In December of 2001 I ran the fastest 10K time of my running life. A 10K is 6.2 miles.
The problem with that is that I wasn’t running a 10K event at the time, I was running a marathon. A marathon is 26.2 miles.
Maybe it was the beautiful pre-dawn setting, a freezing cold National Park outside of Oracle Arizona. Maybe it was the fact that we runners stood together at the start in our garbage-bag-ponchos, put our hands over our hearts and recited the pledge of allegiance to the flag. Maybe it was the trumpet soloist who played the Star Spangled Banner and never let on that his teeth wanted very much to chatter in the cold. Maybe my training had just worked out well that fall. Whatever it was, I ran the first 6 miles of that race like I was light, like it was easy. I passed people by the dozens. The sun came up and streamed bronze light through the trees. I ran the first 6 miles like I was going to keep running past the finish line. I saw birds in the brush, I waved to kids watching the event. I rememberd a phrase that I grooved into my head as a salesperson: “I can do no wrong.” I felt it.
I warmed up enough to strip my jacket off before it got sweaty. I took off the hat before it got sweaty. I congratulated myself on managing these things perfectly, I could do no wrong you know.
I chatted with other runners. One noted that she needed two steps for each of mine. This was the proof I’d been looking for; I was flying. There was no other explanation for it.
I took my planned and prescribed walking breaks reluctantly, I hated the idea of slowing down.
When I ran again, I sped up. I made certain to catch anyone that might have caught me while I walked. One of these was a friendly cop named Dave. I told Dave “good luck!” but I’d see him at the finish, I was off.
Coming up to the 10K marker I became aware of just how full of myself I was feeling. I felt powerful, fast, light, successful, important, warm, healthy, dry, intelligent, and good-looking. I didn’t need anyone or anything. I had 20 miles ahead of me and I was smug.
Within 100 yards of the 10K marker, I made three mistakes in rapid succession. You will undoubtedly pick one for yourself as being the sole cause of my undoing. I’ll respect your pick so try to think of mine.
One, I passed up a Porta-Jon because there was a line (three women, if I recall), I didn’t need to stop at all but it might have been for the best.
Two, I took a dixie cup of sports drink from a cub scout. My hydration and fueling strategy didn’t include this. The kid repeated that it was “Orange Gatorade” but it tasted more like crushed aspirin and baking soda than orange.
Three, I said a prayer. I said “Lord, let the glory be yours. This is not my doing that I am here at the 10K mark in record time with wings on my feet, but yours. Lord, let me be…” (At this point of the story runners are mildly curious as to what I should be praying for but they’re primarily concerned with the funny aftertaste to the Gatorade and recognizing the missed Porta-Jon as the foreshadow of doom. At this point of the story, two Dominican Sisters gasped silently and moved to cover their mouths. Their eyes opened wide with a kind of sad pity because they’d seen the next word coming.) “…humbled.” I had prayed for humility.
A cold sheet of gooseflesh started from below the waistband of my shorts in the small of my back and spread up my back, up the back of my neck and into my scalp, down the backs of my thighs and the backs of my arms. My fingernails ached. The back of my throat felt close and hot. Guts that had been silent began to writhe.
When you are overcome with the flu there might be a moment when you don’t know whether you are going to vomit first or have explosive diarrhea first, during that moment you make a hurried clenched duck-walk to the bathroom. My winged feet had been replaced with that exact duck-walk.
I looked back at the Porta-Jon. Now almost 200 yards behind me, it still had a line. I’ve made some difficult decisions in my day but this was a monster. I wagered that if I could make it to the can behind me and then hold it waiting in a line, I had a similar chance of making the next pit stop. I chose my path based not on how close the next john was and not based on adding a quarter mile to a marathon by going backwards, but on how scarred my pride would be should I publicly become incontinent. I chose forward to spare my misery the spectators.
I “ran” in a hunched-over waddle to the next potty. The exact results of that stop matter not, except that I resumed my run without improved confidence in continence and nothing particularly compelling ahead of me to run towards.
In the eighth mile a shaggy gray frost appaloosa watched me shuffle by from his miserably sparse scrubby pasture.
My shoulders hunched forward and up. I stared at the ground going slowly by my feet.
The course went by the hopelessly uninhabited Biosphere2 research station and I did not look up.
People were passing me like I was standing still. Walkers were passing me. My pride should’ve been assaulted but I was too keenly aware that I still had clean shorts on to feel any pain.
A footrace on the roadway is usually attended to by a good number of cops, volunteers and waiting ambulances. None of them shouted out anything like “Hey, you don’t look so good, how ’bout you call it a day and we’ll get you a ride?”. I wouldn’t have been able to resist such an invitation.
My chills stayed on my back and my guts complained at every step. I tried every porta-jon in 5 miles, none of them worked to improve my condition.
The Tucson Marathon can be a lonely thing for a slow runner like me, the course goes through a mostly uninhabited area and there are so few entrants that they get well spaced out after a ways. After the half marathon participants made a right turn to get to their finish line the crowd was all the sparcer.
I was staring at the yellow painted traffic line under my feet, studying it’s varying thickness and color when I heard a voice “Hey there, how’s it goin’?”. It was a relaxed clear voice without a sign of breathlessness, stress, or fatigue. “Notsogood.” I gasped in answer.
Struggling against the weight of my head and the tension in my neck and shoulders, I looked up. It was Dave, the cop. The back of his navy blue T shirt said “SWAT” in huge yellow block letters. His stride was short but very smooth and efficient, he was hardly sweating. His hands were held loose and close and his head was straight up. A motorcycle traffic cop drove by and Dave snapped off a smart-looking salute which was promptly returned.
He was getting away. I think I might have said “wait!” which would have been a really feeble thing to say to someone you’re technically racing against. Like “I’m having a bad day, so you have to slow down, even though I left you behind about an hour ago.”
I focused on the yellow block letters that said “SWAT”. I focused on that word as best I could and nothing mattered except that word.
Running is like Yogi Berra’s Baseball, It’s 90% Mental, the other half is Physical. “SWAT” is a much better thing to put your mind to than fear of soiling your pants. I picked up my head and hung on in that way for around 10 miles to the finish side by side with Dave.
I only said one more prayer that day, that was “Thank God it’s over.”
The race results page is here.
