The Marathon
In 1982, I got it into my head that I wanted to run the San Francisco Marathon. Until then, my head, and the body that travels with it, hadn’t run further than a 10k race but the head figured, “hey, what could go wrong?” Perhaps if my legs had a vote, the whole thing would have been vetoed but the legs were accustomed to following through on many of the head’s schemes so the next thing I knew, all of us (the head, the legs and so on) were training for a marathon.
If that idea popped into my head today, I could Google up any number of training plans and a ton of advice to go with them. But in 1982, there was no Google, and personal computers along with the Internet were still years away. So when I needed to design a training plan I turned to something called “books.” Books are quite the amazing concept actually, and after the success of Jim Fixx’s, “The Complete Book of Running,” there were plenty of them. I got my hands on a bunch (Thank you Moes’s Used Books”) and after wading through a few of them, I cobbled together a training plan.
The plan called for five runs per week with the total weekly mileage increasing slowly over time. There were runs of varying distances throughout the week and one long run on the weekend. The long run increased each week and many of the books seemed to think it was the most important run of the week. Overall it was a decent training plan and I’m sure had I followed it faithfully, I would have had a better race.
During the early stages of the plan, when the runs were shorter, easier, and took less time, I had no trouble keeping to the schedule. But when the runs got harder and took more time, I found myself skipping the occasional workout. The head was behind that too. Although it had been the head’s idea to begin with, the head was also very good at talking itself out of a workout (the head is still good at that).
I wasn’t worried at first. I still got a lot of runs in. But my mileage wasn’t as high as it should have been and I knew it. Eventually the head, who was really falling down on the job at this point, let some self-doubt creep in. Then the race got closer and a little bit of self-doubt turned to almost all self-doubt (also known as panic). I’d been running but still not enough and I’d not come close to running 26 miles. With a week to go, when all the books (no exceptions, all of them) called for me to be tapering off and resting, I did the opposite. It was the head’s idea because the head always thinks it knows best. So the head got the legs to go for a 22 mile run. Surprisingly it went well. I felt pretty good and figured I could gut out another 4 miles on the day. “See,” said the head, “I told you so.” Meanwhile, the legs were exhausted and I didn’t run again until the race.
The weather on race day was perfect. I had a variety of supporters at spots along the course, and thanks to the head’s stunt of the previous weekend, confidence was high. The race began and I wish I could recall everywhere it went but time and age have conspired against me until now, the race is mostly a blur. That’s not to say I was running that fast. Blur would never be a term used to describe my running.
Like most marathons, the streets were lined with crowds. The energy of that crowd, kept me moving, and at the halfway point, I was way ahead of my target pace. The legs churned on while in the head there was some debate about whether or not we were running too fast. But I did feel great. So now, self-doubt had been replaced by self-delusion.
Then at the 18 mile mark, I hit the wall, the mythical runner’s wall I’d read about but until then never experienced. Even in my 22-mile jaunt the previous weekend I’d felt nothing like this. The legs were dead and immediately informed the know-it-all head.
Despite that, the head insisted we persevere, so we slogged on. My pace had slowed dramatically and every water station became on opportunity to walk.
It was a struggle to start up again but somehow, the miles kept coming. I remember thinking that if I fell for any reason, there was no way I’d be able to get up. Somehow I didn’t fall and suddenly after 26.2 miles in a long 3 ½ hours, the finish line was before me. Despite the agony of the last 8 miles, I was exhilarated. The legs were wiped out (I could barely walk the next day) and even the head was exhausted but the feeling of accomplishment was one I’ll never forget.
In 2013 the head decided we should run the Hartford Half Marathon. The legs were up for it (after all, what could go wrong?) and training began. This time, I did a much better job of training, although the head continued to talk us out of the occasional run. Naturally I started the race too fast again (you’d think I’d learn) but this time there was no wall. I’m slower now. It took me just over two hours to cover the 13 mile race. But I’m happy to report the feeling of accomplishment was just the same.
Until recently, an injury had curtailed my running when one of the knees announced in no uncertain terms that a break was needed. But we’re back at it now. The head is already plotting to run a 10K race in August and is secretly hoping for another shot at the Hartford Half Marathon in October. No word from the legs yet on this plan, but if I had to guess, I’d predict the legs will go along with it. They always do.
