Half Way There
A few months ago, a couple of people I used to work with put forth the notion that they were going to run in the Maine Marathon. This was a bit of a surprise, since neither of them could even be considered casual runners. I thought the notion would pass once they started training. After all, going from running zero miles a week to running over 50 is not something that too many people willingly subject themselves to.
Yet, as a few weeks passed, it became apparent that they just might be making good on their commitment. Although I've always had a desire to run a marathon one day, that "one day" always seemed some far off goal. Suddenly, "far off" was in my face. If they could do it, I could do it.
Well, maybe. The mind was willing, but the body was being practical. Reality slapped me in the kneecaps one warm Sunday morning in August. If one intends to run a marathon, he or she has to "go long" in training. Having never run more than 10 miles at a time, I was suddenly faced with the prospect of running 15. A 50 percent increase in mileage in one leap. Predictably, it wasn't easy. The fact that it was warm out made it even more uncomfortable. I completed the run, but declared then and there, in a moment of lucidity, that there was no way I was going to be able to run 11 miles beyond that in just two months.
My "running advisors" backed me up on that decision. "You don't have enough time to adequately train," they told me. After the sweaty Sunday run, I wasn't about to disagree.
But, I wasn't off the hook as far as self-induced torture was concerned. In addition to the Maine Marathon, they were also having the Maine Half Marathon at the same time. Same start. Same course (only half as far). I didn't have time to train for a marathon, but I did have time to train for a half marathon. After all, I had already run 15 miles - 13.1 miles would be a day at the beach. Well, not really - but it was within reach.
And so we ran, Denise and I, just about every morning around 6 a.m. The "easy" days consisted of a 6.7 mile run "around the block. On "medium" days, we would do an 8 mile run that takes us onto Route 1 (blech), and then into the back roads of Northport and Belfast. The weekly "long run," the 15-miler, took us through Belfast, then along the back roads paralleling the Passy river, back through Belfast, and on back home. Fortunately, the long runs did seem to get progressively easier, although I'm apt to attribute that as much to cooler weather as to any fitness improvements on my part.
Flash forward to October 6th. We drive down to Peter and Leslie's house - Peter is one of the brave (i.e. stupid?) souls who is going to attempt the full marathon. We dine on the requisite pasta "carbo loading" dinner and settle in for the evening. A few hours later, we get a call from Steve's wife (Steve is the other brave soul attempting the full marathon) asking if we have seen him. We haven't, and, collectively, we speculate on where he might be, worried that he has found some kind of "out" to avoid the impending torture. We express our concern by sitting down to watch a movie. About an hour later, we get a call from Steve informing us that he was, indeed, home. Seems he had been out driving the marathon course, stashing dried fruits and other foodstuffs in secret locations along the route. We all get a good laugh out of this, wondering just when he was going to find the time to retrieve his stashes while running.
The next morning we are up before the sunrise. Earlier weather predictions of cold, showers, and possibly snow showers, prove unfounded. It is a cool, crisp October morning - absolutely perfect running weather. About 1600 people have preregistered for the races, 800+ for the half marathon, and a little under 800 for the marathon. This is a miniscule amount compared to the hoards that participate in the big marathons like Boston, New York, and Chicago. But that suits us fine - parking is easy to find, and it won't take us several minutes just to make it to the starting line once the race begins.
Steve, Peter, Denise, and I all manage to make it to the start before the gun goes off - not an easy thing when the line for the port a-potties is too long to fathom. The solution to this dilemma, I'm not proud to say, is to pee in somebody's bushes.
Considering we are among close to 2000 other runners, we've managed to position ourselves pretty close to the starting line. In most major races these days, the runners wear computer chips that are not activated until they actually cross the starting line, and the Portland race is no exception. What I fail to understand, however, is that even though we're all wearing computer chips that time our run exactly, the "official" time used is still that from when the starting gun is fired. Why bother being exact (and fair) when these computer times aren't even going to be used?
After much ceremony ("God Bless America," moment of silence, "Star Spangled Banner") the starting gun is at last fired, and we are off. Zero miles down, 13.1 to go. Denise and I manage to push through the throngs at the early going, and are soon cruising at our race pace. Steve and Peter aren't in front of us, so I assume they are behind us. I consider it bad luck (and bad practice) to look back during a race, so I never do.
Our time at the first mile is around 8:10. My goal coming into the race was to finish in about 1 hour and 45 minutes, which would translate to the 8 minute miles that I find myself consistently running in 10K events. This was a rather lofty goal considering I was going more than twice the distance of a 10K, but it gave me something to shoot for. An 8:10 first mile was a good thing, considering that it had taken us at least 10 seconds to reach the starting line after the gun went off.
The course was generally flat, another good thing when you are racing and decidedly different from the hilly hell we run on at home. Mile 2 came in at 7:50, under my 8 minute mile goal! And I was feeling good. Mile 3 came in at 7:45. I was actually getting faster! Mile 4 was about a 7:40. Going into the race, I had asked Denise to stick with me for the first few miles, and I wasn't sure if she was doing so now because of that, or because the pace was what she would have been doing anyway. And, frankly, I don't want to know - I'll just assume the latter.
Mile 5 was about a 7:50. Unfortunately, there were hills ahead. At about 5 1/2 miles I could feel myself slowing down and I bid Denise adieu. At six miles, we reached the turnaround for the half marathon. This meant that we were on our way back, and would be passing by all of the people going the other way who were behind us. My overriding thought at this point was that I was sure glad that I had six more miles to go rather than 20.
Mile 6 was an 8:05. At about 6 1/2 miles, I passed Steve and Peter running the other way. They looked like they were doing fine. I did not envy them.
Miles 7 through 10 were quite difficult, both physically and mentally. My thighs began to feel like they were on the verge of cramping. And, mentally, knowing that true relief was still many miles off, it was difficult to keep up the 8-minute-mile pace. My times steadily climbed - 8:10, 8:15, 8:30. For a few miles, I didn't even check my watch, not wanting to depress myself further. People were passing me, and I was passing no one - not a good sign. At mile 11, things started to look up. The course was slightly downhill, and the knowledge that there were only two miles to go was quite empowering. Still, however, my legs did not want to cooperate. A few more people passed me. The 1:45 goal was rapidly fading. Time for a real-time goal adjustment. "Let's kick it in under 1:50," I told myself.
And so the finish line came into view. Denise says she was cheering me on near the end of the course, but I didn't see or hear her. I guess I was singularly focussed on the finish line. As I crossed the line, I heard the announcer call out my name and home town - an extra little bit of information that the computer chips provide.
I had done it. I had gone well beyond my previous racing distance. My "official" time was a respectable (in my estimation) 1:47:21. My "chip" time was an even more respectable 1:47:01. Later, I would find out that I came in 286 out of 834 runners in the half marathon. Denise had done even better, coming in 182nd (and 10th in her age group) with a time of 1:41:52.
Steve and Peter, the running neophytes, did finish the marathon. Steve clocked it in 4:27 (and no, he didn't stop to eat any dried fruit) and Peter in 4:54.
As for me, my goal of one day running a marathon is still a goal, despite the fact that I couldn't fathom going another 13 miles as I approached the finish of the half marathon. Pain, however, doesn't sit long in one's memory, so I'm going to be so bold as to announce that I will run my first (and quite possibly last) marathon next May, at the Sugarloaf Marathon in western Maine. That gives me seven months training, through fog, snow, slush, ice, and sub-zero temperatures. Over 1500 miles of running between now and then. All so that I can hopefully complete 26 miles and change in under 4 hours. And all because it feels good when you stop.
Copyright © 2001 by Greg Closter (closter@acadia.net)