Just Keep Running

My wife and I stepped off the bus over an hour after our ride began.  Her motion sickness was consuming her and I feared that she might actually have to skip the race entirely.  I have learned however, that her pain threshold and mental will far exceed my own.  She vomited on the bus, shook her head as if to whisper “No” to the forces acting against her, slipped out into the Hopkinton morning, and began to focus.  It made my little shiver of fear seem like a need for attention more than an actual ailment.

Paula has guided me through many days of reflection.  She has coached me, been my companion, my counselor, my motivator, my friend.  Today, she was next to me maybe to show me that there is more to it than personal health.  Once you grasp the fact that race day has nothing to with the actual hours leading up to the race, it makes pre-race simple.  Put on your shoes, grab your number, your timing chip, a pair of socks, some comfortable clothes, step to the line and wait until someone yells, “Go!”

Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” had been downloaded into my mental iPod by and old friend whose humor, vociferous listening skills, and lack of stress had been a nice respite from the strain of the search for the perfect soundtrack.  Eventually, “Eye of The Tiger,” was usurped by a song from Hairspray The Musical…”Popular,” I think it was.

The weather had a typical glitch to offset an otherwise perfect day.  A strong headwind had been predicted.  Coupled with some prior year’s severe cold, and before that, severe heat, this weather pattern should have been appreciated but was instead chided and scorned.  As if some weather anomaly would add hours to our times when in fact it often actually might have distracted us from some darker fate.

I went to Boston with a 2:30 on my mind.  I have blown up at several big races in the past years shooting for faster times (2:49 at Chicago, 2:46 at NY, 2:43 at Arizona) so I figured I should either move to a small, exclusive, high altitude camp, or simply revise my goals.  I waited in corral number one for the starter to request that anyone who felt that they were actually the slowest runner in their corral should raise their hand.  I closed my eyes in anticipation.  When prompted, I quickly raised both of my hands along with about 500 other runners.

5:51, 5:28, 5:36


We edged around a guy on a wheelchair.  It wasn’t one of those rocket-racing wheel chairs that bring the fastest marathoners to the finish more than an hour ahead of me.  This was a conventional, two-wheeled chariot.  Its engine was an athlete who, aside from his obvious lower extremity challenges, did not seem to have full function of his arms.  He was pushing himself along with what strength he did possess in his legs…backwards. 

My training partner Ben and I worked our way up through the masses.  I felt relaxed and mature if not old.  Other racers jockeyed for position, made ill-timed surges, or dumped water on their heads so that it might wash down their bodies and into their socks to create an early blister by the next mile.

5:33, 5:44, 5:31, 5:38

At about mile 8, Ben surged.  I let him go but then felt a sort of paternal need to be his conscience.  I surged up and said, "You look great so don’t take this wrong way.  This may be your last chance to run smart.  There are 25 guys right behind you running 5 seconds per mile slower.  Why not hang out for another few miles?"  Ben wanted to run 2:30 as well, but his youth quickly converted easy 5:35s into the pursuit of a new PR.  You can’t be smart and run that fast.  Sometimes, you just have to have faith and run.

Just as Ben departed, there was a young girl on the side with a sign.  It didn’t say, “Go Bill #15741,” or have a smiley face or any real decoration at all.  It was a simple sign on red paper with black ink that read, “Just Keep Running.”

The head wind hit us hard in the following miles gusting to 25 mph.  Strategy prevailed for me as I tucked in behind what I would consider to be talented, but naive company. One by one, they faded, as the pace remained steady.  Ben’s bright yellow adidas singlet edged away and by the half, he had over 30 seconds on our pack.

5:39, 5:38, 5:35, 5:35, 5:36, 5:39

I swept past the half with a confident 1:13:45 or so.  I calculated that at that moment, if I were to shift to 6-minute miles, I would still run about 2:32.  Now wouldn't that be so smart?   I hung on to a small pack for a while.  The entire time, I felt as if I was lucky to be in such great company. 

We hit an aid station at mile 14 and it was like a grenade went off.  Cups, Gatorade, and human wind (both types) swept around us, invading the secret places deep within our souls.  The inner conversation I was having mirrored those of many other challenging races.  Doubt.  Wonderment.  Doubt.  But then a funny feeling came over me.  I missed my split at mile 15 and hit 16 and with mild surprise noted that I still felt pretty good.

5:39, 5:39, 5:40, 5:40

Four more miles and about 20 less marathoners in the pack.

Through the Boston hills, my legs reacted to my training and to the ascent I take almost daily that covers 700 feet of altitude gain in about 2 miles.  It's gradual but painful.  I had built a small tolerance to the infamous heartbreak and found myself waiting for it...at mile 19.  Apparently, these hills of Boston are slightly less challenging than those of West Linn.   A gap had grown between myself and the other competitors.  With Paula behind me, it seemed inevitable and slightly poetic to feel so alone and then actually be alone in such a large race. 

There were two guys about 200 meters in front but that might as well have been two miles.  I was waiting for my wheels to come off, albeit patiently, as they had many times before.  Although this negativity was deeply rooted, a modest optimism began to emerge.  It appeared that somewhere deep down, I actually believed I could maintain this pace.
5:52, 5:39, 5:58

I had slowed to just under six minute miles and had been cramping in my left calf for about twenty minutes (measured in miles that’s 3.5).  Then my right hamstring began to sympathetically resonate responding to my truncated left stride.  I yelled to an aid station, "Do you have any salt?"  I found a full bottle of water, downed the entire thing and threw back a shot of energy gel.  Mile 20 had come and gone and now I was descending into Boston proper.

I hadn't seen Ben since mile ten.  Most of my thoughts were inward.  I hoped Paula was having a good one.  I hoped that she had managed to overcome her actual physical ailment.  Truth be told, I was little envious that she had an out.  She would never look at it that way, but throwing up before such a big event might have given other runners a chance to submit to the pressure.

Knowing that the now steady head wind would claim victims at will, my pretense of a calm face twisted into a grimace.  This was not so much from the constant pain, but for the fact that I could see a bright yellow singlet some distance in front of me.  It was Ben who’s early pace and a bloody blister on his arch had served as an appetizer for the marathon gods.  He was in a sort of calm place when I passed. Not unlike the peace that comes over someone who discovers that his fate is out of his control. 

6:17, 6:06, 6:03

At Ben’s expense (and mine many times before), I grasped the notion that although marathon success depends on mental skill, it isn’t the skill to persevere that really matters.  It is the skill to preserve.  Looking at it now, I can see how just a few letters in those two words can easily be morphed into a gateway to destiny.  I had to preserve the thought that what I was doing was fulfilling my desires and goals, no matter what pace I was running.   I could frame any split into a success if I only willed it so.  Likewise, I could easily turn a small slow down into a tragedy.   It’s something like the notions of heaven and hell.  They are so different, but they are right around the corner from each other.

Ben would finish that day.

With bilateral cramping and a small salt mine building on my forehead, I wound into downtown Boston.  I had managed to get to mile 22.  Contrary to the advice I give to most runners (drink early, drink often), I took water and Gatorade about every 4 miles.  I have been overloaded in the past and unable to take the stomach issues digestion seemed to bring so I figured I would go another direction. 

I may have miscalculated as dehydration set in.  At mile 23, I figured I would take one more shot of drink.  I was looking over my shoulder at the back door when a sign appeared.  Luckily, with some sort of time/space machine, there was that girl, quietly smiling and holding her sign above her head.

 "Just Keep Running."  Seemed simple enough. 

5:49

I looked down to see feet that had long since lost their ability to attenuate the shock of the pavement. Someone yelled that they liked my shoes and I thought it would make a great commercial.   I turned to my arms for salvation.  They seemed strong enough and maybe even freeloading off of the effort the rest of my body was putting forth.  I began to swing them in an unorthodox free-style stroke like one that would set in were I caught swimming in an icy rapid or a grove of lily pads.

My reluctant arms pulled the rest of my body along.  I was going slowly enough now for the Bostonians to read my shirt.

"Come on Powtlend, keep it going!"
6:02

I wondered if that same guy would grab Paula and tell her to lend me some of her unquestionable desire and fortitude.  She would look calm and empowered and Boston would feel sorry for the guy who he recently witnessed straining under the weight of his ego and fear.  Boston would yell,
“Send that stuff up to your husband because he looks unworthy.  He needs a drop of courage and you have a gallon.”

It seemed like every eye in the city was charting my progress.  I inched forward.  I stopped checking my splits just after the half point when I figured I was running to get to the finish line anyway so a slow mile would not make a difference.  I felt like I was maintaining my pace and effort.  I knew I was in that world where relativity could not be more prominent.  My effort for a mile and the time it took to cover the distance were grossly disproportionate to a stopwatch, a ruler, measuring stick, or any other objective device.  This was a wormhole.  A movia strip.  The same faces emerged every time I hit a mile.  The same voices.  The same pain.  Six minutes seemed to last six hours and one mile seemed to stretch to oblivion.

“When you feel like it is time to go, to surge, to edge closer to victory, just when you think you should start to kick…don’t.”  It was a rusty Irish voice coaching the lesson that had been learned by so many.  The marathon is endurance.  Every piece of racing strategy can be boiled into one small cake made entirely of attrition.  Don’t take a bite.  The mirage that makes it look like cream pie is just a dry biscuit topped with futility.  

If you can manage the pain, avoid the invitations to step off and rest, then you will be victorious.  Most of us can run one mile to our potential.  We may even be able to run 20 miles that way.  But the final 6 miles of a marathon?  Those are six miles of truth.  The miles that mock physical ability and fertilize self-doubt.  Those final six miles are simply the second half of the marathon.  Anyone who gets to their  “half way” before that moment is cooked.

I remember every step of the final two miles.  Cramps, slight dizziness, and an urge to consume every edible object within 200 feet of my mouth.  The crowd, now 20-30 deep grew quiet.  The faces jumped and cheered but the sound escaped into space, slipping past my ears and every other sense. 

Through the peace, I made a sharp right and then a left.  I did not want to look up because I knew that what I sensed was there might just disappear.  I began to count.  I figured if I counted to 200, that would do it.  Any longer than that and I would have to politely edge off the course, lay down, and accept the fact that gravity and pure force are as natural as the wind.  I made it to 100, looked up 200 meters in front of me to brilliant blue, a scaffold, and a giant race clock.  Everyone started cheering again. 

5:51 plus the dreaded two tenths of a mile – 7:26


“Dave Harkin from West Linn, Oregon…”

I crossed the finish line, placed my hands on my knees, stretched my calf, and looked back to see who I out kicked. The guy behind me did the same.  The guy in front was peering back at me. A friend once described the finish line of a marathon exactly this way.  I elevated my chest, raised my hands above my head, and reflected.  Did I still think I was the slowest guy in that corral?  Maybe.  But for about ten minutes, I might as well have won the whole thing.  I wrapped a silver thermal blanket around me, smiled at the crowd who seemed to be quite impressed with all the finishers, and began to walk to nowhere.

My wife was still out there.  My battle was suspended and would only end when she was with me.  I rushed back to my room to check her progress.  When I returned to the finish line within minutes of her arrival, I knew we would walk together in triumph.  Hers would be for overcoming sickness, and maybe a little doubt.  Mine from spearing the great whale that is my psyche.  Today, I was the champion of me.

Was it the miles, the nutrition, the strategy?  Every race is different, and every runner’s key is hidden behind some giant purple gorilla taunting him to try to take it.  My key, the one I grabbed and ran with as fast I could?  My key was etched on a red poster board and was being held by a small child.  It was a simple sign written with plain, black sharpie.   If the keys were easy to grab, everyone would do it.

Just Keep Running.

2:31:03, 57th overall, 113th Boston Marathon