.  Fitness is what confidence is based on.  If you don’t have the fitness, you don’t have the confidence to really push into the red and see what you’ve got.

Brian said nothing. 

We continued to tick the miles off approaching halfway, but once again I started to feel the weight – a tightening, creeping slowness.  I wanted to hit halfway and be ready to roll towards Manayunk faster and stronger than ever, but that wasn’t the script playing out here.  Instead as we made the rise to the Art Museum and the half, I started the pre-surrender, pre-collapse bargaining.  “Maybe 3:30 is gone.  3:40 probably is, too.  Maybe if I can go under 4…” 

And then I stopped.  That’s how I usually ended up folding in the second half.  If today was going to be different, that meant there would be no settling.  That would be quitting.  My legs might not be as strong as I’d hoped, but they were still moving – we were still running.  I had to force myself to stop thinking about the finish line still 14 miles away, and get back into THIS mile.  Here. Now.

The 13.1 mile mark passed beneath us in 1:53.  In 2008 on my way to my 3:48 PR, the split was 1:47.  I tried not to think about it as we used the downhill to Kelly Drive to find some more speed.  This was where the race would get real – where it always does.  I didn’t talk – I didn’t want to.  I just kept thinking about being steady, and stayed by Brian.  I was still running 15, walking 30 seconds, and holding on.

But I was so f*cking disappointed. 

I said to Brian, “I’m so f*cking disappointed.”

Brian said nothing.

But I just was.  Today was going to be DIFFERENT.  Today I was going to leave who I’d been behind.  I was going to run this thing into the ground, and get halfway to Hopkinton.  I was going to go 3:30, and make 3:20 sit up and ask, “Who’s that guy?”  I was going to do it – today.  That was the plan.

But here, at mile 16 on Kelly Drive, my high visions and dreams were starting to become too much weight for my threadbare legs to carry.  That average of 14 miles a week was proving to be nowhere near enough, and that was no great surprise.  People who make it to Boston in my age group average 40-60 miles per week.  I had one week that hit 50 miles, and 22 of those came in the last “long” run.

There are no miracles in the marathon.  The race is too long – there’s no way to positively think your way through when your legs haven’t done their homework.  You cannot fake it.  You will not bluff to mile 20.  Those who don’t train, suffer.  This is the law of the road.  But even so, I was already thinking, “I can train more.  I will train more.  This is just a stepping stone…”

No sooner did I think that, and then Brian pulled next to me and said, “Today is just a stepping stone.  Keep it rolling.” 

Rolling was one thing: If only I didn’t have to keep dealing with my GI.  I won’t go into details here, but you only need to know that after 17 miles of Gatorade and gels as fuel, a stomach stripped clean by antibiotics does not hold up well.  Brian would ask me, “Do you need to stop again?”  I’d reply, “Nope.  Just need to burn these shorts when I get home tonight.”  We never stopped.  I’d reach for the Ziploc bag of paper towels I’d packed in my side pocket just in case there were some antibiotic-based, in-flight emergencies, I’d ask Brian to run ahead of me when they happened, and that’s how we carried on.

Through mile 18, as frustrated and disappointed as I was, I had quietly accomplished something – I hadn’t run a single mile over 9 minutes.  Even in the depths of however bad things were going and feeling, we’d only slowed into the 8:40’s with Manayunk just ahead.  Through the new, cruel twist over Falls Bridge, onto West River Drive and then back again, the miles were still ticking by.  

As we made our way back onto Kelly Drive, the 3:50 pace group was about 3 minutes back.  Brian’s head swiveled around to take inventory at who was there, and then he looked over at me:  “F*ck all, they are NOT catching us today.  The will not catch us.”

I nodded.  I wanted to fight, but all I could do was blink, and nod.  Words were getting too hard for me.  “When was the last time you really suffered…” I thought.  I was suffering today, but not from speed - from circumstances.  Pity that it doesn’t count – the clock doesn’t give you an adjusted score based on what happened to your body.  The clock is the clock – you beat it, or you don’t.  That’s the game.  Makes it so much better when you win, and so, so cruel when you don’t.

We turned off of Kelly Drive and onto Ridge, plunging down into Main Street.  Miles 18 and 19 rolled by in 8:49, and 8:39.  In 2008 after that 1:47 opening split, I had started giving back great chunks of time here, plummeting into the 9:50’s.  If the 2008 me had been on the road today, that 6 minute lead he held at the halfway mark would now be down to 3 minutes.

Brian was leading the way now as we approached mile 20, and the turnaround.  I’ve always told rookie marathoners that mile 20 is halfway, for the final 6.2 miles will take pretty much everything you have left, and more often than not, quite a bit more.  If we kept this pace up, the race would be over in less than an hour.  I was starting to think about that when Brian said it:

“Give me your watch.”

I heard him, but didn’t react.  I was hurting, and wasn’t sure it was a good idea…but I didn’t want to hesitate.  Neither did Brian.

“Give me your watch.”

He said it again, no change in inflection.  It wasn’t a request – it was an order. 

I didn’t want to give it to him.  I didn’t want to give up control.  I didn’t want to miss my splits.  I didn’t want to hurt more than I already was…

But I also knew that if I didn’t do this – if I didn’t take this shot right here, right now – if I just folded up and let this race fade, I would regret it for the rest of my life.  Because here it was – here was the moment.  I was aware enough to realize what was happening.  I had to do it.  I had to go now.  Even if I fell completely to pieces, there would be no passing this up – there would be no waiting for a better day.  I had to do it.  I HAD to do it.

I gave him the watch.  I asked him, “Take the splits.  Don’t tell me what they are – I just want to know later.”

He looked back and said, “Let’s go, right now.  Let’s run these mother f*ckers down.”  He picked up the pace, and I followed.  It wasn’t much, but on the long grade out of Manayunk, we were passing people left and right.  I locked onto Brian’s back, and followed his every step.  He stretched the pace more, and I managed to call out, “Steady – right here, right here.  More at 5K to go, but stay here.” 

We took the new loop behind Kelly Drive, and then cruised down Calumet, past Falls Bridge once again, but now it was the gateway to home.  There were 4 miles to go.  By the way, Mile 20 and Mile 21 were both 8:40’s, with mile 22 ticking by in 8:43.  In 2008, they had been 9:10, 9:24, and 10:02.  Even though Brian had the watch, I knew we had to be closing in on that 3:48 PR.  There was no sense in asking him about it – plenty of times in training I’d refuse to look at my watch for the last 2-3 miles when I was trying to really drop the pace: It doesn’t matter what the watch says – as fast as you can go is as fast as you can go.

I don’t remember much of Miles 23 and 24.  I remember reminding myself that these are always the very toughest miles to plow through.  I remember thinking that if I could hold on until Mile 25, I’d be okay.  Brian continued to weave a tight line, moving us through traffic, always moving up.  “Another one, got another one, that’s it, that’s it…” he’d charge.  “C’mon, we’re running him down next…”

I do remember the one time I smiled, though.  Just before mile 24 there was a guy wearing an Eagles jersey running the other way.  Brian, being from North Jersey, bleeds Giant Blue.  This Eagles guy, being on the other side of the road, he was 9 miles behind us and in all probability, not having a good day.  So when Brian said to him, “Hey, Go Big Blue!”, I looked up just to see what would happen.

What happened is that Eagles guy stopped, looked at Brian, and found the strength to yell, “F*CK YOU!” at point-blank range.  Brian started laughing, the guy behind Brian started laughing, and that just made Eagles guy even more mad.  He kept on swearing as he headed down the road…

I said to Brian, “I don’t have bail money, nor the energy to defend you if you start a fight.”  

Brian replied, “I’ll be arraigned and home in time for dinner.  It’s all good.  Kath would bail me out.”

Just then, some guy in a bright yellow shirt came running down the road and immediately turned around.  Just like he had in 2008, Joe Bator had come out to see where we were.  Joe had already finished the Half in 1:28, and was now doing his karmic good to help bring us in.  He ran backwards for a bit to check our form, took a picture with his iPhone, updated his Facebook status in real time about how Brian and I were doing (seriously), and then got back to work.

Now I had two leadout men, and less than 2 miles to go.  It was here I finally said to Brian, “Hey, my PR is 3:48.”  I didn’t need to say any more – Brian looked at his watch, Joe looked at his watch, and Brian said, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?  We can get that!”  I hadn’t told him sooner because I knew I could run 2 good miles, but probably not 3.  Mile 23 had been an 8:58, and mile 24 just an 8:56.  I was right on the edge of complete collapse, but this close to the finish?  No way.  Not now.

Joe turned around somewhere in here and said, “Get that paint ready…” in reference to one of my old race reports where I’d mentioned how I sometimes visualized this old guy with a paint brush and a ladder, painting new Personal Records on the scoreboard in my own mind.  “Don’t make my cry, Joe…” was all I could say.  I wanted to get there, but I didn’t want to think about it yet.

As we approached the rock tunnel on Kelly Drive and Mile 25, Joe sprinted ahead.  At first I thought he was going to take another picture, but then he stopped in the tunnel.  He turned back towards us, and as loud as he could manage screamed out, “LEEEEEEROOOOOOOYYYY JEEEENNNNKIIIIIIIINNNNNSSSS!”  The echo off of the rock walls carried Joe’s voice in both directions on Kelly Drive, and it was just the battle cry we needed.

Mile 25 came into view – 8:55.  This was it.

Brian went to the left, Joe went to the right.  I slotted in-between them, and knew that in this last mile I had to just empty it.  I wanted there to be nothing left when I saw the line – I wanted to cross it, then black out.  Brian started to pick up the pace, and I stayed right with him.  We motored around the final curve past Boathouse Row.  The Museum came into sight, and leaned into the incline.  The crowd here was still enormous, and my boys wasted no time.

Somewhere around this point, if my 2008 race was on the road…I would have quietly passed him.  I didn’t know it then, but now I was ahead of that imaginary line – the line that marked, “This is as fast as you’ve ever been.” 

And now it was falling back with every step.

They yelled, raised their arms, and screamed, “This is Bob!  Cheer for Bob!  Bob!  Bob!  C’mon!  Cheer for Bob!”  The volume got louder and louder with each step.  As we ran faster and faster under the shade of the trees behind the Art Museum, as Eakins Oval started to come into view, the barricades closed the road down into a lane barely 10 feet wide – we were running through this perfect canyon of noise.  They continued to work the crowd for me; Joe had done the same in 2008, and here he was again.   Faster, and faster, each step gaining more and more speed. 

I knew how lucky I was.  I was on the rivet – I could barely keep up, but I reached over and patted Joe on the shoulder.  He looked over, and I just nodded my head a bit and waved.  I could not have done something like this without them.  If I’d been alone in Manayunk, I would have slowed down and played it safe.  I would have taken the 9-10 minute miles and the fade, and said, “Eh, it wasn’t my day…”  just like I had every other time.  But not today.  That moment in Manayunk had turned into this; this beautiful moment of suffering that would be over all too soon.

As we rounded Eakins Oval and the final stretch came into view, Joe yelled out, “You’ve got it!  You’ve got it!  Just stay on it!  You’ve got it!”  I had no idea what the time was going to be, but there was no doubt that when I finished, there would be nothing left.  Joe peeled off as Brian and I entered the final 200 meters to the line.  In all 30 marathons, I’ve always loved the emotion of the finish line – of seeing it, savoring it, and letting that feeling just overwhelm me.

Not today. 

I couldn’t think – I couldn’t speak.  My head started to tilt to the right.  I emptied everything I had into those last meters, wringing every last bit of life out of my shredded legs.  For the first time in my entire life, I didn’t raise my arms when I crossed the line – I don’t even remember crossing the line.  I went under the banner, and a volunteer waved her arms at me to slow down…because I was still at full speed a good 10 feet past the line.

3:47:27.  A new PR by 1:27.  First half – 1:53, Second half – 1:54.  No mile over 9 minutes.  First time I’d ever run 2, sub-2:00 halves.  Those final 1.2 miles from 25 to the line had been run in 10:13, or 8:30 pace.

No smile, no salute, no clue, nothing left to give.  This is how it looked, courtesy of Marathon Photos.

And I couldn’t stand upright.  As soon as I stopped running, I crashed into Brian like a drunken sailor.  He leaned left, I leaned right, and the two of us staggered through the chute.  I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t raise my head.  I could only look at the ground, and wait to pass out.  Sadly, I never did.  I stayed fully awake, fully aware of just how much everything hurt. 

But it was a beautiful hurt. Those last 10KM felt like they’d taken 10 years off of my life, but we had done nothing but move up.  I realized that walking around – we had passed people all the way home, and been passed by nobody in those final miles.  I’d never felt that before – I’d never really dug that deep, but we’d done it.  We’d really done it!

I wrapped up in a Mylar blanket, got some chicken broth and water from the volunteers, and started making my way back to the hotel to find everyone else.  As I took that 20-minute walk back (it had only been 10 pre-race), my emotions were all over the place.  I was glad about the PR, but I had expected to be so much faster.  I thought about the lack of training, the tick bite, and the shorts I would now have to burn (which was a shame – I really loved those).  Despite all of that, approaching age 40, I had just gone out and run the best marathon of my life on the 30^th try.

Joe would later say to me, “You know how far you’ve come?  You just ran 3:47, and that was a bad day.”

I don’t know how long it will take me to get down to 3:20.  If the weight keeps coming down, and the miles keep coming up, I really believe it will happen.  For the first time since Leeroy told me we could do this, I believe.

On to the next stepping stone we go.

Hurricane Bob
* You never know what’s out there. *