How
Did Your First Marathon Go?
It was the fall of 2008 and I was about three months sober and my Father
decided he wanted to run a half-marathon with my sister. My beloved kin had
relocated after getting married to a wonderful place called Colorado, that’s
Algonquin for “no one ever seems to work here” and had taken up numerous
fitness habits. Running far without being chased, was one of the things she
really enjoyed and was pretty good at. Being that I come from a long line of
people who assume, anything you can do I can do better, of course I figured if
my old man was going to run a half, I’ll run a full marathon. Again, wise
choices a plenty from this group of egomaniacs.
At this point, the most I really knew about training to run far was based on
my previous glories of middle school distance running and some high school
track, that’s before other, more nefarious priorities took hold. One of the
things I did learn was you needed to run at least three or four days a week and
do a “long” run on the weekend. The plan I followed was based on a cursory
google search of “marathon plan”. It was around twelve weeks and the farthest I
ever had to run was around twenty miles, just one time, and about thirty miles
a week on average. In my head all of this seemed doable but don’t think I
wasn’t at least slightly concerned. To this day, I’m not sure why most marathon
plans never have you run the actual marathon distance. It’s like, “hey you ran
twenty miles, don’t worry about those last six, those will be easy, after all
you already ran twenty.” This still seems completely absurd to me. In my
current training program, I nearly always have at least one long run that is 24
or 25 miles. I know, I know, that’s still not 26.2 but good lord you can limp
that last one.
Back to the story, I didn’t train that much in the fall because the race was
on Sunday, April 19th, 2009 in St. Louis, Missouri. At the time, my Aunt and
Uncle lived there in some fancy house that barely looked lived in but
regardless of our extended family’s well-earned wealth, our asses are so tight
we all bunked up at their place and used it as our home staging area. I have
come to learn that while the hospitality shown by friends and family is truly a
wonderful thing, I’m a real pain in the ass to be around right before a race
and after so a hotel a short distance from the start is usually best for me but
I digress.
I did most of my training in January, February, and March either on a
treadmill at my work or around the neighborhood where I lived. My longest run
in those twelve weeks was about eighteen miles and my feet felt like bricks, my
chest felt crushed in a vice, and my will to do this was seriously in doubt.
Again though, I made a commitment and I was using running as a way to stay
sober and it certainly took up a fair amount of time that would have been spent
drinking in my garage. As the days ticked off, I would talk to my Dad on the
phone and he would give me updates on his training, how he felt pretty good, he
was gradually able to run farther and farther and I was like, shiiiiiiit. He’s
really going to do this and I can’t back out. There was no doubt my sister
would do it, she had already finished a couple half marathons and was like a
training robot. She had all the gear, knew cool words like, “interval
training”, “tempo run” or “fartleks” while I was still trying to figure out how
I was going to finish this thing without dying. Then, shit got real once I paid
that $100 bucks for the privilege to run the race. That was quite a bit of
money for me to spend on myself without it involving inebriation. Once that was
paid and that sunk cost kicked in, I knew I had to do it. There was no way I
could waste that much money. I’m actually serious about this, and to this day
still consider paying to run a race mind boggling. I mean I am paying to put
myself through pain and suffering all for a goal that really only lives in my
mind. No one cares. Seriously, no one cares.
When race week finally arrived, I loaded up our Mazda5 mini-minivan and
headed down to St. Louis with my wife and our three year old toddler and our
baby girl of six months. What pleasant times to be had with a crying baby, a
lunatic little one and me completely stressing out over what I knew was going
to be a disaster. Not to mention, as much as I love my Uncle, and know he would
do absolutely anything for me or my family, he is about as high strung as a
tight rope. So with my older sister, my Dad, my Step-Mom, my wife, Emily,
little Ruby and baby Alice invading my Uncle’s pristine palace, having a place
to just chill out and relax before the race was really not going to pan out. We
arrived on Friday the 17th, which gave us the next day to explore what I had
been told was the Runner’s Expo. It sounded exciting, like a meetup for all the
runners to lie about our training and convince each other how great the race
was going to go. In reality, we shuffled through some lines to pick up our race
bibs (the number you are assigned that you pin to your shirt) and got our
mandatory race t-shirt that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt you ran the race
and some flyers for other races that you’re never going to run in. At this
point, my chief concern was that the weather was calling for rain all day on
Sunday, race day. I didn’t really do much rain training because that seemed
stupid and that’s how you catch colds according to every grandmother in the
world. After picking up our gear and wondering around the expo saying no thank
you to countless vendors who were trying to sell us all types of glides, sweat
bands, arm bands, legs bands, fancy glasses, watches, temporary tattoos and
anti-chafing products we headed back to home base for our big pre-race meal.
Being that this whole rule following or pre-planning thing was new to me, I
did what my sister said we should do and we had a great big spaghetti dinner.
Carb
loading was a new concept to me
but
eating carbs was not. I love
carbs and still do. Breads, pasta, rice, we have what my in-laws refer to as
“carb corner” in our pantry at my house today. So up to this point, I had
really done everything I felt I was supposed to do in order to run this thing.
All I had left was to get a good night sleep and make it to the starting line
on time in the morning.
To be honest, I have no idea how much I slept that night. At this point,
it’s over eight years ago but I do remember waking up and hearing the rain
outside. Not just a drizzle or light shower to wash away the night but those
heavy drops that make great puddles that most people would not go spend time in
outside on purpose. My sister in her infinite wisdom, told my Dad and I, that
we should take a garbage bags with us in the car and wear them like ponchos
while we gathered in the corral prior to the start of the race. The corral.
Yeah, you heard that right, you get smashed together like cattle before they
are slaughtered in an ever so charming penned in area where everyone smells of
anticipation and feet. At this race there were around 8500 participants for all
the distances: half marathon, marathon and marathon relay with around 1800
marathon finishers. Due to our lack of prior experience all three of us managed
to get separated in the corral and were pretty much on our own. By this point I
had gotten rid of my trash bag poncho and knew it was time to do this thing. I
heard the gun go off to signal the start of the race, the elites start first
and then the age group warriors push up to the front next, and then us middle
of the packers who are really just trying to finish without hurting ourselves
go next and finally the walkers. The god damn walkers; who walk an entire
marathon and then tell people they finished a marathon. I hate those people.
It’s almost as bad as being the Speaker of the House and telling people you
subbed three hours in a marathon when the best you ever did was barely break
four you dick.
So here we go, out like lion and in like a lamb, isn’t that what they say.
Well anyway, I did manage to go out faster than I had originally expected. It’s
pretty hard not to, even to this day it’s difficult not to get caught up and
take off. People are excited, you are in a mob of crazies with goal times
flashing in their brains, and that herd mentality takes over and people take
off faster than they had probably trained for. I know I did. It took me about
five miles to realize I had made a fairly simple yet sizable mistake. I had
chosen to wear a pair of socks that made my calves look rockin’ but I had never
actually trained in them. Big mistake. What can I say, I’m vain. I like to
believe I look good. It makes me feel good. Our brains are a tricky beast and
confidence is critical to our success in many things. Over confidence is the
other edge to that sharp sword. Around mile five or six, I could tell I was
getting blisters on the back of my heels right along the Achilles tendon
rubbing against the top of the back part of my shoe. I did stop to pull up my
socks but due to the low ride of those sweet trimmed profile winners, it was a
lost cause. Not to mention my shoes were completely wet and I was soaked from
head to toe as well.
From mile six to eighteen I only remember a few things. First, there was a
young woman running the half marathon that was wearing super tight short shorts
and was in incredible shape. I’m not going to lie, I ran behind her focusing on
her rather than obsessing on the burning sensation that was searing a whole in
the back of my heels. Around mile ten, the marathoners and half marathoners
split and I fell in with a pace group of 3:30 marathoners. I was unfamiliar
with a pace group or what a pacer was but I remember there was this dude
holding a little balsa wood pole with a flag on top that said 3:30 Marathon. He
had a pretty big group around him and I couldn’t take my eyes off his calves.
He was ripped. He’s calves were like a plethora of veins and bulging muscles
constructed from a combination of Mr. Universe and Popeye. So I followed them
as long as I could. We ran past Washington University, which at the time I
thought was a really lovely old folk’s home and then down some really long
roads that felt like we were just getting further and further away from the
finish. Around mile eighteen, I could no longer keep up with that pace group
but I didn’t really believe I would anyway. I was shooting to finish under four
hours, which I know was aggressive for a first marathon but remember, I believe
I can do anything. Around mile twenty is where I stop remembering much of
anything but the pouring rain and the cracks in the concrete as I could no
longer really keep my head up it was so heavy. I was angry, sad, and very
emotional. Why was I doing this, what was I trying to prove, why won’t it quit
raining, and would these idiots stop telling me that I’m doing great and I’m
almost done.
Mile twenty five. That is where the mind really took hold and the insanity
of running marathons was burned into me forever. I remember just before the
mile twenty five marker (they have these on the course for each mile just to
remind you how far you still have to go and how you are continuing to make poor
life choices) they were handing out cups of beer. Good old Budweiser. I mean we
were in St. Louis and we had already ran past the brewery, who wouldn’t want a
rain-watered down, warm libation before they kick it into gear for that last
mile. Not this guy. For once in my sobriety the thought of a beer seemed
physically repugnant. Then came the hilarity. Just as I passed the mile marker
but what do I see and hear? My old man, “Way to go Ben! Just come meet us back
here after you finish!” Meet us back here after you finish. I would really like
to type all the curse words that were running through my mind at that exact
moment. Just come back here after you finish! I noodled on that for a minute
and figured, well, I guess I’m never going to see my family again. There was no
way on God’s green earth that I was going to finish the last mile and then walk
back another mile to meet my family and hoof it to the car. My anger at the
absurdity of his request was quite good motivation actually. I picked up the
pace a bit and managed to put in a good last mile and even “sprint” (more like
jog really fast) that last hundred meters to the finish line. All I wanted to
do was lay down and die but they won’t let you. You have to stagger along
through more gates and barriers until you get the medal put around your neck
and a space blanket to keep you warm. A rather soggy assortment of bagels,
chocolate milk, and bananas were available to those who didn’t feel like death
was imminent. I took about five steps out of the final gate and sat down on a
concrete bench, wrapped up in a space blanket like a Chipotle burrito, looked
at my medal and started to cry. Those tears were a weird combination of
complete physical exhaustion, pride in finishing, and fear of how the hell I
was ever going to make it back to my family. In what seemed like only a matter
of minutes who appeared like an angel from heaven, my beautiful wife, Emily.
She found me right away sitting alone on the bench, came over gave me a huge
hug and added to the laundry list of reasons she is my love.
“I saw you at mile twenty five and Dad yelled for me to meet you guys back
there. Why did you come down and find me? I figured I was just going to have to
somehow hobble down the road to where we parked and pray that you would just
meet me there.’ I sobbed.
“When you ran by at that last mile marker I took one look at your face and
knew you were in trouble and needed me.” She replied.
That’s when I really pulled her in close and hugged her with an embrace that
you would give someone who just saved your life. It’s a memory I hold on to in
that part of your brain where you keep the really important stuff. You know,
your soul.
With her help she took my hand and I shuffled back to the rest of the family
who had made their way down giving Emily some time to be alone with me. I still
get emotional after races. Something about working tirelessly on your own,
grinding away early as the sun is coming up and late when it’s heading back
down that teaches you something you didn’t know about yourself with every new
experience. There are two more acts to this story that I would be remiss not to
mention.
When we finally got back to my Uncle’s house, and good grief that traffic
jam getting out of the city and back to the burbs was only a precursor to the
adventurous ride back to Kansas City. All I wanted to do was get out of those
wet clothes, take a nice hot shower and put on some comfy sweat pants and lay
down. The shower had a different plan. Needless to say, when you put twenty six
point two miles on blistered heels, you forget that they are there because they
went numb. The shower didn’t forget. As soon as that first drop of water
touched those already exploded half dollar sized blisters a pain took hold and
promptly put me on my ass. What a trainwreck that shower quickly became, me
trying to keep water off my feet, trickles of water radiating onto newly
recognized chaffed parts of my under carriage. What I thought was going to be a
wonderful washing away of the pains of the run became a symphony of new
stinging sensations and muttered curses. As I abruptly called the shower quits
I towel patted off the best I could and put on my comfortable clothes and
delicately walked back out to the kitchen gathering area and told them of my
not so pleasant showering. They were all highly amused. Being that is was
Sunday and my wife and I had work obligations on Monday we slowly loaded up the
mini-van for the drive back to Kansas City. This my friends is the final act.
While we were running the races and our families were navigating to various
points on the course to cheer us on, it made no sense to have our six month old
out in the rain for hours at a time. Thankfully, my Aunt Susie had volunteered
to watch Big Al while we all checked some things off our bucket lists. In a bit
of foreshadowing, I remember asking her in the kitchen before we left if Alice
was good and not too fussy while we were all out racing in the city for hours
on end. She said explained that she just kept feeding her bananas and she
didn’t cry or fuss at all. How lucky for her. Full stomachs, tired legs,
exhausted toddler and happy wife, we all loaded up and prepared to head back to
KC.
Like numerous men, I am the main driver of the vehicles on road trips that
is not to say my wife isn’t a good driver, I just think I’m better. In response
to my dickheadishenss, she has mastered the art of sleeping or scrolling
through Facebook to pass the time and keep herself from freaking out when I
pass in situations some would deem less than ideal. Well, for this ride home, I
had opted to sit in the far third row seat, lay down the second row seat
directly in front of me, and put Al in her car seat next to me and Ruby in
front of her. Seemed like a good idea at the time, plenty of space to stretch
out and baby in close range for binky to be plugged back in with little
exertion. What I failed to recognize was the onset of powerful leg cramps that
were about to strangle my thighs and turn
me
into the baby. Remember, the backdrop to this is a constant thunderstorm
which created a rather slow highway ride, limited visibility and a seemingly
impossible positioning of my body to create any semblance of comfort. Then came
the vomiting, the banana fueled stream of insides coming right out of baby Al
and on to me. There was nothing I could do to stop it but take the towels we
had brought along and try to contain it. She was like the Dan Patrick of
projectile vomiting. My wife found this quite comical. Emily is so patient with
the girls and I, and she is nearly always the one playing nurse, psychologist,
arbiter, and referee. As she drove along belly laughing I did my best to sooth,
explain to Ruby what was happening, all the while fighting off Charlie horse
after Charlie horse.
“This can’t possible get any worse.” I say to my wife as we near the city of
Columbia, Missouri. It’s about a four hour drive to St. Louis from Kansas City,
give or take for traffic and rest area bathroom breaks. Columbia is one of
those mental halfway points where you can sort of feel that you have less to go
than how far you already went. “The highway is closed.” My wife says
immediately perplexing me and drawing a rebuke.
“The highway is not closed, what do you mean the highway is closed?” I
asked.
“Well, there is a giant flashing construction sign that says, I-70 closed at
Columbia exit, use alternate route.” How is this even possible? My brain is
failing to comprehend that this can in fact be true. The highway is closed? The
highway is closed? I can’t believe this is happening and as the absurdity of
the situation grows, unsurprisingly, I know exactly how we are going to have to
detour this...by driving our asses all the way up to Macon, Missouri, jump onto
Highway 36, shoot over to I-35 and come into KC from the North. My goodness Ben
that seems a rather overly detailed set of directions you say? Oh but it is you
see, I spent my first two years of college at Truman State in Kirksville,
Missouri which just so happens to be right up the road from Macon so I know
these roads to God damn well.
“Take the Highway 63 exit coming up here in a few miles and go north until
you hit Macon or I die first.” I tell Emily as she continues towards, what as a
few moments ago was our half way point, which is now really just a pause in the
never ending nightmare that has been going on since that gun went off to start
the race. She can’t stop laughing. My wife is enjoying this and it’s a fitting
comeuppance considering what she put up with for many years before I finally
got some help from a program you can find in the front of the phone book. Just
to lay this out in analytical terms and numbers and put some contextual data to
this timeline.
Time from Uncle’s house in St. Louis to Kansas City under normal conditions:
Four hours.
Time from Uncle’s house to our house under normal
weather conditions with detour through Macon: 5 hours.
Time from Uncle’s house to our house in a
thunderstorm, with loads of detoured traffic, on a Sunday, through Macon: I
want to kill myself hours.
As we pulled into the driveway, putting a bow on
what proved to be an unforgettable adventure, I vowed I would never do that
again. Never trust a first time marathoner on their plans for running within
twenty four hours of completing said marathon.
That day I ran a 3:49:21. A little over nine years
later, I’ve ran somewhere between 35 to 50 timed marathons, 50K’s, 50 milers,
half marathons, 5K’s, and 10K races. Some on pavement, some on trails, some up
mountains, some on lonely rural highways, most I’ve finished, and some I did
not. My best time was 2:57:54 and I reckon if you add up all the miles spent
training it’s over 10,000 miles run.
So when a newcomer asks me, “how did your first
marathon go?”
I say, “It went well. The first mile went according
to plan.”
I dedicate this story to an old friend, Drew
Wilson, who asked me if I was still writing stories about running. I wrote this
because he said he enjoyed reading them. Thanks for the compliment Drew that
was very kind.
