Eugene Marathon May 2010

Eugene, the home of the University of Oregon, is a liberal artsy intellectual mecca two hours from my hometown of Bend.  It is also the birthplace of Nike and known informally as 'Track Town'.  No wonder that the Eugene Marathon, which only started three years ago, already has eight thousand entrants.  I started training for the marathon twelve weeks prior, building from twenty miles per week and maxing out at forty two miles the week of Easter.  One of these weeks was on a cruise ship, and fortunately my fear of lolling around the pool and stuffing myself silly did not pan out - while plenty of time was spent in the buffet line, the high seas did not offer any other engaging activities (towel folding? really?), thus I visited their treadmill every day.

My training mileage was ten miles per week more than the Redding Marathon, with a good dose of speed-work.  I ran almost every lunch break, either on the treadmill or on the multiple paths weaving through town.  At least once per week I'd run with co-workers Dan and Ian, and once with a group of ultra-marathoners I misidentified as regular dudes (they were way too fast!).  The workload was difficult and I realized it takes me a long time to build up to the strength and duration that other, younger runners arrive at more quickly.  Like so many things in life,  this can be looked at in a number of different ways.  Victor Frankl once said that our freedom lies in our ability to choose our response, so I view this fact as "I'm gonna get there, eventually!".

My goals for the Eugene Marathon:
1) not feel like a decrepit wreck at the finish line and
2) beat my last time of 4:40.

All the training wore down out the inside of my right ankle and the fascia on the bottom of my right foot.  To recuperate, the last two weeks have been a huge taper with a total of only twelve miles of running altogether.

Arriving in Eugene we went straight to the Hilton for packet registration.  Ah, a crowd of people!  Energy in the air, excitement, braggadicio.  Multiple shirts proclaiming the running of past marathons.  Rosanna conveniently booked us a hotel room two blocks from the starting line, and we walked up Agate Avenue, past Hayward Stadium to a packed pasta restaurant.  After pasta and beer, it was back to the hotel room for an early night.  As I laid my clothes out for the morning, I realized I had left my running shoes drying on the back porch at home!  All I had was a beat up pair about a year old, torn webbing and not much tread. 

Another opportunity for me to choose my response.  And this time I recalled the recent controversy over whether running shoes hurt more than help runners.  The minimalist camp argues that man is not designed to run in fancy shoes and it is better to run barefoot.  This argument, popularized by the book 'Born to Run', has caused a precipitous decline in Nike sales and prompted shoe makers to offer a stripped-down version of the running shoe.  Ironically enough, the pimped out shoe originated in Eugene, mid-wived into existence by University of Oregon coaches Bill Bowerman and Phil Knight in the mid 1970s. Prior to that, most racing shoes were, in fact, of minimal design.

So it is a good thing I forgot my fancy shoes.

Up at 4:30 AM, gobbling brown rice and bananas.  Bust out the i-pod - Lady Gaga, MGMT, then on to Carl Craig electronica, which is my favorite running music.  No words to clutter my consciousness and prevent me from getting into the zone.  Belly full, I float across the road to Hayward Stadium, and am herded into line with the other pumped up and over-caffeinated runners.  Reciting scripture in my mind: "Love is patient, love is kind, love endures all things"  My mantra for the run.  "Without Love, I am a clanging gong"   The crowd grows, a swelling sense of expectancy rises, the noise levels climb, random snippets of conversation ring out:

"Hey Jim, you ready buddy?!" 
"Good Luck Heather!  You're gonna kill it today!"
"Let's giddy up and ride!"   

A father counsels his two daughters to start slow.  Their eyes are wild, darting back and forth, Dad finally leaning into their face to make sure they hear.  They respond with "Yes Dad, yes, I understand...I love you too."

From far away a melody pierces the din.  Slowly the ambient noise diminishes and a voice sings out:

"...from the twilight's last gleaming.  And the rockets red glare..."

Hats are taken off, hands are placed over hearts, a shiver runs up the communal spine.  We share a moment together as Americans.  Then cheering erupts, bellowing, and a surge forward.  Then a stop.  Then another surge....pace quickening, feet moving over the mats that register the start time from the chip on our shoelaces.  We are off!

The first few miles are a shake out of pent up nervousness.  Loud bands play crunchy rock that shake your molars.  Around mile six I chat for a stretch with Cody Wyoming, running his first marathon.  A triathlete, he's running the Scotland marathon in three weeks and wants a warm-up.  Mile eight has a cheering section with cowbells and free bananas.  Banana peels are strewn comically all along the road and we have to hop and skip through this section.  I see my neighbor Claudia and her friend Sue, both running the half-marathon.  At mile nine the paths between the half and the full marathons diverge and quickly the noise level drops considerably.  Those of us who took the right fork half-joke that it is time to get serious...the mood shifts, we become quieter, less animated, more determined.  I concentrate on my breathing: in through the nose, out the mouth, in the nose, out the mouth...

The next five miles are through Springfield, a down-at-the heels town in comparison to Eugene, a town more auto-mechanics and less professors.  At the marathon mid-point I feel the cramp in my calf that will accompany me the rest of the way, along with the pain in the right foot.  Gobbling two more Ibuprofen, I set my sights on mile marker fourteen.

Shortly after mile marker sixteen I see Rosanna and Isaac.  Grabbing them into a bear hug, I pick them up, squeeze them, tell them I love them.  Then off again, in search of mile marker seventeen.  A Bob Mould (originally the leader of the great eighties band Husker Du) song worms its way into my mind:  "MM17", which is a rocker about losing the past, the bittersweet goodbyes and moving ever forward.  A welcome antidote to the morbid melancholy that memory can at times inspire.  I reflect on this as I run, thinking that as we grow older we can become weighted down with memory, which can become a crushing burden.  Entire days can be spent living in the past, in the sense that our responses are predetermined by engraved neural networks and we feel programmed in how to respond.  The antithesis of what Victor Frankl identified as our essential freedom.  This, I think, is the reason why childhood exerts such a powerful influence on our adult lives.  But the truth is we are malleable and flexible and can survive much more than we give ourselves credit for.

"Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind."

At mile marker twenty a shirtless man with a generous gift of back hair races past. 

"Hair Vest" one of runners mutters.  "He's lucky, that will keep him warm."
"First time I ever heard someone being envious of back hair!"
"Just being polite."

The course winds through parks along the Mackenzie River.  It is a beautiful sight.  The greenery is luminous, it is like running through the alien world of Avatar, the plant life is charged through with life.  The foliage luxuriates in the damp.

At mile marker twenty one we cross over a bridge and head back into Eugene.  A team of bagpipers lay down their ode to life.  I now know why bagpipes were used to lead troops to battle.  Mournful yet inspiring, another shiver runs up my spine. 

At mile marker twenty three, the 4:30 pacesetter passes me.  I pick up the pace.  Gotta keep him and his balloons in view.  A girl by the side of the path is sobbing.  A man who looks like her coach or father stands by, comforting her, saying just three more miles, you can do it...

At mile marker twenty four, the hippies are out in force, banging their drums, swaying back and forth.  They are a beautiful sight, good wonderful people, and I'm tempted to break into a dance.  I'm surprised by this sentiment as in my last marathon I was a grim visage at this point, hating life and the spectators.

The mile marker twenty five banner looms into view.  Oh I love that banner so much!

Mile marker twenty six is in front of me.  The crowd is getting thicker.  Michael Jackson blares from a car radio.  Fences keep the crowd at bay and funnel us into Hayward Stadium.  We're running on a track now and the bleachers are almost full.  I see my wife and son standing and cheering.  My name is said over the loudspeaker and the crowd is going wild!  I pass over the timing pad and slowly come to a halt.  A girl drapes a medal around me and hands me a space blanket.  I am incredibly hungry and thirsty, and move into the food and drink lines. 

I continue eating and drinking for the next 6 hours.  First with runners in the stadium, then with Rosanna and Isaac at McMenamins, then with my old college buddy (is forty six old?) Otis at his home.  Finally we clamber into the minivan and drive back over the mountains to home.  A day well spent, I think to myself, yes indeed.

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My time is 4:33, good for 1710th place.

Half-Marathon Time: 2:08, pace of 9:46 minutes per mile
Finish Time: 4:33, pace of 10:27 minutes per mile