2013 Chicago Marathon

1. Introduction

You never get a second chance to make a first impression— or so the saying goes. Likewise, you never get a second chance to run your first marathon. I ran my first marathon in New Jersey last May, and I ran my second last Sunday in Chicago. 

"I don't care how long it takes me. I just want to finish." I told myself. "I don't have any specific time goal, I just want to enjoy it" I told my friends.

Lies. All lies.

Of course I cared. I cared deeply. I wanted to run faster, better, and stronger than before. I wanted to achieve bigger and better goals. I wanted to show improvement and surpass my previous accomplishments. I wanted to conquer the problems of yesterday and succeed today, here, now.

2. The Marathon 

When all was said and done, I staggered across the finish line in Grant Park after five hours and ten minutes— 25 minutes slower than my previous marathon.

In a state of delirium I wobbled my way down the finishers’ passageway, exhausted— feeling only relief that it was over; hearing the sound of my racing heartbeat and chaotic celebration surrounding me. "Congratulations" said a smiling woman as she raised the medal above my head and placed it around my neck. I uttered a soft, shaking "thank you" as I fought back tears and struggled to breathe.

It just wasn't my day.

I sensed it early on. The first ten miles were fine– fun, actually. There were crowds cheering and bells ringing. There was energy and excitement in the air. My friend Elliot was by my side. We had perfect weather– cool and sunny with a slight breeze. But I felt tired early, and I was struck by nausea starting at mile ten.

I can run through fatigue. I can run on tired legs. I can run through moderate pain— but running while feeling the urge to vomit— sorry folks, but no. It's impossible. I am frustrated beyond words that this issue reared its ugly head once again. Not enough salt? Too much food? Not enough food? The wrong food? Anxiety? Who knows. It's all too fresh in my mind right now to start searching for answers. I'll do that tomorrow.

Throughout the last ten miles or so, I set arbitrary and tiny goals for myself. "Just run to that bridge, then you can stop and walk a little." "Ok, there's the 20 mile marker. I can run to that." "Just run until I get to that shadow, that water station, that building over there, that traffic light…" and on and on. Small steps, manageable goals, constant progress. It was the best I could do.

3. Reflection

So as I sit here, now 48 hours after the marathon, I'm left with a mix of thoughts and emotions which I'll try to describe to you.

I feel incredibly lucky to be alive. Not now and not ever will I take my healthy body for granted. I own a body capable enough to run 26.2 miles. Team in Training (The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society) reminds me every day that life is fragile and that I'm blessed with good health and good fortune. I urge you all, runners and non-runners alike, to remember this every time you get out of bed and lace up your shoes. 

I feel proud that I finished the race. Unlike in New Jersey where I seriously contemplated dropping out, I never let my mind go there in Chicago. "I will finish this race" I told myself continually. While my body was weak, my mind remained strong. Where my legs stumbled, my brain forged ahead. 

Now the storm has passed. As the pain and exhaustion melts away, I'm left with an undeniable force pulling me back to the marathon. This fact, I think, is the most difficult for the non-runner to understand.

4. Why do I do this?

I do it for the medal.

I do it for the tee-shirt.

I do it for the free beer at the finish.

We've all heard those replies to the seemingly unanswerable question. Then we laugh and change the subject.

I'll try to explain it as best I can.

A marathon isn't fun. And it sure isn't easy. It's hell, sometimes. It pushes us to the edge of sanity and beyond. It hurts. As endurance athletes, we endure it all. We open the door and invite it in. We count the days until our date with New York, Boston, Chicago, or wherever 26.2 miles of road lies waiting.

I no longer need to prove to myself that I can run a marathon. I've done it twice. The finish line was no dream– it was a reality. I saw it. I was there. I traveled across it on my own two feet.

Yet I feel compelled to return to the marathon because I can't stand losing. I won in New Jersey, but Chicago got the best of me. I can't tolerate it and I won't accept it. I have a vision of myself running a great race, and I'm not there yet. Next time I'll be stronger, tougher, faster.

I love the challenge. I love facing the impossible and proving that it is possible.

I love the journey, and I love the people who've surrounded me throughout that journey. Although we are painfully aware of the presence of sickness and death, this group of runners embraces and celebrates life. And the marathon itself is very much a celebration of life.

So as the great carousel of life turns autumn into winter, I will return to the starting line. I will run again. 

Epilogue

On September 10th we stood in darkness in Prospect Park.  A hundred individual runners formed one huddled mass as we stood in the shadow of moonlight on that late summer night. Salty sweat clung to our faces under a cloud of humid air. 

And on we ran, one mile… one mile back to our home base.

But this time it was different, because this was a silent mile. A mile of thought and reflection. A mile in commemoration for those we've lost. A mile of memories of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters who will never run again. Taken from us far too soon by illnesses which one day will cease to exist.

As we rounded each corner, I heard the clip clopping of feet on pavement. Not a word was spoken. Just breathing. The rustling of leaves from up above. Row houses of speckled light in the distance and dark angular shadows in the foreground. The occasional car horn… the whirring of a cyclist speeding by. 

And as we made that final turn to the west, we all saw it. In the distance a pair of twin beams of light shined brightly into the sky, into the clouds and beyond the infinite.

   There's only us

   There's only this

   Forget regret

   Or life is yours to miss

   No other road

   No other way

   No day but today

   —Jonathan Larson

My First Marathon: 2013 New Jersey Marathon

Part 1: Tedium and Routine (Miles 1-13)

The first few miles of the New Jersey Marathon were non-eventful. With typical early race routine, I ran mechanically and at times, awkwardly. Finding my comfort zone took longer than I expected. And I was desperate to pee in the second mile. I saw some men relieving themselves in the woods off the side of the road, so I did the same. 

Somewhere in the fifth mile I ate my first Gu Gel. Down it went with ease. Around mile six I felt annoyed because I still had not found my rhythm, but I was hitting my target pace of a ten minute mile, so things were fine overall. 

During mile seven I had to pee again! Too much water? Nerves? I don't know. But I didn't mind because I welcomed the short break and I had no specific time goal for my first marathon.

During mile eight I reached into my pocket for another Gu Gel when I felt the plastic bag containing my SALT. I HAD FORGOTTEN TO TAKE SALT IN THE CORRALS! How could I do that!?  I had repeated it over and over to myself: "Salt in the corrals… salt in the corrals." Coach Amy and I had discussed it numerous times. Nonetheless, I forgot. So at the next water station, I took down some salt. 

My clan of lovely friends were cheering me on during mile ten. I waved and smiled back. This would be the last time I smiled during the New Jersey Marathon.

Part 2: A Turn For the Worse (Miles 14-15)

I was cruising steadily along in mile fifteen, running south on Ocean Avenue, when I looked at my watch and realized that thirty minutes had passed since my last food intake. It was time to eat again. I couldn't bear the thought of it because I was not hungry. Not at all. I delayed it by five minutes.

I only had one Gel remaining, so, wanting to save it for later in the race, I went for the Cliff Bar. I was not carrying a water bottle, so I had to eat it dry. I chewed little bits and struggled to swallow. I chewed some more. And on I ran. I had ZERO appetite. I chewed some more, tried to swallow… then: intense nausea and retching. Dry heaves. Panic. I came to a sudden stop and bent over slightly with my hand on my stomach, breathing heavily. Two girls who were running side-by-side just ahead of me whirled around and yelled "are you okay?" I held up one hand. "Yes" I lied.  

An ominous silence surrounded me as I stood on the pavement, contemplating what I should do. I felt alone, in a danger zone. After about a minute passed, with great reluctance I began to walk. Slowly at first, then a bit faster. The nausea slowly subsided… but VERY slowly. I was feeling physically ill, and mentally and emotionally devastated. 

At this point, continuing to run, let alone *finishing* the marathon, had been lost. I slowly walked on, becoming unhinged as visions of failure became more and more real. I saw myself in a medical van riding to the bag check area so I could reclaim my belongings and return to the hotel without a medal, profoundly disappointed. I imagined telling everyone about my marathon disaster. "I got sick at mile fifteen and had to drop out" I would say. My failure would be on public display. I'd return to the office and explain to my co-workers that I had been defeated. Anger and despondence overwhelmed me.

Part 3: Rescue and Recovery With Amy (Miles 16-18)

Slowly and with caution I marched forward. I built a tiny bit of momentum as my walk slowly accelerated into a run. Everything was different now. This is a new race. Reset, restart. Gradually I became more focused. But I was fragile. Breathe, run, breathe, run. That's it, nothing more.

Somewhere in the next couples of miles, the subtle outline of a familiar figure appeared. Amy was waiting on the side of the road. She ran with me, and as we ran together, I recounted for her my near disaster back at mile fifteen. Her response was extraordinarily calm and measured. She spoke to me in her soft and encouraging voice. Anyone who knows Amy knows her gentle nurturing quality. I felt a swelling in my chest as I nearly lost my composure and burst into tears. I held it together. And on we ran.

I rarely spoke. When I did speak, I spoke softly with the minimum effort possible. At one point Amy handed me some salt, but I didn't understand that she wanted me to eat the salt until she specifically instructed me to do so. 

Amy and I continued to run side by side, her presence soothing my delicate state. "I need a toilet" I said. She replied (half joking, I think) that since I'm a guy, I don't really need a toilet because I can just go off to the side of the road. "No, I need to take a shit" I explained.

When we arrived at the next set of toilets, I asked her "What if there's no toilet paper? Do you have any?" She told me that she didn't, as she removed the sweat band from her arm and handed it to me. Now that's devotion is it not? She removed her sweat band so that I could wipe my ass with it. I love you Amy.

Thankfully, the port-o-john was not bad. Toilet paper was there waiting for me and I relieved myself with relative ease. That was a first for me. 

Part 4: Running With Jim and U2 (Miles 19-26.2)

So on Amy and I ran until we encountered Jim who remained by my side from that point forward. For the remainder of the marathon I continued to fight waves of nausea, but they were manageable. I could hear Jim's voice but I could see him only in my peripheral vision. I rarely spoke. I did not wish to speak. Speaking made it harder. I didn't want this to be harder. I spoke only if I had something vital to say.

I was locked in. I thought of NOTHING except for running to the next water station. That is it. I didn't take in the sights. I didn't dream about achievements or personal accolades. I didn't think about the finish line. I didn't think about my friends and family who have helped me to get here. I thought of NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING.

The road which lay ahead was now a narrow corridor surrounded by a meaningless blur. A solitary blankness.

A heavy constant drum beat and piercing guitar played with fury inside my brain. I spoke the words to unheard music as I ran—

    In the howling wind

    Comes a stinging rain

    See it driving nails

    Into the souls on the tree of pain.

run, run, run

    From the firefly

    A red orange glow

    I see the face of fear

    Running scared in the valley below.

run

drink some gatorade

jim says to swish it around in my mouth then spit it out 

ok

drink some more now. swallow it

drink some water now

spit it out

walk slowly

walk faster 

now run 

    Bullet the blue sky

    Bullet the blue sky

run 

    In the locust wind 

    Comes a rattle and hum.

    Jacob wrestled the angel

    And the angel was overcome.

run 

    You plant a demon seed

    You raise a flower of fire.

    See them burning crosses

    See the flames, higher and higher.

i'll try this gu. ok. just a little bit jim says… with some water

run

drop that gu on the pavement

run, run, run

   Bullet the blue sky

   Bullet the blue sky

   Now this guy comes up to me 

   His face red like a rose on a thorn bush

   Like all the colors of a royal flush

   And he's peelin' off those dollar bills

   Slappin' 'em down

   One hundred... two hundred.

run

drink  

run. wait. stop. my stomach. fuck. am I about to puke?

no. I'm ok. fuck. settle down now… settle down.

sip some water

walk

walk

run

    And I can see those fighter planes

    And I can see those fighter planes

    Across the mud huts as children sleep

    Through the alleys of the quiet city streets. 

    We take the staircase to the first floor

    We turn the key and slowly unlock the door

there's a bunch of people in purple standing there 

ok

what can I do?

run

lift my arm up

put it back down

    A man breathes into his saxophone

    And through the walls we hear the city groan.

    Outside, it's America

    Outside, it's America

    America.

there's amy up ahead

is that amanda?

    Across the field

    See the sky ripped open

    See the rain coming through a gaping wound

    Pelting the women and children

    And we run

    And we run

    And we run

    Into the arms...

    Of America.

i'm close. it's almost over. it's almost over.

As I approached the end, Amy glided beside me and spoke softly in her familiar voice. A long and arduous journey was finally coming to an end. Unable to speak, I replied by touching her shoulder. I could see Amanda running ahead and to the left. I think Jim was still there somewhere nearby. I looked straight ahead down that narrow corridor as I ran with what little remained of my will and desire. And then I was alone, and as the finish line slowly began to formulate itself at the end of that long and narrow corridor, I ran faster.

____________________________________________

Thank You

To my friends, family, and teammates, all of whom have helped me and inspired me to achieve this goal: thank you.

To Team in Training, The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, and all who have shared their stories of hardship, struggle, loss, and recovery: thank you. You have made me a better person.

Finally, an enormous debt of gratitude is owed to Amy and Jim. The title of "coach" does not sufficiently describe the role you play in so many of our lives. You are mentors, teachers, role models, and friends. I could not have done this without your kindness and generous support.

Coach Jim Purvis, me, Coach Amy Sitar.

Me, somewhere near the finish of the 2013 New Jersey Marathon.

Me, shortly after completing the 2013 New Jersey Marathon.