A Run to Remember

I've heard it said that the road to the Boston Marathon is littered with lost dreams, of hopes raised only to be extinguished and perhaps most of all by a soul searching that every runner encounters at one time or another in their running career. My road was planned out in the early summer. My hopes were high for a strong time, perhaps as much as 20 minutes faster than the required 3:15:59 for my age group. My training went well at first. 70 mile weeks progressed to 80 miles. 80 miles to 90. And finally that number that I thought I would never run, +100 miles a week was breached with relative ease for several weeks. My pace was strong - long runs at 7 minute mile without too much difficulty. Tempo and VO2 Max at low 6's. As the mileage accumulated my body naturally dropped body fat. Matt Fitzgerald's book "Racing Weight" claims that top pro marathoners and runners have a body fat percentage of 5 to 8%. I was at 5% and was on my way to drop another 5 lbs by race day. Then the inevitability of every runner happened to me. INJURY. Painful shin splints on my right and left leg made it hell to run sometimes but I was still able to push through most of my runs. What I couldn't push past was an inflammation of my right medial tendon. I might have sprained it playing tennis but however it happened I was left waking up in the middle of the night with a throbbing sharp pain. I was unable to run even half a mile before the pain made me change my stride too much to run. In short I went from +100 mile weeks to low teens on a dime. This happened on and off for two months leading up to the Mohawk Hudson River Marathon, due to be run on the memorable date of 10/10/10. I got a bit depressed. I gained a bit of weight - well quite a bit of weight (about 10 lbs). There were moments when I actually thought it might be ok. I would go out for a run with Anna and feel marvelous - we would bang out 14 miles and I wouldn't feel a tingle in my knee. But that bliss of fluid movement were you're not so much running as gliding, flying wouldn't last. The pain would come back. But those few days of joyful running maintained me. There's not much that can come close to the serenity and peace I feel with I run with Anna. We knew got to know each other through it. A communication deeper than words when you hear each others foot steps, the wind rustling past the leaves in Central Park and the rhythmic breathing of someone who enjoys that moment as much as you do. It's something I never felt before with anyone before and it's what left me with the indelible drive to run my marathon - even when deep down I knew Boston was a bend in the road just out of my reach, at least for the moment.

Race Day: 10/10/10
Albany. What can I say about it? Well, it's the capital of New York. That doesn't depart what one would otherwise think as a glorious effect. The capital of a major state no less. But somewhere the good fellows in Albany missed the memo. Half the businesses in the downtown area, mere blocks away from the capital building were vacant spaces. The only restaurants open raised questions of food hygiene let alone taste. It was urban blight without the garbage. But we didn't come here to merely to sight-see. The temperature ended up being much colder than predicted. By the time we got to the bus that was take the runners to Schenectady at 6:45am it was hovering in the high 30's. Chattering teeth were clearly heard from those with less dress.

I was hopeful on the bus ride there. My leg felt good. My knee wasn't hurting. I only ran a handful of miles in the previous 2 weeks. I admit, not the best marathon plan. A long string of yellow buses pulled into Schenectady Park. Only 40 minutes to go. It seems like the entire bus has to go to the bathroom. Everyone looking sheepishly if they can go in the bushes. Many of us are not that lucky to have that as our an option. Long line for the loo - I mean looonnnnggg. I'm waiting 30 minutes - I'm lucky. I'm able to go with 5 minutes to gun time. Probably a good several hundred are not that lucky. I run, yes run, to the bag drop off. My legs feel good! Could it be one of those miraculous days? I line up close to the front. The air is crisp. The golden bloom of autumn leaves surrounds us. Someone on a loud speaker says 10 seconds to go. We all collective move forward closer to the line one last time - a communal exhaling that creates more space. I don't hear the gun but we're all running. Running fast but I don't feel like I'm running. I feel that familiar glide. Relaxed arms swinging and most important I can't hear my footfalls - a good sign. 1st mile marker, a tad above a 7 min/pace. Everyone is relaxed and feeling like a million bucks. Several more miles. I'm still feeling great. I spot several Ironmen. You can always spot them out. If not for the obvious calf tattoo, then from the gear. They love their gear. They're talking up a storm. They pass me. I take 2 cups quickly on the run at each water stop. One water and the other Gateraid every 2 miles. Mile 9 comes up. I'm still clocking it steadily in the low 7's with a group of runners. Runners naturally coalesce around other similar pacers. Wait I see some of the Ironmen. But they're not running they're walking. Half way mark arrives, a clean 1:37 half marathon split. On perfect pace. Then disaster. Did I mention the road to Boston can be long and circuitous?


Pain. Pain. Pain. With every foot fall my calves knot up into a ball. My stride shortens up and I can hear my shoes skidding across the road. Not good. Pace drops. A thought flashes in my head. I won't qualify for Boston. Should I walk? Should I save myself from injury - further injury? Then a picture pops in my head. Those Ironmen walking. Big talk turning to a walk. The other picture is of all those people you hear about, read about, see on TV. Finishing Koni against incredible odds. So I start to repeat a mantra to myself. If I can't qualify for Boston that's fine, but "I will not walk". I repeat that to myself, "I will not walk". The pain migrates to my knees finally. I'm a hobbling mess but still running. My pace slows down to 8, 9, then as slow as 10 for one mile. But I'm pushing through. Trying to enjoy the scenery. It is truly is beautiful. I wish Anna were running with me. "I will not walk." The miles tick down as slow as I've ever felt on a run. 2 miles to go. My legs are destroyed. I've been hobble running for the past 10 miles. But the prospect of ending the pain sooner drives me to pick up my pace. I start to actually pass people. 0.2 miles to go. The pain is there but I'm resigned to it. The finish is within sight. I hear someone yell my name. I see Anna on the sideline cheering me one. I cross the line. It's difficult to walk. What emotion did I feel? Well pain was there front and center. But most of all pure JOY. I finished the hardest run of my life.