Running Like the Wind

Or... a slow breeze. Millions of people do it every year, how hard could a marathon be? Each spring stories are told of octogenarians and formerly obese Americans who damn the odds, velcro their shoes, train and complete marathons. This year, I threw my hat in the ring, declaring early on, “it’s not a matter of ‘if’ I finish, but how fast I finish.”

Training began in the summer of 2008, with the intention of just competing in local 10k races, because “there is no way I can finish a marathon.” However, soon enough, the topic of marathons came up during a LOYAL meeting, where I discovered that 10 percent of my class had completed the big race. This was my “aha” moment, certainly not a reflection on my fellow LOYALers, but the conclusion that almost anybody who wants to do it, can. The only thing holding me back was my “can’t do” attitude. It was at that table, with 4 people who had completed a marathon and 1 more who had completed the Redman Ironman Distance Triathlon, I decided that enough was enough, stop setting the bar so low and knock this thing out.

As April 26 approached, my weekly long run progressed to 25 miles, as much mental torture as physical. Between long runs, my goal was to run 3 days per week at about 4 miles per workout just to keep the soreness at bay. There were several injuries throughout the 32 weeks of training, one of which kept me off the trails for almost 3 weeks and hampered my efforts severely. Most runners can attest that it will take at least 5 weeks to recover 3 weeks of lost fitness. Weather was another factor. The cold winter wind pushed me indoors for much of November and December, where the treadmill (a very poor substitute for the road) and swimming provided a decent workout for both lower and upper body.

On March 1, a new sense of urgency struck. I had told at least 10 people of my marathon goal, which means, there were now a host of people to call me out. In retrospect, methinks that this was a subconscious effort to develop some accountability. I do not train with a partner, no one was counting on me to finish, and it can be difficult to remain self-motivated for this type of drudgery. By talking a big game however, there was a team of people in my corner who expected me to back up the talk and complete the goal.

The alarm went off at 3am on race day. My body needs time to wake up and with the race beginning at 6:30am; this allowed plenty of time to "drop off" anything that will not be useful in my stomach during a 26.2 mile run. James, a friend from our Life group and an experienced marathon runner, and I met so we could carpool downtown. There is something inspiring about driving downtown at 5am on Sunday, knowing that the few other people on the road are converging to achieve the same goal.

Park. Check gear. "Drop off" again. Warm-up. Chat aimlessly while standing in the 10:30/mile pace group. Singing. The Mayor speaks.

168 seconds of silence. I did not know anyone who died in the attack on the Murrah building. However, in those 168 seconds, I was transported back to ninth grade, remembering precisely where I was when the bomb exploded downtown: physical science class. There was a rumble, I looked back at the clock which read 9:02 and thought (in the windowless classroom) “I guess that was just thunder, although I don't recall seeing any storm clouds.” The school was evacuated a few hours later when the word of the atrocity was announced. So, needless to say, the time that was going to be used to collect my thoughts and focus on the task ahead instantly turned to the bombing, and I along with 90 percent of the others turned into a mentally emotional mess.

The gun went off, and it's time to run...right? Given the size of the race (though nothing compared to NYC, Boston, Chicago or San Francisco) it takes time just to get to the start line, where reality sets in, “this is going to happen...”

Oklahoma City Memorial Marathon Course Map

The first quarter of the race, for lack of a better term, was easy. We completed it in 59:57, well ahead of my goal of 5 hours. In hindsight, it is quite simple to see why we had to hold our pace back, it was downhill with wind gusts up to 30 miles per hour at our backs. This was in the back of my mind, but how bad could it be? As we approached mile 12, my partner needed a port-o-let break. I decided to keep moving for fear that once stopped, my legs would cease to start again. So, we bid adieu. I trudged on, hitting the halfway mark in an honorable 2:06:51, a 4:13:30 pace, an average of 6.2 miles per hour. This was 45 minutes ahead of my goal time, which was great news! Right? Right?

Trouble reared its ugly head just past the halfway point on Britton road, passing over I-44. The road is 20 feet above the ground and at a relatively steep incline. For the first time, runners felt the wind that had been pushing us to what we thought would be personal best times. I kept my legs moving, trying to jog in a straight line but instead blown all over the bridge by the terrible wind. From this point on, we were heading south right into the cool Oklahoma breeze.

I run the lake about 4 times a week so the next leg of the race was beyond familiar. At about this point, bodies start dropping. A man surrounded by emergency personnel looked to be the first casualty, including an IV bag and a fire truck. (I forgot to say, the humidity was over 60%.) Not 100 yards later, a couple of women overtaken by the wind. Mile 15 on the lake might have been the first time “what the heck am I doing” ran through my mind, but knowing that my cheerleading squad (Angela and Kinsey) would be at the 16.5-mile mark helped me through it. I said a brief hello, snuggled K, said thank you for supporting Daddy and moved on.

Back over the highway, 95% of the runners walked the bridge to Nichols Hills. Crossing May Avenue, there was my dad to throw me an extra bottle of water and wish me good luck. His parting words, “it’s all downhill from here.” I am guessing he did not mean that literally. From the halfway point to mile 20, my pace slowed to an even more modest 5.4 miles per hour.

The fact had never really occurred to me before, and I will not forget it now: Classen, mile 20-24, is all uphill. The wind I was mentally prepared for but not the quads burning an uphill struggle that is Classen. Those thoughts creeped into my head again, “why am I doing this, just quit now.” Which was countered by the angel on my other shoulder, “only six more miles, that is nothing. Besides, if you quit, how will you get back to your car?” Runners were dropping left and right at the aid stations. IV’s FOR EVERYBODY!

Nearing the end of Classen, 23.5 miles in, you can smell the finish line. I started to lose track of how far [actually] remained. I looked into the crowd where a little girl held a sign saying, “1 mile left. You can do it!” My immediate thought was that there has to be more than a mile left, maybe 2 miles is more accurate. A mile later, there is the same little girl, screaming her lungs out and holding the same sign... I fought the urge to set her straight.

Through Mesta Park and Heritage hills we jogged (I can not call what I was doing at this point “running”), powered only by the thought of finishing and the mountains of fattening food that would be waiting. Mile 24, the second wind hit. Residents were on their lawns spraying us with much needed water and cheering, some even offering shots of Jaegermeister. Seriously.

Mile 25-26 was a blur with a big smile on my face, I could see the end. It was just a matter of looking good for the finishing picture. I finished in 4:39:45 (mile 20 to finish fell to 4.9mph), well ahead of my goal. I collected a finisher’s shirt, medal, took off the timing chip and found the snack area. E.L. Fudge cookies never tasted so good, especially when chased by a couple of Carl’s Jr. cheeseburgers and four Powerades.

The damage? My feet were quite torn up with each toe displaying a varying degree of disgusting. The left pointer toenail is looking to come off any day now. My muscles were feeling good by the following Friday, and I actually took a run on Saturday. Mentally, completing a marathon is a huge point of pride and my full respect goes out to all those runners who make it look so easy.

If you had asked me on Sunday, “would you do it again?” The answer would have been absolutely not. By Monday morning, the guys in the office asked the same question as I lumbered through the door. My response, “I’ll break 4 hours at the Tulsa marathon in November.” Hold me to it people!