Confessions of a Novice Runner

(Or, What Not to Do in the Preparation and Running of a Marathon.)

I HAVE ALWAYS FELT THAT BEFORE a story could properly be told, a little history about the situation would be in order. The modern-day marathon celebrates the heroic feat of a Greek messenger, Pheidippides by name, who was supposed to have run from Marathon to Athens in 490 B.C, a distance of about twenty-five miles. In this run, he announced triumph over the Persians (running information back and forth was the manner in which people reached out and touched one another before Alexander Graham Bell and AT&T). His last words before he collapsed and died was thought to have been, "Victory! Victory! Rejoice! We conquer." (When you are out of breath, one to two word sentences is about all you can muster.) Now that's what I call really hitting a wall. It's a lot more dedication to the run than I currently have. The first winner of the modern twenty-five mile Olympic marathon was, appropriately enough, Spyridon "Spyros" Louis, in 1896. He, himself, was Greek. Of course, in the first marathon, the field was a little stacked. Seventeen out of the twenty-one runners were Greek; so the odds were in their favor, so to speak.

In 1908, the marathon distance was standardized to 26.2 miles. That ".2" makes it seem so pretentious, and the reason for it makes it appear all the more so. The marathon in the standardized distance came about because the House of Windsor, during the Summer Olympics held in England of that year, simply wanted to get a glimpse of the runners without having to leave their residence. If ever there was a family prepared for TV ... I could just imagine it, "Do you want your tea and crumpets in the sitting parlor, Sir?"

"Oh, no thank-you, Jeeves. I'll have it out here on the veranda. I want to see the runners as they go by. Oh, look, good show, there goes one now."

In other words, we have to run an extra 1.2 miles because one family was too lazy to get their collective butts off of their loungers and down into the stadium. Of course, if Pheidippides had died a few miles earlier we wouldn't have had to run as far either — so there's a lot of blame to go around.

I was just a mid-range runner when I decided to run the California International Marathon held in early December. The year was 1999. Over the years of inactivity, I had ballooned up to about 250 pounds on my 6'2" frame; although people said that I carried it well. This was in 1996. I knew I needed to do something when at the age of thirty-eight, I kneeled down to empty a drain on a ventilator circuit, and then had a difficult time getting back up. "I am too young for this!" I said to myself, matter-of-factly. However, starting an exercise program working sixty hours per week, along with a twelve hour weekly commute proved difficult.

It all came to a head about a year later when my wife left me, stating I was "fat". After that, I was so restless, I could hardly sit still. I had to do something, and remembered from high school that when disappointments and hardships came my way, if I took it out on the track, or a weight room, I always felt much better.

With that in mind, on my two days off in the week, I would go twice around a two mile loop in my neighborhood, once in the morning, and once in the evening. On the last part of the run there was a really steep hill; at first, all I could do was walk up. Slowly, over time, however, I found that I could actually run the hill as well. So, wow! Improvement!

After moving from the house, I relocated closer to my place of employment. This afforded less of a commute and more time I could spend running on my days off, not being nearly as tired; although I never went past the four mile mark. At this point, I began running with a friend from work, Suzy, who took me to that fourth mile. Shortly thereafter, however, I tweaked my back; which, unbeknownst to me, was a bulging disc in the lower lumbar region. I continued to run, hoping to work the soreness out. All that did, however, was weaken the annulus — the covering of the disc — which eventually herniated. Shortly thereafter, I couldn't run at all, and could barely walk. An operation became necessary, and I underwent a discectomy — or surgery to remove the herniation.

Rehab for the first month was boring, walking a three mile route around my residence, all by myself. Then, Suzy, my running buddy, began walking with me. The first time around was so nice, finally having someone with whom to talk. The three miles went by quickly. She then asked, "Want to go again?" After completing six miles without incident, she said, "If you can do that here, you can complete my regular seven mile rural route." So we began walking the seven miles. I knew she wanted to run; and, truth be told, so did I. So, over time, I slowly began running a little, walking a lot; then closed the walking gaps with more running. Over an eight month period, I was finally able to run the whole seven miles. Not bad, considering the doctor had said after surgery that I'd never run again.

One morning, thinking my running buddy was at work, I ran the seven mile course on my own. Returning home, the phone rang, "Oh, and I was so looking forward to running this morning," she replied in frustration, after telling her that I had already been out. She had helped me so much, and had been so patient and kind with rehab, that I felt like I couldn't disappoint her. "Okay," I replied, not actually believing I was going to say this. "I'll go again."

I casually mentioned the mileage to colleagues at work the next day, and with the misplaced encouragement of these so-called "friends," they convinced me that if I could run fourteen miles, I could cover a 26.2 mile distance; and I foolishly believed them. So I set out to see if I could do just that. First I ran a successful fifteen-miler, then a thirteen; after that, a couple of more fourteens. "Sure, no problem," I thought, not knowing anything more about it than what my coworkers — who had never run one before — had told me; nor that I needed more information than that. "I could run a marathon!"

Why is it when you say you're going to do something that strenuous, the first thing people do is look at your stomach? So I still had twenty-three percent body fat; I was a Clydesdale, so what? A lot of running is in your head, right? Your mental outlook and determination. I felt like pointing to my noggin and saying, "Hello! I'm up here, not down there! Eyes up here buddy!" Now I have some idea of what women go through on a date.

After a few of the long runs, I noticed a very peculiar thing; my nipples would get very tender. Not putting two and two together, I mentioned this to one of my compadres who also ran. He told me that it was from the shirt rubbing against them; a normal thing and not to worry. Whew! That was a relief! I assumed for a moment that I was undergoing some kind of midlife change. I mean, I've heard of male menopause, but I've always thought that it was largely a myth; manifesting itself mainly with little red sports cars, or Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Someone needed to invent something to go across them for the run. It could be called the Trainer-Bra for men (or something like, "The Bro" or "Manzier", from Seinfeld).

Signing up for the early December, local marathon, and squeaking in before the November nineteenth deadline, I was all set. I thought I remembered reading in the pre-run packet that there was going to be Power Gel at each of the aid-stations, so I began training with it. I had never tried it before, but with a name like "gel" I knew it had to be thick, and I wanted to get used to swallowing on the run. There was no way I was going to choke in front of three thousand athletes and additional spectators. For those who have never tasted the different gels, it was like eating pure frosting (which ... was probably one reason I liked it).

I told my running buddy my intentions, and that I was going to run it with just my regular cheap tennis shoes. "Oh, no you're not," she told me, sensibly. "You are going to go down to a running store in El Dorado Hills and get fitted by a friend of mine who owns the store." So I went down on Tuesday to pick up some running shoes. "You're doing what with only fifteen miles of training?" he said, after I told him my plan. "If that's all the distance you are going to do, you need to run back to back fifteen milers so that you know what kind of pain you're going to be in."

"The marathon is this Sunday," I replied, not realizing that new shoes also needed to be broken in. "I don't have time for that." He just shook his head, and sold me a pair of size fourteen Saucony's for my size twelve and a half feet. That because my feet were so wide, I needed the extra space to fit them all in once they started to swell from the distance. You're supposed to go up one full shoe size; however, they don't make size thirteen and a half shoes.

Suzy presented me with a light, sweat-wicking, technical T-shirt on Friday, because I told her that I was just going to run in the regular cotton "tee" in which I had been running. I "seriously" (or, what I surmised was serious) trained for approximately two months before my first street race ever at any distance. I didn't begin with a 5, or a 10K, or even a half-marathon. That would have been the normal, responsible, sane thing to do. Oh no, I had to start with a complete marathon. "Yeah, sure," I told myself. "I was ready."

I went down to the expo the day before and picked up the race packet, and bib number — can't remember if they gave out timing chips at this point. It was so cool being there with all of the runners; you could feel the potential energy in the air. It was an eclectic, electric atmosphere. In the packet, we received some pertinent pre-race instruction. One of the more memorable was, "Starting line advice; show up on time. Duh!"

California International Marathon

December 5th, 1999 — On race day, I was up at 4 a.m. I dressed with nervous excitement. Not wanting to be weighed down before the run, I skipped breakfast (big mistake) and headed down to the Doubletree Hotel in Sacramento, where the expo had been, and where the bus would be caught to the start. Breakfast for me amounted to two packages of Power Gel, and some Ibuprofen.

It was exciting to see everyone mingling around different points of the staging area; the camaraderie, the togetherness, the port-a-potties as far as the eye could see — everybody stretching and warming up; what more could you ask for? We were all there for one purpose and for one purpose alone, to get to the finish line; for me, to get there in one piece if at all possible.

When the race was about to begin, this being my first time, I went up front close to the starting line because I wanted to see more of what was going on; another big mistake. I had no idea about pacing, and did not know that this was where all the rabbits congregated; those who could run a sub-three hour marathon.

The race started; and, with adrenalin flowing, I was carried along by the fast crowd. Race officials called out the first mile, which was completed in 7:56 — no GPS at that time, I was just wearing my regular everyday wristwatch. "Whoa," I thought, "way too fast for the ten- minute mile pace I had trained for and set for myself. So I slowed a bit. Next mile was 8:07. "Dang, still too fast!" Then I ran an 8:15 mile, an 8:24, and then an 8:30. Over seven miles, I finally got down to a 9:20 pace. I was getting tired of trying to run slower; so, since the last time felt comfortable, I thought I would just hang out at that pace for a while.

I took in about four ounces of fluid at every aid-station, but by mile eight, I was beginning to feel the effects of dehydration. "Did I drink anything yesterday?" I asked myself. "Let's see, one glass of milk, a glass of orange juice, and one of water;" so, approximately forty-eight ounces all told. Definitely not enough on which to run a marathon. Not adequately hydrating myself was another big mistake; but I also knew that by the time I was feeling it, it was too late. I would be sure to experience some problems later on in the race no matter how much I drank at the aid-stations from then on. What problems that would entail, however, were unknown to me at the time. I really had no clue as to what I was doing out there.

I also discovered early on that they were only giving out Power Gel at miles fourteen and eighteen. I would have brought my own had I known! Man, was I hungry! It was early Sunday morning; I had some cash with me, and looked in vain for an open stop-and-rob along the course. I would have gone in for some orange juice, and a sweet roll or bagel.

Someone along the way had dropped an unopened packet of "GU" brand energy gel, and I almost stopped to pick it up. Fortunately, at mile nine, they were giving out "GU" at an impromptu aid-station; so I grabbed four and quickly downed two. The next would be saved for mile twelve. At mile ten, seeing my friend Dean, who was spectating, lifted my spirits.

By mile 13.1, half-way through (which I finished in under two hours), I tried to remind myself, "Now why I am doing this again?" Although, I knew that if I could keep up with that pace, I would kill the arbitrary five hour time limit I had set for myself.

At around mile fourteen I had my first bout with muscle spasms; severe cramping in my left hamstrings. This was a lingering phenomenon left over from the back surgery, where, initially, they would cramp up for no reason at all; just standing doing dishes would sometimes set them off. However, I had never experienced muscle spasms to this degree before. Others running by told me to walk through them, which I did; it was the only thing I could do. They eventually, after about a mile, went away. But I could tell ever after that they were always on the verge of a relapse.

People have said that at mile eighteen to twenty there is a runner's wall that every runner comes up against at one time or another. Well, at eighteen and a half miles, I didn't just hit the wall — I slammed into it like road-kill. I crashed and burned; it wasn't pretty.

I had been told over the years by various instructors that muscles had "memory". That they tended to bounce back quickly after periods of lay-off. However, the only thing my muscles ever seemed to have had a memory for was, "Don't you remember how much WE HATE THIS?" Muscles were also like babies. When it was time for them to get attention, they would definitely let you know. It was the E.F. Hutton of running. When they talked, you'd listen. They tended to use Gestapo-like tactics, "You're beink foolish, ve hef vays to make you valk."

"No, no walking," I said, as I was having a conversation with myself, "gotta keep pushing; gotta keep moving."

"Oh, yeah? Do you feel that?"

"Ow, ow, ow! Yes, yes, I feel it. I feel it."

"That is your Gracilis muscle."

"My, my ... my what? Ow, ow."

"Your Gracilis. You know, the muscle that is the most superficial on the medial region of the posterior thigh; it helps to propel you forward."

"Oh yeah, that one."

"Say it! Gra-ci-lis."

"Ow!"

"SAY IT!"

"Gra ... Gra ... Gra ... Gracilis, ow ... ow."

"You think you're in charge here, don't you? But you're not. We can make you laugh, we can make you cry, we can make you hate your life. Feel the burn now baby, huh, huh? You will do as we say!"

And walk I did. At the mile nineteen nurses aid-station, one race official must have seen how terrible I looked. He grabbed me with both hands by the shirt and said, "Get in here!" I was oblivious to my surroundings only focusing on the pain, and would have just walked by otherwise. The nurses there gave me potassium, magnesium, calcium, and sodium chloride. The official then asked, "What is your goal?" I replied just to finish. "Well then," he said, "walk the rest of the way." However, after a few miles of working the electrolytes in, I was actually able to run again, though very carefully. Unfortunately, after another mile and a half, the hamstrings cramped up again — the third time. I was, thereafter, in need of more of the pills.