|
In April 2008, my brother, Paul, and I ran in
the 23rd annual Big Sur International Marathon. To set the stage
for what sort of experience this was for me, I have to tell you a little
about my running in recent years. The short story goes like this:
To put this epic event into perspective, you
need a little background. Here's the setting to calibrate you:
In the late 1990’s and through 2002, I had
been on an ultramarathon binge. I ran multiple ultra distance races,
including the 2001 Western States 100 Mile Endurance run. My life situation
changed a bit for me in 2003 when I was reassigned to become the Commanding
Officer of the Navy’s Strategic Weapons Facility, Atlantic, in Kings Bay,
Georgia. The one-two punch of living in Northern Florida, a climate and
topography that make for a poor ultra running environment and demands of my
job limiting the time I had to train, brought my endurance running escapades
to a screeching halt. I retired from the Navy in late 2005 and moved to
Northern Utah. This gave me the opportunity to get back in shape and
restart my ultrarunning hobby. I had a great Spring training program in
2006, and I ran my first ultra in 4 years in June of 2006. That was the
Squaw Peak 50 Mile Run. My performance was solid. I was back!
Unfortunately, two weeks after that race, I was doing a hard training run in
the Wasatch Mountains, and I developed a serious foot injury. My foot
didn’t get better with time, so I decided to go to the doctor. One doctor
told me I’d never run again. I didn’t like that answer, so I saw another
guy. The second doctor didn’t know what to do – another bad answer. Then,
one doctor told me he could fix me with surgery. I accepted his services,
and went under the knife with hopes of quick repair. I ended up having
surgery on both of my calf muscles to lengthen my Achilles tendons. This
sounded simple enough. The left side healed up well. The right side never
did heal properly, and I have struggled since June 2006 trying to get back
into running.
Naturally, I tell you this tale of woe so that
I have a plausible excuse for how poorly I run these days. The story of Big
Sur 2008 may now continue.
Last Fall, I decided to set a goal for myself
and pick a marathon to run in Spring 2008. The general idea behind this
silliness was to force myself into a training program out of fear of public
humiliation and failure at a popular race. I chose the Big Sur
International Marathon because it was touted as a wonderful course and it
was near my father’s home in California. I passed the idea to my two
brothers, Tim and Paul, and to my dad. Both brothers decided to register
and train for the race as well. My father, wise man that he is, wanted to
do the race, but decided that he wouldn’t want to humiliate his sons by
crushing us all, and he took a position to be a spectator instead. My wife,
Susan, who consistently runs faster than I do at any distance longer than 10
miles, decided she was not going to have nothing to do with such a silly
thing as a road marathon. She is still a trail girl at heart.
So, I began training in Fall 2007, and I was
up to 17 miles before I began having trouble with my right leg again. Then,
I started having trouble with my left knee. Why not? Life is a matter of
balance, isn’t it? Clearly it was not appropriate to have problems on one
side alone and not the other. Still determined, I took only the minimum
amount of time off before resuming my training plan. By Christmas, I was
back to running 10 miles as my long run and somehow managing about 25 miles
per week. Then Father Winter paid a visit to Northern Utah and, through the
month of January, dumped about eight feet of snow in my neighborhood. Since
running through the narrow tunnels dug through the snowy mess for cars was
totally out of the question, I took up skiing! I basically didn’t run a
single mile outside through the entire month of January and early February.
Did I tell you that back in December my
brother Tim talked me, Susan, and Paul into running in the Bataan Memorial
Death March in Late March? Yes, this sounded like such a fine idea at the
time. We were all liquored-up about the concept of running the rugged
marathon course as a coed team. The idea sounded good at the time, and in
the end it probably saved my bacon for Big Sur. Bataan was a tough
marathon, and we all had to stay together as a team, never getting more than
20 seconds apart from any team member. This meant that all of our
weaknesses would hold the rest of the team back and result in the slowest
possible time for the team.
Remember, now, that I had not run a single
mile in January and early February 2008. The Bataan Marathon was on March
30th. This was only a slight problem from my perspective since I
figured I could simply do that old marathon on guts alone. After all, I had
experience, right? Surely I could will my way to the finish line, couldn’t
I? Okay, maybe not, so I tried in earnest to increase my training miles in
late February and early March. It was hard to even think about Big Sur
knowing that a hard marathon was looming so closely in time. I tried to do
a long run every Saturday morning, and each week I suffered though 15 to 17
miles in pure agony. I have never run slower, and I have never endured such
mental frustration from the sport I love. But that marathon date was
approaching, my family was counting on me, so, one way or another, I had to
push. I knew that my brother Tim had not been training very much, so I
stooped the trick of calling him and asking him if he was sure he was ready
for the race. I’d hoped he’d say, no!
Me: “Hey, Tim! Are you sure you want to try
this thing? I know you haven’t been training much, and I don’t want you to
get hurt or anything.”
Tim: “Oh, yeah! We’re in! Can’t wait! It
will be a blast!”
In despair, I hung up the phone and realized
my fate was sealed. I was gong to have to run this crazy team marathon, and
I knew fully well that I was going to hold everyone back. We flew to New
Mexico and drove to Las Cruces, the city nearby the race venue at White
Sands Missile Test Range. I awoke on the morning of March 30th
feeling I should be saying some appropriate prayer like, “Today is a good
day to die...” Our intrepid team gathered at the starting line, and off we
went into the desert sands of Southern New Mexico. As predicted, I held the
team back for the first ten miles. I was despondent – speechless. A
five-mile long hill suddenly stood before us, and I picked up the pace just
enough to not be the slowest. This was good enough for my morale that I
mentally came back to the world of endurance running. By mile 17, I was on
fire, and I felt great to be able to run a wicked 10-minue mile pace. What
a blazing ball of fire was I! Too bad for Tim though. His lack of training
resulted in a painful knee, and he was reduced to walking with short bursts
of jogging. Now he was at the back, and we stayed with him as he suffered
significant physical pain for the last miles of the race. In truth, his was
a heroic finish. None of us could imagine how he did it, but he did. We
finished in just under five hours, and placed third among coed teams and
sixth among all 102 teams doing the same event as we were. Not too bad!
Sadly, Tim’s injury took him out for Big Sur. The California marathon was
four weeks away. He could not recover in time.
The good news for me was that I had finally
completed a descent training run in preparation for Big Sur. My confidence
was back. I was psyched! I knew I’d be slow, but I figured that I could do
another 26.2 miles without too much problem. That makes total sense,
doesn’t it? Why, anyone can do a road marathon if they could finish a
rugged marathon that traversed desert sands and big hills, can’t they? I
certainly thought so.
In the three weeks that came after Bataan and
before Big Sur, I ran about 30 miles per week on average. I actually did a
respectable 20-mile run on the Saturday one week before Big Sur. I felt I
was totally ready and had no fear. I guess I’m just funny that way.
Off to California I flew on the day before Big
Sur. I got my race number, checked into my hotel with brother, Paul.
Though this would be his first marathon as an individual runner, Paul was
well trained for the race. Since it was his first race, he had little
experience with what to do with his pre-race-night jitters. He fidgeted
about the room most of the night, then went into a deep coma sometime around
11pm. I got up at about 3am race day, took a shower, and dressed for the
run. I drug Paul out of bed about a half hour later, gave him some coffee,
and pointed to his running shoes. In minutes, we were on our way to the
starting line via the largest procession of school busses I have ever seen.
At the starting line area, I met up with my
good friend Whit Rambach. He is on the Board for the Big Sur International
Marathon, so he was posted at the starting line dressed in a suit and tie
looking very official and friendly as ever. He wished me luck and told me
that he would see me at the finish line. Paul and I went to the middle of a
throng of thousands of people gathered up in the roadway of California’s
Coastal Highway 1. It was an unbelievable scene. People stood elbow to
elbow, back to front, for about a third of a mile back from the starting
line. When the starting gun sounded, we could only gape to see if anyone
was really running ahead of us. It didn’t seem like it from where we
stood. Finally, the throng pushed forward in a slow roll. Four minutes
later, I crossed the starting line and started my timer. My marathon, the
first individual event of that distance in two years, had begun!
Anyone who has been there will tell you that
the Big Sur marathon course is truly beautiful. It is. In fact, I think it
is totally appropriate to claim that it may be the most beautiful road
marathon course in America. It runs north on Coastal Highway 1 for 26.2
miles, starting at Big Sur State Park and finishing in Carmel-by-the-Sea.
In late April, the wildflowers are out in full, and the sea breeze blows a
sense of well being through your body like an uplifting nepenthe. The
scenery was stunning from start to finish.
So there I was, running along at a blazing
9:30 pace for the first 13 miles. My half marathon split was 2:01, so I
figured I had a 4:10 finish in the bag. The biggest hill on the course was
behind me, or at least that’s what I thought. So how hard could it be? I
was smiling and happy. I felt like a runner, and it was great. All around
me was beauty and natural splendor, and thousands of fellow runners. We
were on our way to the Promised Land, the finish line! Oh, the glorious
finish line! Oh, yeah! I danced as I ran by the many local bands that
played along side the road for the runners. I greeted people in aid
stations and happily thanked them for being there. I cheered on my fellow
runners. I boldly exclaimed, “Semper Fi, Devil Dog!” to the young Marines
who yelled out our times and our pace at every mile marker. Yup, I was
having the time of my life, right up to about mile 16.
For some inexplicable reason, I began feeling
a twinge in the back of my upper thighs. This was odd. I had experienced
muscle cramps before, but this felt a little different, and I have never had
this in the upper thighs before. A little voice in the back of my mind was
telling me that this was not a good omen. Something about this was not
right, and I got a little worried. Undaunted, I pressed on, smiling only a
little less. Sadly, by mile 18, both of my legs were in full revolt. The
cramping that ensued was nothing short of incapacitating. My legs told me,
“It’s over you fool! We’re not playing any more.” But my heart told me
differently, and my head assured me that I could get through this. “It’s
only eight flippin’ miles to the finish line, you sissy! Get with the
program, and pull yourself together! Move it!”
I tried to move it, but my legs gave me a
notice in the form of complete lock-up. I had to stop and stretch. I
walked few yards, and it still hurt, so I stretched some more. I didn’t
want to blow all the time by stopping for long, but it became clear that
there was no other option. I sat down on the side of the road and went
through stretching and deep breathing exercises with my eyes cast to the
ground in shame as other runners passed me by. Some of them said, “Hey
buddy, you okay?” “Oh, yes!” I replied. “I’m just taking a short break.
No problem at all. Have a great run!” I loosened up enough to get back to
the painful process of deliberate forward motion, but I had to stop and
stretch frequently. In my mind, I kept going over all the things I’d
learned from years of endurance running experience. Surely I could reason
my way though this epic encounter with pain. I am the DURT Dude! I have to
be capable of figuring this one out. But no matter what I tried, nothing
seemed to help. More water? Nope. More salt? Uh-uh. How about some
food? No, that didn’t help either. Walking was no less painful, so power
hiking to the finish line was not the answer. Amid frequent stops to
stretch and less happy times in aid stations, I did manage to make forward
progress at about the pace of a wounded banana slug. Every step was
unpleasant, not to even think of every mile! By then, each mile was an
eternity. And still, the cramps continued. Lucky for me, my foolish
head-bone was not to be stopped, and I kept going.
After what seemed like an interminable
punishment unfitting even a fool like me who would attempt a marathon with
so little training, I came upon the mile post for mile 25. The two young
Marines yelled the time and pace with determined enthusiasm. It was all I
could do to let go a frail whimper, “Semper Fi, you little son of a bitch!”
The last mile was upon me. A big, yellow sign
told me so. I had one mile to go, and my spirits lifted to overcome my
agony. I began to jog a little more, but when I looked up, there it was.
It was another hill, the most abusive hill on the course, fiendishly set in
that spiteful last mile. Then I got mad, real mad. I was not going to take
this abuse any more. So I just started to run through the pain. If I died,
it would have been a good day to die. “So freeking be it!” Cresting the
hill, I could hear sounds of excitement and applause in the distance. That
bloody finish line was out there, and it was mine, all mine! From the
depths of misery I summoned the stuff to run to that malevolent finish line
and look like a real runner as I crossed. Whit was there. He came to me in
excitement and hugged me with congratulations. In my mind, all I could
think of to say was something lovely like, “Get the [expletive] away from me
you fool! Can’t you see I’m dying here?” Composed as ever, though, I
smiled and gave him a hug in return, and I thanked him for putting on such a
wonderful race. Acting experience comes in real handy sometimes.
I walked to the place where young volunteers
cut the race chip from your shoes. You know, those quarter-sized little
things that you put on one shoe to track your official time, right? Well,
after the young man cut the chip off, I gave him the other shoe. I have no
idea why, since there is only ever one chip on one foot, but I felt the
natural urge to get both sides done. He stared at me in wonder, and I
looked down at him, finally realizing that there wasn’t another chip to cut
off my other shoe. I smiled and said, “It’s a matter of balance...” and
walked away. I met my dad with a smile and told him all was right with the
world. Right!
My official finish time was 4:27:13. I’m sure
it took me longer than that because I know I spent half the day writhing
with pain on the side of the road. But the results were in. I finished
that marathon on two feet, and I am back in the saddle again!
Hallelujah! I’m a runner! |
