Sometime in December 2008 I ran four miles around Mile Square Park in Santa Ana. It was one of those warm Southern California nights and I felt exhilarated after the run, and it made me think "Hey four miles is almost one-sixth of a marathon!". I'm pretty good at talking up things and not following through, which my wife Rosanna is quick to point out. But I've thought about a marathon since college days, which is a long time ago, and it is time for a some sort of mid-life crisis....and a pair of running shoes cost a lot less than a new motorcycle, so I decided to commit to a marathon.
After running a 10K in March, I met up with a few folk who work with Bend Fit, a group designed to get you in shape for the Portland Marathon. I joined their group and spent a good deal of the next six months training. A long run on Saturdays, two or three shorter runs during the week. Not too terrible a demand on the time as the weekday runs I usually did at lunch, and the Saturday runs were very early in the morning. Bend Fit's philosophy is that a twenty six mile training run is not needed - twenty one miles will do and for the remaining five miles, you'll get an emotional boost from the crowd and that will carry you through.
Thus my longest run prior to the marathon was twenty one miles, of which I spent the last two miles walking due to a right knee problem.
The day of the race I get up at five AM and get dropped off at a train station by the airport. Runners board at each stop as the train makes its way downtown, until it is standing room only. There is a good vibe of intense energy as we pour off the train into the dark streets of downtown and move into the start area.
The race has pace runners who hold plastic red lizards on a stick that advertise the time they will finish the marathon. I intend to go out with the four hour group, but nature calls and I miss their start. I am not concerned though as my time will not start until the chip strapped to my shoe crosses the start line. Thus I go out with the five hour group and quickly run to catch up to the four hour group, passing a Salvation Army's bounty of sweatshirts and sweatpants that sweaty runners discard faster than the towering Maples their leaves. Taiko drummers pound out the beats of feudal Japan, high school cheerleaders jump and yell and shout encouragement, blues bar-bands fresh out of the four am strip club gig grind out some r&b - excellent support for ten thousand weekend warriors on the march through the Portland streets.
I feel great through the early miles and at mile thirteen it seems like this is a done deal. I pass runners on my left and on my right and I am in the groove, feet slapping time on the pavement. I push it a bit after the halfway mark as I feel there is a lot of reserve in my tank. I am indestructible, a man on a mission flying free and fast. My breathing is a syncopated beat and my leg and arms keep the rhythm, my knees are well-oiled pieces of machinery and my mind is clear strong and bright. However at mile-marker fourteen the expected gummy bears are not there; they have been gobbled up by other runners. Feeling deprived, I search for mile marker fifteen, hoping for some sustenance. I did not eat breakfast for some reason. I think it is because I read somewhere that one should race on an empty stomach. Plus that huge plate of Spaghetti Factory pasta would sustain me, right?
MM 15 is also void of gummy bears though. Looming ahead of me is the St. John's bridge, a short steep climb of about one hundred fifty feet. I notice a number of runners are walking up the hill, even the purple shirt girl and the big guy with the backwards ball cap, two impressive, fast and graceful runners that I've seen since the first mile. But if they are walking, is anyone safe?
At this point I start to run out of gas - my right knee is twinging a bit and my cell phone is ringing. I wait until I crest the bridge, at MM 17, to call back. It is my wife Rosanna, holding down the fort at MM 22 with Isaac and Alanna.
After running a 10K in March, I met up with a few folk who work with Bend Fit, a group designed to get you in shape for the Portland Marathon. I joined their group and spent a good deal of the next six months training. A long run on Saturdays, two or three shorter runs during the week. Not too terrible a demand on the time as the weekday runs I usually did at lunch, and the Saturday runs were very early in the morning. Bend Fit's philosophy is that a twenty six mile training run is not needed - twenty one miles will do and for the remaining five miles, you'll get an emotional boost from the crowd and that will carry you through.
Thus my longest run prior to the marathon was twenty one miles, of which I spent the last two miles walking due to a right knee problem.
The day of the race I get up at five AM and get dropped off at a train station by the airport. Runners board at each stop as the train makes its way downtown, until it is standing room only. There is a good vibe of intense energy as we pour off the train into the dark streets of downtown and move into the start area.
The race has pace runners who hold plastic red lizards on a stick that advertise the time they will finish the marathon. I intend to go out with the four hour group, but nature calls and I miss their start. I am not concerned though as my time will not start until the chip strapped to my shoe crosses the start line. Thus I go out with the five hour group and quickly run to catch up to the four hour group, passing a Salvation Army's bounty of sweatshirts and sweatpants that sweaty runners discard faster than the towering Maples their leaves. Taiko drummers pound out the beats of feudal Japan, high school cheerleaders jump and yell and shout encouragement, blues bar-bands fresh out of the four am strip club gig grind out some r&b - excellent support for ten thousand weekend warriors on the march through the Portland streets.
I feel great through the early miles and at mile thirteen it seems like this is a done deal. I pass runners on my left and on my right and I am in the groove, feet slapping time on the pavement. I push it a bit after the halfway mark as I feel there is a lot of reserve in my tank. I am indestructible, a man on a mission flying free and fast. My breathing is a syncopated beat and my leg and arms keep the rhythm, my knees are well-oiled pieces of machinery and my mind is clear strong and bright. However at mile-marker fourteen the expected gummy bears are not there; they have been gobbled up by other runners. Feeling deprived, I search for mile marker fifteen, hoping for some sustenance. I did not eat breakfast for some reason. I think it is because I read somewhere that one should race on an empty stomach. Plus that huge plate of Spaghetti Factory pasta would sustain me, right?
MM 15 is also void of gummy bears though. Looming ahead of me is the St. John's bridge, a short steep climb of about one hundred fifty feet. I notice a number of runners are walking up the hill, even the purple shirt girl and the big guy with the backwards ball cap, two impressive, fast and graceful runners that I've seen since the first mile. But if they are walking, is anyone safe?
At this point I start to run out of gas - my right knee is twinging a bit and my cell phone is ringing. I wait until I crest the bridge, at MM 17, to call back. It is my wife Rosanna, holding down the fort at MM 22 with Isaac and Alanna.
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| Running with Isaac at MM 22 |
At MM 18 I finally get a handful of gummy bears and two small cups of an atrocious black, thick and gooey substance called Liquid Gold that sticks to the roof of my mouth. I wash my mouth out this down with some Gatorade and get an energy boost to MM 20, at which point I stop to water the lilies. Bad idea - coming out my right knee stiffens up and it takes a great deal of willpower to get it moving again.
The next two miles I am sustained by the idea that I need to look good for the family. I don't want them to see me beat down and weeping like a schoolboy who's lost his puppy. At MM 22 I see Alanna sitting by the side of the road, waving and smiling. And there is my lovely wife Rosanna and Isaac, cheering for me! Isaac holds my hand and runs with me for about 3 blocks, beaming. I'm beaming too, it is just so good to see them and get a charge of energy.
After MM 22 however I start to disintegrate. My left knee and right knee are a chorus of complaint. Muscles on the inside of my legs I have never felt before make their presence known. Is my hamstring being pulled? Why are my nipples so damn sore? And my feet are on fire! They are used to soft dirt trails, not this constant pounding on hard concrete.
My breathing though is fine. Surprising for someone who still longs for Marlboro lights. Training at 3800 feet is a blessing for lung capacity.
The last four miles is a bad hallucination as I stagger like a drunk to the finish line. I'm shuffling my feet forward, but at this point everyone is passing me, even the elderly walkers. The 4:45 group gives me a momentary boost as we cross the steel bridge at MM 25, as several of them call out "Come on with us, Dude!". I like being called a "Dude" by pretty girls. And I make a half hearted rally and try to keep up. But within minutes my body mutinies and decides it will simply stop running. I am stunned and shocked to find myself walking, with only half a mile to go. It takes a few minutes for my ego to regain control and demand that my legs GET MOVING! Thus I lurch the last few blocks, thinking "Gotta make it to the next streetlight. Okay one more streetlight..."
Now I see the crowd swelling and hear the cheering; the end is approaching! I give one last spurt of energy and hurl myself the last two blocks. Hearing my name announced over the speaker is the sweetest sound I've ever heard...
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| Yesh, I did it. |
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| With Alanna and Isaac |
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| With Rosanna and Isaac at the finish line |
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My time is 4:44, good for 4589th place out of 8206 finishers.
For my gender and age group, 335th place out of 452 finishers.
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