Running

The simple act of putting one foot in front of the other can test you to the roots of your soul. You don't think so? Try doing it at a pace above a walk for 26.2 continuous miles. It is know as running a marathon. The human body was not designed to run that far. Yet tens of thousands of people run that far every year. Why do they do it? Why would anyone put themselves in a struggle that puts them at their physical, mental, and emotional limits?

Over twenty years ago I discovered the answer to these questions. I did so by running The New York City Marathon. It is, and always will be, one of the most significant and wonderful days of my life. I have relived that race a countless number of times over the past twenty years but I have never tried to put my thoughts and feelings about it in print. What moves me to do so now is my return to running after a hiatus of a decade. I need to do this as a source of motivation and inspiration to get me to deal with the discipline of running. Where once I used to embrace the struggle of a distance run I now find myself "backing off ". My decade of non-running had left me physically, emotionally, and mentally weak. Toughness is a part of running.

Is this over complicating this activity? It is just running. Children do it with ease. They do it naturally and spontaneously all the time. It is my nature to over think things. This essay is another in self-absorption. It is about my running experience. The marathon is the high point of distance running but only a part of the story. A lot of work and running proceed a marathon.

There was a time when I thought anyone that ran over a quarter of a mile was demented. Sprinters were often guilty of this type of thinking decades ago. Than I read Doctor Kenneth Coopers book on aerobics. Dr. Cooper's challenge was to run for twelve minutes and if you equal or exceed a distance of one and a half-mile you were aerobically fit. I lived a mile from a track so I accepted the challenge. I put my cigarettes in my pocket (a three pack a day habit) and drove my VW Beetle to the track. How hard could this be? I'll smoke this mile and a half and get back to my Marlboros and Budweiser. I ask, isn't life wonderful?

I jumped out on the track and took off at what I thought was a reasonable pace. Two laps later I quit. I staggered to my VW Bug and drove home barely able to use the clutch, brake and accelerator due to cramps in my legs. I crawled up the steps to our little apartment and managed to pull myself up onto the couch. I lay there wheezing. My chest felt like someone had filled my lungs with gasoline and ignited it. I was making piece with my "Maker" fully expecting to die. My arrogance was to be my demise, I had surly killed myself.

The strength and resilience of youth prevailed and I didn't die. The arrogance of youth was humbled a bit. I had told myself after surviving as a Senior Rifleman in the Twenty-Fifth Infantry Division that I was invincible. Less than four minutes running on a track gave me one of life's most valuable lessons. I have too run to survive. Oh yeah, the Marlboros had to go but the Bud stays. I needed those "carbs" to run. This decision again had me feeling life and running were wonderful?

The following day, in spite the pain in my legs I returned to the track to try again. I started at a slower pace and managed a mile. I kept returning to the track until I could full fill Dr. Cooper's twelve minute one and a half-mile requirement. I was aerobically fit. I was also a changed man. Running had changed my life and I resolved it would be so forever. I told myself I would never not run. I had not yet learned that saying never is foolish.

I continued my daily runs at the track. I increased my run to two miles a workout. I aimed at running these in less than thirteen minutes. Six and half-minute miles are not world class but for a sprinter turned distance runner it was not bad. I would occasionally indulge myself by running sprints and at the age of thirty decided to see what speed I had left in me. While holding a stopwatch in my hand without starting blocks I ran a twenty two second two hundred and twenty yards. That broke down to a ten second hundred-yard dash. Again not world class but not bad. I told myself that with a little practice in a set of starting blocks I could probably break ten seconds for a hundred.

I ran two miles a day six days a week for a couple of years when a friend of mine that had been captain of the track team in college suggested I vary my workouts. We would occasionally run together and he stretched my long run into a five miler. My goal was to run five miles in less than thirty-five minutes and not let my running partner lap me during this run. I managed a thirty-three minute and forty one second five miler and just missed being lapped. My running partner told me if it hurt him to run distance as much as it was apparent it hurt me he wouldn't do it. He was built for distance and I was built for speed.

I moved from my little apartment a mile from the track to a one hundred and fifty-year-old house in the country. I started running the roads with occasional track workouts thrown in for variety and my daily run extended too six miles. I was running seven days a week.

I started entering local ten kilometer races and joined the New York Road Runners Club. I would travel to the Big Apple for runs in Central Park. The premier event in the NYRRC is the New York City Marathon. I became convinced I should run it after hearing Marty Liquori say his greatest moments as a world class athlete were running in the Olympics and running the New York City Marathon. I am just an average guy and running in the Olympics was not a possibility. Was it possible this average guy could experience the thrill of a world class athlete? I had to find out. I had been reading everything I could get my hands on about running and started to focus on the marathon. I went on a thirteen-week training schedule increasing my mileage to sixty miles per week with a long run that was twenty mile long. I ran from one end of town to the other and back again. The terrain was hilly but that just made me stronger. Everybody in town was familiar with me and I was known as the town runner or the town nut. I ran no matter what.

I threw races into my training schedule. First a ten K than a ten miler. I had a friend that lived in Virginia and I flew to see him to run in the Virginia Ten Miler. My friend met me at the airport and we drove to a Holiday Inn to pick up our race numbers. In the hotel I got my first up close look at a world class marathoner. Olympic gold medal winner Frank Shorter and multi Boston Marathon winner Bill Rogers were standing in the lobby. I could not believe how small they were. They both looked like they had not yet gone through puberty. What was my six foot three inch two hundred pound body doing competing in an event made for people that weighed less than one hundred and forty pounds? Someone should tie a bag of feed on their back's to make this thing equal. I told myself it didn't matter. If it came down to a sprint I would win.

What really mattered to me was just being there and racing. My goal this day was to run the ten miles in fewer than seventy-five minutes. Bill Rodgers won the thing running in less than fifty minutes in ninety plus degree heat. The heat and the last mile and a half (all up hill) took it's toll on me and I finished in just over seventy-five minutes. As I ran up that hill I thought it would never end. When I finally reached the summit and saw the finish line I wasn't sure I had enough left to get there. I believed that if you ran too hard and collapsed before the finish line you were a fool. I also believed that if you crossed the finish line with anything left you hadn't run hard enough and were a coward. The perfect race was one where after finishing you have just enough left to keep from collapsing as you slow down to a troubled walk. On this day my walk was very troubled as I staggered a few times in the first few seconds after the race. I could not be disappointed in my time. I had given it my all. I had in my mind run the perfect race.

I ran three half marathon races to get ready for New York. My goal in each was to finish in less than one hundred minutes. That goal was realized in each race. Finally the day before New York arrived. My friend from Virginia came up for the race. I had made a deal with him that if I ran the Virginia Ten Miler with him he would run New York with me. He had run a couple of other marathons but hated New York City. I thought that running New York would change his mind about the city. It did.

Two weeks before the race I did a twenty mile training run. The week before the race I did a fifteen-mile glycogen depletion run. Training for a marathon is really training your metabolism to deal with the stress of the race. Your body has to learn how to deal with glycogen depletion, dehydration, and lactic acid build up. Long runs deal with the glycogen and dehydration problem and speed work with the lactic acid. I had done both. I was ready. I stayed away from carbohydrates for the next four days and went nuts on them the final three days before the race. It's a technique called carbo-loading and it's designed to raise your glycogen levels for the race.

I went out for a two-mile jog the day before the race. I wanted to keep my running streak going. I had run every day of the year and didn't want to miss one. All of these runs had been done with my left ankle taped due to a very bad sprain I had received the previous year while training for New York. I had stepped in a hole to avoid being run over by a truck two weeks before the race and ended up in a cast instead of a race. It was the second time I had done all that training and gotten hurt two weeks before the race. This year was going to be different. This year I was going to be there.

My running friend and I had our own little pasta party the night before the race. I drank some rich German beer as a part of the carbo-loading. I had denied myself anything but light beers for months in an effort to get my weight below two hundred pounds for the race. I was at one ninety-eight pounds the day before the race and the pasta party. I had a percent body fat check done a few weeks before the race. At a weight of 202 pounds I was at 6.23 percent fat. The average in-shape college male is 15 percent body fat. At 6.23 percent I was "ripped." Actually most people were telling me I looked terrible and that I needed a few good meals. My large bone structure and dense body had people guessing my weight in the one fifty range. Genetics and a life of lifting weights were contributing "to the look." In reality I felt great. I was in the very best shape of my life. I was also having a ball drinking great tasting German beer.

The morning of the race we rose early and drove to Staten Island's Fort Wadsworth for check in. It was race day. Although this all happened twenty years ago recalling it for this writing brings a chill to my bones and tears too my eyes.

They call us to the starting line. They separate the racers into two different starting points. For the early stages of the race the world class men and returning marathon running men will run a different course than the women and first time marathon running men. They ask the world class women runners to start in front. They ask the first time marathon men to line up according to their projected finishing time. My goal was to finish in less than three and a half-hours. I am surprised to see this puts me in the front line with the best women distance runners in the world. I am not nearly as fast as they are. They will finish an hour ahead of me. I move to the front eyes focused straight ahead. Some one taps me on my left shoulder. I turn towards them. They point to the right. I turn right and standing next to me is the Norwegian distance running sensation and greatest women marathoner in the world. It is the phenomenal Grete Waitz. She will go on this day to win the women's division of this race for the third straight time and set a new world's record in the process. She is deep in thought. I chose not to interrupt her. I am trying desperately to keep my emotions under control.

I know the rules of racing. Don't let you emotions take over in the early stages of a race. If you do you will start too fast and there will be a terrible price to pay for that in the later part of the race. Dr. George Sheehan wrote that you should run the first half of a race like a scientist. Run with intellect and logic always holding something back, saving something for later. Run the second half like an artist. Run with emotion and passion. Dr. Sheehan's advice had served me well in my previous races. No reason to abandon the good Doctor's advice today. The paradox of a race is looking me squarely in the eye. Concentrate, think, focus, get yourself under control yet allow yourself to experience and feel this moment. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins, I must calm down I will need this adrenaline latter.

"The race begins on the Staten Island side of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and begins on an uphill. While the lead runners are vulnerable to the often-heavy winds on the bridge and bear the full brunt of the incline, most of the Marathoners are protected by the pack and remain almost unaware of the "steepness" of the Bridge, i.e. they sort of just get carried along by the crowd. (How convenient.)"

New York City's Mayor Ed Koch is standing next to a canon. He announces the race is about to begin. The canon fires and we are off. My plan was to run this race at a pace of just under eight minutes per mile and to run every single step. No stopping and no walking allowed. Forget about that strategy. There are sixteen thousand runners in this race and most of them are behind me. This is a stampede and I am at the head of it. I better get moving or I will be trampled to death. I cross the one-mile mark in six minutes and fifty-five seconds. That's way to fast for me and I know it. When is the crowd behind me going to slow down? At least we are starting to run down hill. That should make it a bit easier. What am I thinking? It's going to be easier for all the runners so it gives me no edge. Mile two marker in under fourteen minutes. I am going to pay dearly for these two miles. We are off the bridge and running through the streets of Brooklyn, my Mom's birth place and former hometown.

We make a few turns and we are on Fourth Avenue. The separate starting courses merge after running a bit over two mikes. It has become even more crowded. I am finding it difficult to find running space. Runners surround me. I do manage to slow down a bit to a pace of seven and a half minutes per mile. That's still faster than I should be running but I can't control this crowd. I think it's better too just go with it. Fourth Avenue is lined with spectators. Many are extending their hands wanting to "high five" the runners. I don't want to be ungrateful but "high fiving" takes energy and I know I have none to spare. The race demands everything I have. A band is playing the theme from "Rocky." It helps provide needed inspiration but I tell myself not too get carried away here. It's early in the race. Save the emotions for later. Grab some water and down it on the run. I grab a cup of water and gulp it down along with a bunch of air. It's difficult to drink on the run. At almost eight miles I'm passing Flatbush Avenue. I think my Mom used to live on that street. I tell myself to get back to running and stay focused.

I'm at ten miles and I have developed a cramp "stitch" in my left side waist high. This never happened in training, what's going on here? Again I tell myself to stay focused and take care of problems as they arise. "Maybe message will help." I start rubbing my side. "Remember pace, don't slow down." Someone has a water hose out and is spraying the runners. "Avoid the water, you don't want to get your shoes wet, it will just make them heavier. Focuses on breathing, maybe that will relieve the cramp, keep pushing."

We are in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn and I am running right next to a black man. The crowd is cheering him on like crazy, I pretend they are cheering for me. You do whatever you can to get through a marathon. The crowd's enthusiasm provides motivation whenever they cheer. "Be grateful and keep pushing. God it's still crowded and running room is still a problem." I'm beginning to pass a lot of runners. I think that's a good sign, I hope it's a good sign. "Am I moving too fast?" I check my watch and calculate my pace. I'm a bit ahead of where I thought I should be but I think that's okay. I'm building myself a little cushion I may need later. I'm in the Hasidic section of Brooklyn. The crowed is more subdued. That's okay I need a quiet period to gather myself. The Pulaski Bridge is coming up. It's a short and easy bridge compared to the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. It's also the halfway point in the race and the passage into Queens. I enter borough number three.

A couple of miles latter and it's onto the Queensborrow Bridge better known by the locals as the 59th Street Bridge. They have us running on a steel grate. To cushion this and protect the runner's legs the New York Road Runners Club has put a carpet on the grate. Thank you NYRRC. My stomach cramps have decreased some but this bridge is a struggle. It starts up hill. There are no spectators to cheer you on the bridge. It's also windy. The runners are quiet. Everyone is concentrating on the effort this bridge is requiring. The silence is deafening. "Stay on the carpet, put your head down and fight, fight the wind, fight the hill, fight the fatigue, fight the pain, fight, fight, fight. I'm at the top. The going will get easier going down. Run smoothly; down hills can really pound you legs and back. Stay smooth and get out of oxygen debt." I'm breathing easier but I have developed a blister on the ball of my right foot. "Should I stop and tend to this?" It feels like my sock is balled up under the blister. "Why did I wear socks?" I always train without them. I broke a cardinal rule for racing. I changed from what I did in training and now I am paying for it. I curl my toes to take the pressure off the blister, I also run on the side of my foot to take the pressure off of the blister, I accept the pain and keep running.

I'm off the bridge and turning onto First Avenue. There is a sea of people screaming their heads off. The crowd has narrowed the running lane. People are holding signs encouraging their running friends. They are jumping up and down. Now I know what Marty Laquori was talking about when he said running this marathon was one of his greatest thrills in running. I feel like I have just hit the winning home run for the New York Yankees' in the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series. I am running faster than I should be but I can't help myself. I fight back tears as I run. I have never experienced anything like this. My emotions have taken over. This is a moment like no other and is to be embraced and cherished. All those lonely miles run in training were worth it. This is beyond wonderful. It is the best that the human spirit has to offer and I am proud to be a part of it. There is good in this world, there is good in people, and there is something spiritual happening here. I have never appreciated and loved life more than at this moment.

As I head up First Avenue the crowd begins to thin out. I'm at mile twenty and the Willis Avenue Bridge. I cross the bridge into the South Bronx and everywhere I look I see desolation. It looks like a graveyard and I feel like I belong in one. Each step is unknown territory. I have never run beyond twenty miles. Where are the screaming people that offered so much support? I need them now but all I see are a few fellow runners engaged in the same struggle. I want to offer them my sympathy and encouragement but I can't find the strength to speak. My legs hurt terribly. So do my arms, I have to straighten them to give them a rest. This makes running more difficult. My stride has been reduced to a limp. I am at the infamous marathoner's wall. My mind says to stop. I am exhausted and experiencing unbelievable fatigue and pain. Why am I doing this to myself. I tell myself to stop thinking that way and too keep putting one foot in front of the other. Fatigue is my enemy. Winston Churchill's words cross my mind "Never give in--never, never, never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy." I wonder if I am beginning to hallucinate. Am I thinking rationally of have I lost it? I remind myself to think positive and have faith in my training. I tell myself I am okay and to just keep running.

Another bridge at mile 21, It's the Madison Avenue Bridge and I am happy to be back in Manhattan. I'm on Fifth Avenue and moving towards the rolling hills of Central Park. I enter the park at twenty-two and a half miles. Some spectators are showing up. At mile twenty-three I hear words of encouragement from one of the spectators. The words are, "you can make it, just keep going." I raise my head and look in the direction the words are coming from. The person saying them is looking me directly in the eye. It is the first time that the words of encouragement that I have heard during this race are aimed at me. I summon the strength to thank this kind stranger. I also think I must really look terrible for someone to reach out to me that way. I have 3.2 miles too go. Can I do it? Don't disappoint this kind soul, don't disappoint yourself, fight on. Again the words of Churchill give me inspiration. "We shall fight on the beaches. We shall fight on the landing grounds. We shall fight in the fields, and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender!" This is no war but I am in a battle with myself. Can I do this, can I win this, or am I killing myself? I remember my days as a soldier. Finish the mission or die. I will finish this, just keep putting one foot in front of the other, just keep going.

Mile twenty-five and I again ask myself if I am going to make it? My legs, feet, arms, and stomach are killing me. My stomach has convulsed a few times. Stay calm and fight. I'm out of the park and on Central Park South. Another right turn, people are everywhere and screaming like crazy again. The pain lessons the noise. I am running across grass for the first time. I can see the finish line. I don't see the curb and trip and fall. I hear a collective groan from the crowd. I suspect they think they are going to watch a marathoner crawl across the finish line. "Please God give me the strength to get to my feet." It's the first time I have prayed in years. As my body hits the ground I tuck into a ball and do a forward roll. As my feet strike the ground my inertia helps me get upright. I am back on my feet and running again. The crowd cheers and continues to do so as I cross the finish line. I look up at the official race clock. I have reached my goal. I hurt so bad it seems anticlimactic but somewhere very deep within me I feel more proud than I have ever felt before. It's another paradox. The marathon has shown me my frailty as a human, has shown me how much a human can hurt, and the mighty strength of the human spirit. Volunteers guide me through the chutes they have set up. Someone puts a ribbon with a metal on it over my head. I weakly thank them. Another volunteer offers me a silver blanket to keep me warm. I refuse the blanket. Still another volunteer offers me two bottles of Perrier. I accept them. I walk to a bench and sit down. I am thirsty and want to drink but my stomach won't let me. I am still having occasional stomach spasms. I sit and wait watching other marathoner's walk by. Finally I take a sip of water than another. I struggle to my feet. My legs are wobbly. I find the tent that has been set up for our running gear left at the start of the race. Remarkably I find my bag among the thousands. I limp out of the staging area and find my ex-wife and friends. I can't find any words to tell them how I feel. I am speechless. It has taken twenty years for me to find the words I looked for than and even now I feel I have failed to do so. I ask you to visit the words of Dr. George Sheehan to define why anyone runs a marathon. He has served as my inspiration for running and writing for many years. Thank you once again Dr. Sheehan.

The New York City Marathon - October 26, 1980
Official male winner: Alberto Salazar, 2:09:41, course record
Official female winner: Grete Waitz*, 2:25:42, course and world record
Unofficial winner: Ron, 3:27:11, personal best