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The Pittsburgh Marathon 

May 7, 2000 -- Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
26.2 hilly, hot, humid, and lethal miles.

http://www.upmc.edu/pghmarathon

Two weeks after Chambersburg, the piper gets paid with interest.
 

Short Version:
A 2:02 first half, followed by a 2:25 Death-March to the finish in 4:27. Temp at the start was 68 degrees...and at the finish, ~85 degrees. With three days to adjust, I...um...didn't.

Letterbox Version (Director's Cut):
Standing in the finishing chute, drenched in sweat, salt, and despair...I looked to the bright sun that hung mercilessly above...wondering how it could turn so cruel so quickly. I had started the race with such high hopes...and finished a humbled and broken man. We all have this universal dream that we push ourselves to the limit, and can still be brilliant when the chips are down; Yet as this day played out...I learned that sometimes the struggle can kill the dream.

The Philadelphia Marathon had won the battle on this warm November day. Carrying the mylar blanket I didn't need to keep warm, I resisted the urge to look back at the clock one last time. I left the finishers area to find Mark...thinking ahead to the Spring after a welcome Winter of rest...and my chance of redemption that would come at Pittsburgh in May of 2000, still seven months and a Millennium away.

You all know the details of the Winter that went South - the thyroid that couldn't, the weight gain, the motivational issues, and the blessing in disguise I found along the way: My re-focus on why it is I do all this training and racing - Racing to Live and not Living to Race. During the long 7 hour drive to Pittsburgh with my arch-nemesis, I had plenty of time to think about my new goals for Sunday. A freakish early-Spring heat wave was predicted to bake the Northeast, so my chances at breaking 4 hours again were dwindling from view like the last speck of light from an old TV. Since I had already run a 'training marathon' 3 weeks earlier at Chambersburg, this would be unknown territory. Running so far on so little recovery - running in such heat with no training in temps above 60, let alone 80 – I felt a lingering dread that Sunday would be more about survival than speed...but I tried to keep such thoughts quiet: No need in worrying about what I couldn't control.

I spent the rest of drive torturing Eric with show tunes, bad singing, and air-drumming, in an attempt to place some evil, looping song in his head that wouldn't leave until next Tuesday. He responded by sticking pins in his 'Bald Bob' voodoo doll...but nothing seemed to really hurt that much...except for the periodic urge to brush hair that I hadn't really had in 11 years. Ouch.

He had been running so well this year...I was in danger of watching him pull a 'Horizon Job' in our little Duel (tm). Gunning for a Boston slot, I knew that while the weather was a concern for him...he was still strong enough to run well regardless of what Mother Nature tossed at us on Sunday.

When we arrived at his friend Brian's house, Brian began to immediately begin the tradition that I've noticed about all of Eric's 'close' friends - the non-stop heckling that only goes away when we leave. The 'closer' the friend, the worse the jabs. Clearly having spent time together on a 3 year tour-of-duty in law school gave Brian all the ammunition he would need for 77 years of non-stop dressing down to Mr. Weiss. When Brian took a break, his wife Sally took his place. When Sally needed to take 5, their 1 year old son Joshua was left to look at Eric and go "eck eck eck eck pbbbbbbbbbt!" until Mom or Dad returned.

Smart Kid.

Before bed, Brian handed Eric a package that had been Fed-Ex'd from his sweetie Amy - addressed to one 'Super Hunky Eric Weiss.' It contained 14 pounds of chocolate, 2 cases of Oreo's, the Ark of the Covenant, a map to find the City of Atlantis, a 20x36 self-portrait, a jet-powered pair of Acme Roller Skates ("...for help on the hills. Don't let Bob & Mark see them...") and a card that Eric read and then ate immediately. We all ate the chocolate, Josh stashed the Oreo's in his crib, and Brian ceremoniously renamed Eric 'Super Hunky' for the rest of the weekend.

And that was the just the beginning.

Saturday morning Eric and I headed downtown to pick up our numbers, and to see some parts of the course. Eric showed me the South Side, the long, grinding climb through Oakland at mile 12 up to the Pitt Campus, and the home stretch through the heart of Downtown to Point State Park. We also noted that the race directors had painted a 3" wide blue line on the entire course to assure that the Men's US Olympic Trials the next day would have no issues about where to be going at any time. The line wandered to and fro, taking the best (shortest) line around most corners on the course...and being bright blue in color, was very easy to see and follow.

Unfortunately, it seems that nobody bothered to explain to some of the shallower members of the Pittsburgh Motoring Gene Pool that this new line was NOT some new traffic marking. More than once we saw cars trying to follow the line into the oncoming lane, driving on *either* side of it, or stopping at it in the middle of intersections to await further instructions (which usually came from the people behind him/her/it).

Eric made a point of taking me over to Point State Park to show me the last 2/10's of a mile of the course - the barricaded stretch to the finish...all 385 miserable, anguished, beautiful, euphoric yards of it. He told me about how it went over this little rise to the line, but he'd never felt it in his 2 previous years of running. We did a walk-through, and went right up to the 6" wide white line and banner that would mark the fulfillment of some Olympic dreams...the shattering of many, many more...and the single-point of focus for the rest of the mortals on Sunday. Wordlessly we stood there, neither of us daring to touch it...right at the edge of escape like the ball-players in 'Field of Dreams.' We would hopefully get across it – but that would be saved for Sunday's battle.

By the time we got back to Brian's, Mark had arrived wearing his latest fashion acquisition - a full QR Outback hat that caused Brian to henceforth refer to him as 'Croc.' Over dinner, Brian finally gave me the nickname I had been waiting to have assigned: I was renamed 'Emeril' when trying to keep the chicken on the grill from finishing before the pasta inside, while making sure that Red Stripe #1 was followed by Red Stripe #2, whilst referee-ing the much liquid-courage fueled machismo between Brian "I can run a block" Kane and Eric "Gumby" Weiss that resulted in 'The South Side One Block Dash' being created.

Brian would be picking up Eric as he passed by at mile 10, and per the rules set forth...running 1 mile with him. This was soon amended to 1/2 a mile...then 1/4 mile...then 4 blocks...then one block. Had Eric not drawn his line in the sand, Brian might have gotten away with having Eric run the dash for him.

(Of course, the dash never happened...it seems that Brian had a sneaker go flat just as Eric got there...and without a spare, he was forced to withdraw until next year).

After laying out the gear, pinning the number, counting the GU packs, setting aside some extra Pringles for salt, calling Lynda to hear her voice while I could say nothing...I laid myself down for the usual pre-race-stare-at-the-ceiling that passes for sleep the night before. Nothing to do now but run...the hardest, yet most uncomplicated task there ever was.

Up early - no conversation. Brian drove us to the start, constantly singing the same Faith Hill lyric over and over. I reminded myself how lucky I was not to know too much of her music, or I'd be forced to look at Brian and use my secret lyrical weapon: "It's not unuuuusual to be loved by someone...(bapbadaddadaaaaa)..." 4 Hours, minimum.

We got to the start with plenty of time to watch the Olympic Trials race get started at 7:50am. It was already 64 degrees...and the Men's "A" standard of 2:14 would be sure to harder to reach with every degree the mercury rose. If the winner were to break 2:14, the top 3 finishers would go to Sydney. I f the winner failed to break it, only he would be going. Such a cruel fate had afflicted the women's trials in February as the winner missed the "A" cut by less than one minute...and another freakish heat wave seemed to have many men on the start line hanging their heads a bit lower knowing that they would have to race to win - or have nothing to show for it...except for one
lone runner in the back of the pack. As the field tore out of the start area he waved to the crowd with both hands, smiling the smile of someone clearly enjoying his moment the best he could...clearly knowing that the ticket to Sydney would not have his name on it.

With an hour to go, I just sat. Nothing to do but think. Lots of time to think. Lots of time for the Left and Right Brain to debate the day. I hate that.

R: "Boy it's sure hot."
L: "Yes. I know."
R: "We haven't trained for this heat."
L:"Yes, I know."
R: "Without your thyroid working, this will really hurt."
L: "Yes, I know."
R: "Why are we doing this, again?"
L: "Cheesesteaks with no guilt tomorrow."
R: "'I feel pretty...oh so pretty....'"
L: "Hmm?"
R: "Sorry...shouldn't have listened to West Side Story in the car."
L: "Great. Why not 'Cool' instead?"
R: "In a second...'I feel witty and pretty and..'"
L: "(It's going to be a looooong day...)"

Eric lined up with the 3:10 crowd. Mark and I lined up somewhat further back near the 4:00 pacer, and hoped for the best. Mark said he was just treating it as a training run. He had been running really, really well in his training for IM-USA, so I fully expected him to be gone all day...but he insisted he was going to hold back...

*BOOM!*

Crossing the timing mats, we settled into rhythm pretty easily. 1/4 mile in, the headband in my hat was already full and dripping into my eyes.

R: "#%*&%! Only 25.95 miles to go."
L: "Oh, do shut up."
R: "'And I pity...any girl who isn't me...'"
L: *sigh*

Miles 1-5 ticked off fairly smoothly. I noticed that the race directors had magically doubled the number of aid stations in response to the heat. They were supposed to be every 2 miles, but I swear that Mark and I hit one every mile...thankfully. We drank early and often, trying to stay ahead of the ever steepening heat curve. By mile 6, we were passing some of the live bands that the race organizers called 'Music by the Mile'. By now West Side Story had been replaced by Bush's 'Machine Head' ("Breathe in...Breathe out...Breathe in...Breathe out..."), and thankfully wouldn't return. Mark
and I spoke a bit from time to time, but we were both in energy conservation mode. This was my 8th and his 6th standalone marathon, so we both know full well the penalty for wasting energy when you felt good in the early miles.

Crossing into the South Side at mile 9, we could see the TV Helicopter hovering over Point State Park about 3/4 mile off to our left: The trials were almost over. Whomever was going to win was nearly there. I tried to think about how he must feel - 4 years of training and sacrifice all coming together...to gamble with your life on a 1 in 100 chance and win...and this time only one would walk away a winner. Rod De Haven finished in 2:15, missing the "A" cut by a minute and 6 seconds.

R: "Wow. They're done. That's fast."
L: "Yes, it is."
R: "I wish we were that fast."
L: "Take a look at our shadow, and dream on, pal."
R: "Can we stop now?"
L: "No."
R: "How much longer?"
L: "16.8 miles"
R: "It's hot."
L: "Thanks for the update."
R: "Where's Eric?"
L: "He's ahead."
R: "I hate him. This is all his fault."
L: "Agreed."
R: "Hey...let's high five that cop! Cop...cop...'Hey there Officer Krupke,
ya' gotta' understand...the present situation...is getting out of hand...'"
L: "(I wonder if a brain has ever filed for divorce before?)"

Mark and I cruised through the South Side, and never saw Brian - nor did we see any Brian shaped craters in the pavement, so we figured the race had happened incident free. We passed the 'Mariothon' finish line, a race the locals run to Mario's pub...where they then drink and cheer for the remaining fools simmering on sunny Sunday.

Heading up towards mile 12, we passed a guy with a shirt "Running for my life - I'm a Cancer Survivor." I love those things. Mark and I both patted the guy on the back and told him "You've already won your race...keep it up!" In the middle of how hot I was starting to feel...thinking of all the stories I've heard and seen...I knew that no amount of heat today would even come close to the burn of Chemotherapy, so again I  reminded myself the difference between pain on the run and real pain, and how glad I should be I have known one and not needed to stare down the other.

Heading up the hardest climb on the course, we passed a Champion Chip scoreboard that told Mark and I we were around 1663rd place....almost halfway home. We climbed towards the 'cathedral' at UPMC...and I remembered to eat my Pringles. Mark reached back and pulled a science experiment out of his pocket. His Succeed! salt caps and his QuicDisc Glucose tablets had gotten wet, mixed together, and inflated all at once to produce a perfectly sweet, tart (yet satisfyingly salty) hockey-puck. He chowed it down, and made a public memo to seal his bags a little better next time.

By mile 15, we entered the Shadyside neighborhood. I honestly have no idea why they call it Shadyside. The sun was everywhere. I was starting to feel bad - not the "Hmm...I'm kinda' dead" bad, but the unspoken, progressive lead-legging bad that never gets better. With 11 miles to go, I knew once again...the run was going to survival mode 8 miles too soon for my liking.

L: "The legs are reporting that they officially suck."
R: "Why do they call this place Shadyside?"
L: "The Stomach reports serious water sloshing issues."
R: "They should call this place Baconside. We're frying out here."
L: "Feet report toes OK - but could we lose 15 pounds in the next hour?
That would help."
R: "Baconside, Sunnyside, Homefriesside...hey, did we eat a complete
breakfast? Maybe that's why we feel so bad right now."
L: "The eyes report that everyone looks as bad as we feel."
R: "Blueberry pancakes...now that's a good breakfast..."
L: "We've been going uphill for 15 miles. This wasn't on the course
profile."
R: "Hey...Left Brain...are you hungry?"
L: "No. I want to get the stomach to throw up, actually."
R: "Party pooper."
L: "Thanks for reminding me - Lower GI tract just flipped me the bird.
Guess that means all is business as usual for a marathon..."

From mile 17-20, the wheels completely came off. I went from running 9:20's to 9:45's to 10+ minute miles. I asked, begged, and pleaded with Mark to just leave me - no use in ruining his day too...but he doggedly refused to go. I was angry - but deeply thankful at the same time. I needed his help to keep running, or I'd be walking the whole thing in.

We took ice. We took water. For a moment, I thought I stopped sweating...but it was just the first breeze of the day drying the salt where it surfaced. By mile 22, I looked like I'd fallen into a sugar bowl face first. My eyes were stinging, and Mark was oscillating between a close partner, and a small, orange dot 100 yards up the road. Each time I slowed down, he circled back for me like a chase plane guiding a wounded B-52 back to base.

Here came my darkest point in the day. I was hot, tired, and miserable. Positive splitting. Slowing down. Frying. Dying. My HR was staying over 150 - a rate that on a cool day would have me running 8:15's. Today, it was all my body could do to try and accomplish the impossible task of cooling itself down at 11 minutes per mile. I was angry at my thyroid for failing and leaving me this heavy. I was angry at Mother Nature for crushing us all so cruelly after such a cold, absent Spring. I felt emptiness that this day would not redeem me from my meltdown at Philly...it would deliver me another hopeful vision turned Death-March.

My love for this sport was being tested - and I was within steps of failing.
I decided it was all Eric's fault.
I still didn't feel any better.

At mile 23, the long downhill to the finish started. I thought I could take advantage of the grade in my favor...but it hurt even *more* to run downhill...and 3 more miles at this speed meant 33 minutes of pain that I couldn't tolerate for one second more - I broke shuffle and started walking. Mark trotted away...and I silently hoped that he wouldn't look back...I wished that he'd just keep going and leave me to be miserable. I didn't want to complain to him...he'd been with me all the way and wasn't exactly feeling oh-so-fresh at this point, either. I knew what I had to do - out loud, in the middle of the road, I half-spoke / half-prayed out loud:

"Dear Lord...I am in a very dark place right now. I feel anger, venom, and negative energy all around me. I just need to keep my feet moving, and I know this will end. Just keep my feet moving...one after the other...one after the other..."

I calmed down.
I started to run again.
"Alright - one step at a time...one step at a time..."

Mark turned around and picked me up for the 27th time, and asked me how I was doing. I told him about the 'dark place' and how I just hated everything as it was...but all we had to do was get home. Like a good friend he listened, and began the tow home. I fell in behind him, and just focused on his back. I didn't look, I didn't speak, I just devoted all I had left to moving forward.

The next 2 miles were as hard as anything I've ever done - and that includes both Ironman races. We crossed mile 25 - just 1.2 miles to go - 2 measly Kilometers...and I knew that we could make it. I could barely hold my arms up to shuffle, but Mark looked back and said "Lets run this one in...the better we go, the sooner it ends." I wound up what I had left, and fell in behind him. We moved to the left side of the road...and picked it up. We passed the second Champion Chip scoring station just past mile 25.2, and somehow we had moved *UP* to 1375th place....nearly 300 positions in 13 miles. Clearly I wasn't alone in my troubles, and for the first time all day I almost felt proud of what was happening - but I didn't dare. Deep into the longest mile, I couldn't afford to relax yet.

Mark towed - I followed. We were passing people - I was hanging on. The park is coming. I know it's coming. Mark checked back every so often to make sure I was there, and pumped his fist each time as if to say "Atta' boy big fella!' and it helped keep me moving. We crossed mile 26 in 9:59.99, but considering the one before it had been 14:25, I felt like I was running in a 5K. The alarm on my heart rate monitor was screaming to slow it down - but there was no way now...we were in the park...between the barricades at last.

In a lucid moment, I turned to Mark and said "I need to zip my jersey up and look good for the finish picture, eh?" My body was finally getting light - the sweet adrenaline of knowing that you can't lose it now after having been in the clutches of savage doubts was picking my legs up and carrying me home.

Around the corner...looking at the rise...here we go now.

L: "HR is at redline. Body temp at 102 degrees. Sweat glands operating at 100% open. We can't do this - we'll die if we keep this up."
R: "YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! LINE! LINE! FINISH! FINISH! FINISH! FINISH! FINISH LINE FINISH LINE FINISH LINE!"
L: "Stomach has shut down. Legs are not reporting...I think they fell off."
R: "AHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHH! Ow. Ow. OW! Shit! That stupid rise...What the hell was Eric talking about? That hurt like a son of a...aww, screw it. YES! YES! WE'RE GONNA MAKE IT!"
L: "Okay, time to declare an emergency. Passing out now. Shut down. Let's see, Start...Programs...Shut Down...waiting for organs to respond..."
R: "YAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

Mark and I crossed the line together in 4:27:57 (a 2:02 / 2:25 split), good enough for 1324th and 1325th places...but I really didn't care. I was never so relieved to finish a marathon in my life. I stopped running, spun to the right, and sat down on the grass. It just felt so good to not be moving...I just laid back down on the cool, cool grass...and stared up at the Beautiful Blue sky...and waited for the lights to mercifully go out.

L: "Shutdown sequence in progress. Legs not responding, confirm we must have lost them at mile 25.75. Stomach now wrapped around Lower GI tract, the Liver has changed places with the kidneys, and we have no idea where the spleen has hidden. Heart rate select lever stuck on RABBIT setting, Lungs report widespread fire outbreak - onboard extinguishers non-functional. Man, next time we sign up for one of these stupid things I'm going to take the day off. The marathon is no place for a logical brain to get any work done in peace..."
R: "'Theeerrees aaaa place, for us....A time and a spaaaace, for us...'"

Suddenly 4 heads appeared over me like points on a compass. My left brain shouted out it's last command:

L: "Those are medics. Eric told you that they'll ask you where you are. Tell them, or else we'll be in the medical tent, and that will make your Lynda, your mother, Mom Hennigan, and your cat EVER so cross."

My right brain leapt up to immediately answer the call:

R: "PITTSBURGH! PITTSBURGH! PITTSBURGH! PITTSBURGH! PITTSBURGH! PITTSBURGH! PITTSBURGH! PITTSBURGH! PITTSBURGH! I'm in Pittsburgh! My name is Bob...and today, I suck. Can I just lay here for awhile until my legs feel like moving?"

The answer was a polite "No.", and they asked me if I wanted a stretcher. They stood me up, and as I wobbled to and fro...I thought about it for a moment and declined. A stretcher was for really sick people, and I was fine. Really. Perhaps lacking common sense and sanity for running a marathon in Summer Heat, but I was starting to come around. I drank some water, put some ice in my hat, and they gingerly walked me around until the lights came back to full bright.

Once we could see straight, I thanked Mark for being my co-pilot for the hard parts, and not leaving me when I needed him. As always, he just said he was doing the job...just as I had done for him countless times before as we traded bad days back and forth between us.

With the medals around our necks to confirm that we had survived, we set about finding Eric to see how he was, make sure he was okay, and then take turns: One of us would hold him down while the other set about beating him over the head with a Fiat.

After all...this was all his fault.

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