Stupid Marathon

            I ran the Rock and Roll Marathon in 3:33, six minutes slower than my first marathon three years ago -- not a bad time, especially with plantar fasciitis, but I averaged over eight-minute-miles and was disappointed.

            The forecast kept calling for rain, and our graduates got a cloud dump on the commencement field, and the forecasts, as we neared the marathon occurring the next morning, just looked wetter and wetter -- especially during those morning Saturday hours. I was unaccountably spooked. As we headed towards the commencement event, several people asked if I was nervous about giving the keynote, but what I was really worried about was the marathon in ten hours: I was worried my shoes would get soaked and my skin would fold and blister. I was worried my shirt would get heavy with water and chafe the skin off my nipples and armpits and neck. I was worried my glasses would wet over in condensation and I’d be running blind. I was fearing the rain with all of my stomach and chest. And that night, when I got home, I checked the weather report every ten minutes or so, hoping for change, trying to predict or prepare -- with a plastic bag poncho and plastic rubber-banded shoe galoshes waiting at the start line, for example -- and I fell asleep around 11:30 but woke up at 2:15, listening in terror to a hard driving rain beat down against the house and trees and street, a thrumming rain, after weeks of dry, sunny weather.

            But it lightened by sunrise. It stopped.

            The second obstacle was of my own making, and it fills me with regret and longing and hypotheticals. I hadn’t loaded up well the night before because we left for Memorial Stadium at 5:30, when I ate a bowl of spelt salad, and didn’t come home until 10:00 or so, when I didn’t eat anything, but I wasn’t worried. The morning of the marathon, I took a shit, lubed up friction points, ate a bowl of cereal, and didn’t worry.

            And then, crowded into the fourth coral (a crowd that kept me warm), I was worried about getting past and out into the open. But that happened soon enough. In fact, I pulled ahead and kept pulling ahead, just as I did in the first race; and because it seemed to work for me three years ago, I didn’t slow myself. But I have to say I was going much, much faster. I had four miles that were under seven minutes, one almost below six. When marathoners broke away from the half-marathoners, I was pacing a seven minute mile. When I hit 13.1, the half marathon, I was still there. In fact, it was soon after this I ran into the 3:15 pacing runners and decided to slow down and run with them for the distance remaining, which, if done, would bring me in at 3:07 or 3:08 or so, a blistering, happy pace. It was easy running with them. I felt I could charge ahead at any point, like before or after I stopped to drink water and Gatorade. It felt comfortable. I skipped the energy Gu handed out around that time -- I’d catch the next batch.

            Running with the 3:15 yellow-shirts was easy. But then, suddenly, it wasn’t. And there was no next batch of energy Gu. The pacers ran up a hill, I fell back a little. I caught up. But then, crossing the I-90 bridge to Mercer Island, I was gutting it out in that long expanse. And my energy was gone. I stopped at a port-a-potty in the middle of the bridge and leaned my head against the wall inside, near sleep. Then I got out and ran again, taking two glasses of water instead of one. Stopping, drinking, I walked to another cup; stopping, drinking, running. And I ran through the tunnel and down the hill and got more water when maybe I needed Gatorade or, better, food, knew there was a Gatorade station at the top in the other direction before I returned to the I-90 tunnel again, drank Gatorade, another, a water. Ran some, felt cramps, then walked. I was at about mile 21. Wondering if I had to finish. If I could walk the rest of the way. I tried jogging a little, but why, went back to walking. Walked all the way through the tunnel, down the first crest of the bridge. All those people I’d passed, passing me. The 3:30 yellow shirts passed me. I just kept walking. One man running the opposite direction, about a mile and a half behind me, lifted his arms for me, insistently, Get up! Go! And everyone was passing. I walked, wondering why the next water station was so far away when I thought it was in the middle of the bridge.

            Then a passing man asked, Gu?, and dropped a packet into my hands and ran off. I sucked down that chocolate – an Oompa Loompa pouring chocolate into my face -- and started running again. The carbohydrates helped me get back up. But this is no less true: that man’s kindness got me going again. I cried later, just recounting how a man gave me chocolate. I started running again. I didn’t run quickly, especially not at first, and it was still slow going to the end of the bridge, and my legs were on the edge of seizing into fully tightened cramps, but only a couple people passed me. And when we joined back with half-marathoners, nearly all walking at this point, some running, sheer snobbishness alarmed through me as I ran past their blue bibs. I wasn’t blistering fast anymore, and a few marathoners continued to pass me and I had nothing left for the final sprint, but I carried the last couple miles under nine minutes and crossed the gate.

            Stephanie, Dad and Wendy were there.

            A half an hour later than expected, or at least 15 minutes later, but I arrived.