For the Portland 2010 Marathon I am determined to break the four hour barrier. No more dewy-eyed ruminations on the rapturous spirituality of running, my training this time will be an unblinking fixation on running faster. Browsing the stacks at a book store, an aptly titled book catches my eye: "How To Run A Four Hour Marathon". How apropos! I greedily devour the wisdom of this learned text, and faithfully initiate myself in the practice of long slow distance runs, tempo runs and track work, the latter done to a chorus of groans from my two kids, my reluctant disciples, who I insist must join me in practice every Tuesday afternoon. The track work is a revelation: how nice it feels to run fast! Pain yes, but the afterglow is intense.
The day before the race, the family gathers in the mini-van for the drive over the mountains to Portland. I feel good physically and am surprised that my notoriously weak ankles and flat feet have held up to forty miles per week. I think every car I see is making the same pilgrimage, namely to go and feel the pain and bliss of running in the streets. I know the drill this year: arrive in Portland and visit the expo, spin the wheels of chance for free valuable items like a purple water bottle, then a bag-of-swag the registrar is handing out (special this year: two shirts! plus a rather effeminate necklace that I quickly give to Rosanna), and now it is on to a feast of carbohydrates for dinner. Back to the hotel, and oh-my-goodness! there is free beer in the lounge! I wind down the day with a little TV session of Alvin and the Chipmunks (let me explain the choice of entertainment by simply saying that one TV, plus one nine year old, equals Alvin and the Chipmunks), after which I retire to the bedroom of our hotel suite.
I lay my clothes out carefully on the floor and pin my bib number of C10666 to my running shirt. The name on my bib is Y NOT?, which I am proud to say I came up with all on my own. It is a reflection of the most compelling argument I had during an internal debate over whether to register or not. The number though is a little ominous and I had no input on that. It makes me think that I am going to be running with the devil, and for the rest of the day I have that Van Halen song stuck in my head.
The huge bed is a luxury and I try to relax and fall asleep. But I am wound up, and the room is too hot, then it is too cold, and then the pillows are too lumpy and the blankets all bunchy. Midnight passes....two AM....I drift into a dream of running in place, I just can't seem to make any forward progress....finally the beep-beep from my watch alarm calls me to the day and to the drumming of rain on the hotel roof.
Dressing in the dark, I pray for the rain to stop and convince myself several times that it has. I leave my room and step into the hallway, wolf down bagels and bananas, and spot a few other souls drifting through the early morning fluorescence. We wave to one another like ships passing in the night, with a smile and a shrug, as if accepting whatever fate awaits us out on the high seas.
The train into downtown Portland is packed. Moving through the deserted streets, we peer out from this submarine and watch as the rain and wind continue unabated. At our final destination we move cautiously through the doors, as if we have arrived for a communal root canal, and then quickly circle around the puddles to find shelter beneath sidewalk awnings. The marathon is so big this year, with over thirteen thousand entrants, that there are six distinct entry points to the starting area. Each bib number is preceded by a letter that corresponds to the gate you should enter, and I am looking for entry gate C. I see entry gate F, then a few blocks down to E, then D, which I figure is close enough. Other runners are lost and frustrated with the gate system and argue loudly with the security guards. That there is nerves talking, I think to myself.
The line for the porta-potties is two hundred deep and I settle in for the wait. I see my neighbor Claudia and we chat for a few minutes. I am soaked now, no getting around it. The next line is clothing storage, half as long. In the distance I hear yelling and shouting, and then a gun shot and I realize the race has started. Cell Block D is so far back from the front-lines that no one here is moving yet. Finally I dump my clothes at the collection station and move off to merge into the sea of runners. A gust of wind sweeps in and blows over a large plastic sign that strikes me over the head. I feel dizzy and a bit bewildered. A few concerned faces materialize out of the vapor and ask me if I'm okay. I nod and grunt yes. This is an inauspicious start!
D group moves with the speed of molasses. Once we finally cross the start line, I start my timer and pick my way around slower runners. My goal is for nine minute miles. The Taiko drummers bang away at their huge drums, their martial cadence pumping the crowd up and making me feel like I should invade Manchuria. The ubiquitous puddles in the street are daintily side-stepped by some and plowed through with joyous abandon by others. At the one mile mark I note my time is 10:30, already a minute and a half behind. I need to pick up the pace. At the three mile mark there is a downhill which I fly down, letting my momentum carry me along. At five miles I am at 45:00, right on time for four hours. At mile six a sense of deja vu manifests: here is the worship band by the train tracks, here is the right turn through the gentrified Pearl District, here are the high school cheerleaders. My little toe on the left foot is getting pinched by the wet socks, but otherwise I feel I could go forever. At mile thirteen I am still on pace at nine minute miles. I think I got the four hours nailed!
This run-stop-stretch routine continues for the next several miles. At mile twenty four my quadriceps decide to join the party and also tighten up. The cramping sensation is very odd, I've never felt this before. The thought of walking off the course flickers through my mind. Fortunately, Widmer Brewery hoves into view and they have kindly set up an aid station outside their factory. I fortify myself with some of their 2010 pale ale and quickly banish thoughts of quitting to the dark place. I tell myself to forget about the time, walk if you have to, just get this thing over with. Walking is a joy and I run-walk-shuffle for the next two miles.
Nearing the finish I see my wife and kids and stop for some solace. I'm disappointed and kind of pissed. I no longer care about the time, four hours is well shot. After a brief pause, I slowly jog the last two blocks and cross the finish line behind a huge group of other runners. (Upon later review of the race photos, I see that this is an entire group of obese people. When I mention the distressing fact of finishing behind the Weight Watchers support group to Rosanna, she tells me they must have been walking the half marathon rather than running the full marathon. One of the reasons we've been married fifteen years!). After crossing the finish line, all of the runners stop for a moment and internalize their achievement. For a few seconds the world melts away and we share in a pervasive sense of grace on earth. Then we look at one another, as if awakening from a dream, and we are unsure of what to do next. The volunteers gently prod us along and we move to the right, where the food tables are set-up, and we proceed to jostle one another for position. I quickly inhale two oranges, a clump of grapes, three chocolate bars, a bunch of cookies and two bags of corn chips.
 |
| Yesh! |
It takes me an hour to tear myself from the food line and leave the finish area to rejoin my family. We walk to a Starbucks and then to Rock Bottom Brewery for a beer and a race recap with Paul and Aaron, two friends who also enjoy running in the rain.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My time was 4:23, good for 3,191st place at an average pace of 10:05 minutes per mile.
Average Pace Times
8.9 miles: Average Pace 8:44 minutes per mile
Half: 9:01 minutes per mile
17 miles: 9:13 minutes per mile
20 miles 9:25 minutes per mile
Finish: 10:05 minutes per mile
A remarkable drop off after the halfway mark. For my last six miles, I passed forty nine runners but was passed by four hundred fifteen!
In summary, I am glad this is over. I feel a need for redemption though. While it is fine to finish, the goal of four hours was not reached and part of what is motivating me nowadays is that goal. The next marathon I choose will be somewhere warm and dry...
Did you just mention Hawaii?
 |
| With Alanna and Isaac at the finish line |
No comments:
Post a Comment