An Andrew's Eye View of the Marathon

Friday, 10/10

After a few weeks of saying that “I just want the race to be over,” I finally begin feeling the race day excitement. I attribute the rising excitement to the fun pasta dinner with friends at Olive Garden the night before and the card that plays ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’ given to me.

7:30am

I don’t have to be on a plane until 1:55pm. I took a vacation day from work to sleep in and pace myself getting ready. I can’t sleep in any longer.

Some quiet time with God and the Bible. One last load of laundry. Making the bed.

Shower. Final run through of everything I need to pack. I forgot my watch—good move genius.

Pack my watch.

12:15pm

On the road. Cranking up the positive tunes and letting myself geek out a little bit in my Sentra on the way to the airport.

1:15pm

My carry-on raises suspicions in the X-Ray technician. Turns out foil Gu packs don’t look super trustworthy in safety-vision.

The security agent gets a kick out of the mix-up. He gets an even bigger kick out of my “runner’s stick.” I explain what it is, offer to let him try it. He tries it. I make a joke about needing a massage tool post-marathon since I’m single. I’m pretty sure the guy is going to order one.

9:00pm – Central Time

After checking out my digs for the night by O’Hare, I take a shuttle ride to a local Italian restaurant. I eat in the bar where a duo that seems straight out of a Saturday Night Live sketch but is way to earnest in their renditions of ‘Walkin’ After Midnight’ and ‘Oh What a Night’ performs for a crowd of 60+ patrons, and 2 single 30-year-old ladies in the corner. Any other night, and I probably would have guested on a corny song.

The eggplant parmesan is almost as good as the Sox victory on the flatscreen above the bar.

I realize the shuttle only drove about ¾ of a mile to get to the restaurant, so I walk back through an industrial park. I’m 7 steps out of the restaurant, when the waiter runs out to let me know I left my debit card in the book with the check.

That’s two things almost left behind in one day. Must be time for bed.

Saturday, 10/11

8:00am

I wanted to sleep in but couldn’t. My body doesn’t know how to do sleeping in on Saturdays any more.

This gives me time to get ready for the day slowly and to really dig into Ephesians for a bit. I like that it looks like I’ll get to wrap up Ephesians tomorrow morning—hopefully I can carry Pauls’ joy with me for 26.2 miles.

10:00am

The hotel shuttle driver takes me to the nearest station for the blue line into the city. In the 5 minutes of idle chit-chat, he asks where I’m from and what I do fork. I respond with the usual ‘I’m in sales for an internet company’ line and he presses for details. ‘Google.’

Next comes his story about how he applied for a sales job at Google, but the company must be really into ‘what college you went to.’ One of the first things you learn about Google when you travel for the company is that a lot of people aren’t as happy for you and your cool job as your parents are.

What strikes me most in this moment—and the reason I’m recording it—is that this is probably the moment in my year having the LEAST to do with my job. Training runs. Fundraising for the GBS/CIDP foundation. Jitters about the 26.2 to come. All pretty unrelated to search advertising.

11:30am

I put my bags on my bed in my hotel room just as my Dad rings my cell phone. Turns out he arrived in the hotel lobby about 5 minutes after I check in.

Talk about timing!

1:00pm

On our way over to the Niketown on Michigan Ave to catch a shuttle bus to the expo, I realize I forgot my time chip to scan and verify.

Two days. Three “almost forgot something important” moments.

Sure, I’m focused.

3:00pm

I’ve never seen and experienced so grandiose a race expo as the one in McCormick place. I catch glimpses of Brian Sell and Ryan Hall as they sign autographs, but don’t quite make it into line in time to snap a photo with either. It’s cool though, as I’m pretty sure I got the last Medium gray Chicago ’08 pull over at the Nike marathon store in the expo hall. All of this is awesome.

I meet up with my roommate Todd and chew the fat for a little bit. I don’t think either of us know what to make of any of this. We’ve both participated in big races before, but nothing quite like this.

Looking around at all the people with their red ‘goody bags’ makes me feel like less of a celebrity than I did when I left California. Among my friends, Todd and I were the special kids who weren’t drinking beer, eating healthy, running crazy distances on weekends and raising money for good causes. Here, I feel like one of several thousand similarly motivated individuals.

A little while later, I sit down in front of the screen playing a video of the course. My heart rate takes several minutes to return to normal.

It’s official. I’m pumped.

4:30pm

We’re back at Niketown, scanning the badges given to us in line for the shuttle buses to see if we won $1,000. I won a $10 gift card.

I try to think of something witty to say, like “Anyone brave enough to cross the starting line is a winner!” but am now grateful that I just smiled and accepted my prize.

5:00pm

Every Italian restaurant in reasonable distance from the hotel is booked until 9:00pm. I guess this is what 40,000+ race registrants does to a city’s culinary establishments. Another reminder—this city may be ready to celebrate the marathon, but they’re not celebrating ME. My ego needed these checks.

6:00pm

Dad and I take our chances by going to a nice, easy American restaurant—Ditka’s! I figure the worst case scenario is that I build my own meal out of healthy vegetable sides, some starches and chicken.

We’re 30 minutes early for want of anything cooler to do. Somewhere in mind I think, “If arriving early like this works out, maybe the race will work out and I’ll finish earlier than expected.” I don’t know how anyone can NOT be a little superstitious about this kind of thing.

I luck out – the chef has prepared a marathon special to help runner’s carb up. Chicken, roasted peppers and mushrooms served over rigatoni. It is delicious, but it—is—FILLING. I'll have to remember that even non-Italian restaurants care about runners in the local marathon next time around!

8:30pm

We’re back at the hotel, watching the Sox and Rays go homerun for homerun. (Maybe tomorrow will be a homerun!)

Dad starts to doze as I go about my OCD pre-race day routine. Make sure breakfast is the right spot. Make sure the clothes are laid out right. Make sure I have my timer. Make sure my bib is on my shirt right. Make sure I’ve made sure.

9:45pm

I’m in bed, and still really stoked my Dad made the drive to experience the weekend with me.

One thing I’m considerably less stoked about is the fact that I forgot he’s a pretty heavier snorer. I finally begin to nod-off, when a baby somewhere else on the floor decides it’s time to get upset and cry like the day he or she was born.

A few minutes later, I sandwich my head between two pillows and start to fall asleep finally. I don’t think I’m out long, when my half-dream freaks me out (something about falling or not being able to run the noise off or both) and I start kind of thrashing on my pillow.

Whoops. Okay, I’m still pumped. But I’m also stressed.

Sunday, 10/12 – RACE DAY

4:45am

I’m up!

Stretch. Eat. Digest. Shower.

Stretch more. Bible. Pray.

Pray more. Lots more.

6:45am

Waiting for the red line at Chicago and State, I overhear a conversation between a guy wearing a Boston jacket who ran a marathon two weeks ago and similarly-aged guy running his first marathon. I feel very egalitarian in my athletic pursuits.

7:05am

Walking from Jackson to the park, I get a little choked up at the sight of runners walking to the start area as the sun rises over Lake Michigan. We must be crazy to be doing this at this hour, but man do we get some crazy perks!

7:10am

People are even nice to each other in line for the Sani-Cans.

7:25am

Todd spots me waiting in the start corral. We make some chit-chat, get each other pumped, and then he has to visit one of the blue offices outside the corral. I won’t seem again for a long while.

I make friends with people in my general pace group (4:15 – 4:20) and try to stay seated for as long as I can.

Several minutes later, Lady Antebellum sings the National Anthem in three part harmony so beautiful, I only think about how awkward the band’s name makes me feel for a fleeting second. (Antebellum . . . before Civil War . . . maybe I’m missing something . . .).

7:55am

The elites take off. I can’t see it or hear it, but I think we all feel it.

8:00am

We start shuffling. Oh crap.

Ohcrapohcrapohcrapohcrapohcrap.

8:02am

I remind myself in my head that I’ve done this before and survived. No knee surgery this time around. I got to do my 20-miler this time around.

Others around me start expressing their anxiety. Finally, a helpful reminder comes to me and I share it out loud:

“Welp, here we go. We’ve only got 26.2 miles to celebrate months of hard work!”

To my surprise, no one rolls their eyes, and a few people actually express appreciation for the sentiment.

I cross the start line. (Oh crap.)

MILE 1 – 9:29 split

Honestly, most of the race is a bit foggy. But I remember the hoots and hollers as we go under our first overpass as they echo off the cement surrounding us.

Sweet, we’re excited!

Crud, we’re 15 seconds ahead of pace.

MILE 2 – 9:56 split

I remember the text message my roommate Dave sent—“stay smooth.” This is the point in the race where I adopted my unofficial mantra of “Stay smooth. Run controlled. Cruise control.” I'll work in a few new ones throughout the run, but I'll repeat this one straight up until the finish.

Thanks Dave!

MILE 3 – 9:41

I start looking for Dad and realize he drove to Chicago to play one of the craziest games of “Where’s Waldo” ever. I’m pretty sure I won’t see him the whole race. Bummer.

MILE 4 – 9:26

I can’t believe how easy the pace feels. I’m not overly optimistic since it’s early in the race.

MILE 5 – 9:24

Someone’s blasting ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ Rawk!

MILE 6 – 10:03

I get nervous when the crowd feels especially thick at the water/Gatorade station just before the Mile 6 checkpoint. I walk anyway to play it safe, and get only a little tweaked when it seems like the 4:15 pace team is a crowd away from me.

MILE 7 – 9:23

Back on track! We’re an hour and seven minutes into the race. This means that, if I we stay on pace, we’ll finish before an extended cut of one of the ‘Lord of the Rings’ movies if it started right now.

I may or may not have said that one out loud and wondered if the laughs were with or at me . . .

Luckily, Katee, who's been in my section of the 4:15 pace group tells me to keep 'em coming throughout the race.

MILE 8 – 9:39

I meet Jim, a niche apparel salesman from St. Louis. His whole family made the trip to Chicago for the race. Jim’s a cool guy, who calls me out on my claim that “I’d be happy running even a 4:35 since it would be a PR.”

I realize I’m really hoping for four hours, twenty minutes, and starting to feel the promise of it as I realize my legs remarkably STILL feel fresh.

MILE 9 – 9:54

I can’t believe how close we are to on pace. I’ve even got a slight buffer according to the sweet temporary tattoo of splits for a 4:15 Nike gave to us.

MILE 10 – 9:43

High fives from the crowd. Gotta love ‘em! Especially when so many cute Midwestern ladies came out to give ‘em to runners like me!!

MILE 11 – 10:41

The lingering cramp in my stomach started to feel pretty crumby, and I realize it’s because I’ve taken fluids at every station since the weather is getting warmer.

Crud, I have to stop at a port-a-john. Luckily, I get into one without a line and feel a lot better after getting rid of some of the swish in my stomach. It doesn’t feel like too big of a loss, and turns out to only tack about a minute onto my ideal split for the mile.

Time to regain!

MILE 12 – 9:30

Picked up 15 seconds on the split. Getting back in the zone.

I meet a guy from Toronto who’s banditing the race. His wife is scheduled to go into labor in the next 48 hours, so he didn’t want to run as an official entrant in case he had to drop out. But hey, since he’s in town . . .

MILE 13 – 10:11

Dad finds me in the crowd! He’d been watching from spots on the left side of the course; I’ve been hanging on the right.

I cut across the field to try to get a photo op, which later turns out to be a photo of the crowd, with me obscured by some guy’s head. Oh well.

I give a jump in the air and shout an “I feel so good!” I truly am euphoric at the precipitation of events: My dad made it into town for a race. I feel good. I’m clocking in at the weight I ought to be at. I hit 13 miles at 2:07:06. If I was Kenyan, I’d be done now!

I feel real good for an American.

MILE 14 – 9:57

I look around at the downtown-y buildings surrounding the part of the course right around the half-way mark and remember that the recent installments in the Batman film franchise were filmed in Chicago.

Holy Asics, Batman! I’m in Gotham City!

I have to remember to tell my brother that I legitimately thought about this.

MILE 15 – 9:27

Splits still have me at a decent pace, but the stretch here feels like it’s caked in sun. We run through an industrial-ish area and then some playing fields. No tall buildings or trees offer shade.

I hadn’t realized it, but the 65 degree weather we started in has climbed to about 80. It will reach at least 85 before we finish.

MILE 16 – 10:39

Walking was more mental than anything. I finally start to feel the heat on my face, mixing with salt, and it stings. I get a little sweat in my eye, and cant quite fight my mind back over to positive thoughts before I become aware of my calves and left hamstring.

Fine, I’ll stretch. And walk a bit.

I set an ultimatum of resuming my trot by an upcoming streetlight and do just that. Back in the game.

MILE 17 – 13:03

Ugh.

MILE 18 – 10:31

If I can hit around 10 minutes per mile, I’ll still come in at 4:20. This was a hiccup, and I’ll be fine.

I realize I’ve been alternating between the Lord’s Prayer and an internal chant of “These are the only legs I’ve got/And they are so, so good,” on repeat. The chant came from my starting to feel the miles in my knees, but knowing that these legs got me across a marathon finish 18 months ago.

MILE 19 – 13:17

I make up my mind halfway on the way to covering my 19th mile that I’ll sacrifice a little bit of this one if it means I can run all of the mile from 19 – 20.

In 2007 in Atlanta, Mile 19 is where I hit the wall. I mean, I flat out BONKED. No more energy. No mental capacity to work through it. No way to do anything but walk for at least 2 miles (it might’ve been three).

No way was I going to hit the wall this time. I may be drained, but I was NOT about to hit this wall.

MILE 20 – 10:08

A resurgence! I cover the mile on the way to the 20 mark in almost 10 minutes!

I hit 20 miles at about 6 minutes faster than my 20-mile training run.

At this point, if I can maintain a 10 min/mile shuffle, I’ll come in at about 3:25. I’ll take it if I can get it!

MILE 21 – 12:37

I can’t get it.

I don’t know when they officially put them up, but the yellow flags changed to red flags. One more increase in warning level, and we’ll be forced off the course for our safety.

The increase in warning level totally messes with me mentally. And so does the site of EMTs running by with a stretcher. Yikes.

Play it smart, Stinger.

MILE 22 – 10:58

Doing better.

I hear a shout of “Stinger!” from the crowd. It’s Todd. We’re both struggling, but it feels good to have a familiar face around, even one who’s not feeling so hot about the marathon right now.

I see 4 of the fittest looking runners I’ve ever seen slumped over in folding chairs in a medical tent. My heart breaks for how little distance they had left to cover to finish the race, and my resolve weakens when I realize they’re in way better shape than I am.

I look around and see runners with pace group bibs on their backs ranging from my fellow 4:15-ers, all the way down to some 3:30s. Today was not a day to PR, it seems.

MILE 23 – 17:43

Had to stretch. Todd wrang enough water/sweat out of his socks to sustain my desk plant for a week.

Over my shoulder, I notice we’re sitting on the curb where signs commemorating fallen police officers line the street. I can’t justifiably equate their lives to mine, but the word ‘sacrifice’ is smeared all over the faces of runners, walkers and strugglers dotting street.

MILE 24 – 15:35

Hey, it’s an improvement.

We’ve got less than the distance from our house to Marsh Rd. and back. That distance has never felt so far and insurmountable.

MILE 25 – 13:29

Every time Todd and I start back into a trot, I let out an involuntary groan. I also start to lose it mentally. I try to think of anything I can to stop it form happening, but a few tears stream down my left cheek, and I have no idea why.

MILE 26 – 10:49

Somehow, I find a rhythm. Todd encourages me to roll with it even if we can’t keep together. I assure him he’ll still beat me to the Finish (he’d later prove me right).

I see Dad perched at what seems to be exactly the 26 mile mark.

I can’t help it, but instead of beaming with confidence like I had at the halfway mark, my face mangles itself into a version of the face I must’ve showed to him when I was a 4-year-old at the end of a family trip to an amusement park. Too tired, too hungry, too over-stimulated to take any more. This time, though, I don’t think Dad can carry me to the car.

Now here’s the funny part about the end of the Chicago Marathon. It’s this sick, twisted S-curve of unrelenting emotional trickery. Yes, that’s really how I feel. On the first turn (turn right) you realize you have one last incline to get up. It’s not that big, but it’s enough of a surprise to a first-time Chicago runner to be a pick in the nuts when you can least handle one. A few yards later, the second turn (turn left) reveals the finish line. From lowest of lows to highest of highs in what wasn’t fast enough for me.

Oh, and they called my name as I made the turn. Plugged my bib number into a computer and called my name. If I hadn’t felt the need to haul it to the finish yet, the announcer goaded me that one last bit.

I cross the finish line and forget to stop my watch. I’m guessing I hit 4:46:00-ish. 8 minutes SLOWER than my first marathon.

FINISH

I lose it. Absolutely lose it. Some lady asks if I need medical attention, but I'm pretty sure there's no remedy for the overwhelmeds.

I’m proud to have finished under such grueling conditions. I’m ripped that I couldn’t beat a time I ran on a bum knee over a hillier course.

I’m unable to even remotely control my mental capacities and celebrate for one second, then cover my salt-streaked face as the tears come. My muscles shake from fatigue, my body shivers because it thinks it’s cold (85 degrees outside!), my mind shakes because it can’t process everything that happened.

I’m thrilled to have the brutal experience behind me. I’m beat down by the fact that I couldn’t suck it up just a little bit the last 6 miles to finish in a decent time.

I’m overwhelmed when I remember that 6 years ago, I wasn’t walking at all, and here I am at the finish of my SECOND marathon. And, I got the same medal the first place finishers got!

I look around and almost throw up my first few sips of Gatorade. I sit down. Get back up.

The finisher’s corral and gear check look and feel like a marathoner’s prison. I can’t quite seem how to get out, and all I want is to just lay down.

By the time I make it to the big ‘S-T’ sign to meet my Dad, I’ve regained some composure, but that’s about it. I lay down, hoist my legs up against the sign and feel the blood come rushing out of my feet. And then I see the yellow visor I’d been looking for.

Dad and I relax in the park for I don’t know how long.

We break up the mile-long walk back to our hotel with a stop at the Billy Goat Tavern, where even though I don’t quite order it, I get a double cheese’borger’ and ‘No Pepsi – Coke!’ I stare it for a while and can’t imagine eating it . . . and then absolutely inhald the greasy deliciousness.

One last stop at the Niketown (authentic ‘Finisher’ gear!) and we finally make it to the hotel. In the elevator. Through the door. Collapsed on the bed.

Dad makes his sojourn home and encourages me to sleep. Unfortunately, there’s no exhaustion quite like post-marathon exhaustion. Endorphins meet fatigue. Adrenaline meets muscles unwilling to move.

Eventually, I will myself into a cold tub, drain the water, and find refuge in a warm shower.

I put on my Chicago08 pullover and wind down the night with a sandwich, a rootbeer, chips (yes! chips!), and some football on TV. If I really did 'just want the race to be over,' it was probably to enjoy moments like this. But, man . . . I can't wait until I can't wait for another race 'just to be over.'

Oh, marathons. You've got me!

Lights out.