There is a word of wisdom that says that you will become like the people you
associate with. I have certainly
found that to be true for me. (Maybe it
helps if you are gullible and easily influenced). I used to run with various groups on the
weekends and listen to people talk about their last marathon or their next
marathon, or what someone we knew had just done in a marathon. For a while, I felt that the marathon was not
for me. I have tight, muscular legs and
feared that they would be tied up in knots and that I would come to a
standstill if I ever tried to keep the running motion going for 26 miles. But slowly and predictably, listening to all
their stories, the germ of the idea got planted in my brain, and was nurtured
every week until I needed to do a marathon.
I needed to join the club of all people who had ever run a marathon.
I should mention that in those days you RAN the marathon;
you didn’t participate or even
complete the marathon, you ran it.
It was not until the second running boom that friends would get together
and socialize while walk/jogging for six hours or so in support of some fund
raiser. Nothing wrong with that; it is
just not we meant in the early ‘80s by “running a marathon”. Back in the day
they used to close the course after 5 hours!
The highlight of my running career was the 1985 New York
City Marathon, not that it was my fastest, but because of the incredible crowds
and atmosphere. We were assembled over a
huge area on Staten Island. We had to
catch one of the buses to get over there, and then we had to wait for 2-3
hours, during which time I nervously drank too much water and peed several
times. Unfortunately, one of those times
was after the race started. I remember
seeing port-o-potties off to the side at around the 3 mile mark; veered over
and saw how long the lines were, and decided to just turn my back to the
spectators and relieve myself where I stood.
I don’t think anyone saw me.
The race began on the Staten Island side of the Verrazano
Bridge. I remember waiting for the
starting cannon to go off and watching several news helicopters circling
overhead. In those days they had all of
the woman plus the first-time men on one side of the traffic divide, and the
experienced male marathoners on the other.
This was my 7th marathon, so I was not with the women, which
may explain why I could so readily pee out in the open. The two groups ran separate courses for the
first 7-8 miles, and then merged. It was
an ingenious way to handle a large field at the start.
If memory serves correctly, there were about 17,000
runners that year. The race
organization, the New York Roadrunners Club (NYRR), limited the number to as
many as they thought they could handle, and they saved a few thousand slots for
runners from foreign countries and a few dozen for invited runners (elite
runners), so entry for the rest of us was on a lottery basis. Possibly being from California helped, as
they probably wanted as many states as possible somewhat evenly represented.
A glance on-line indicates that the number of finishers
for 2013 was over 50,000, so NYRR has found ways to handle an almost unlimited
number of runners. There were 20,000
women and 30,000 men. I have a hunch
they don’t stick all the women with the first-time men any more. For one thing, that would be way more than
half the total and also there are many, many competitive women who need to be
away from the slower runners so that they can hit their stride as soon as
possible. I think it was several
minutes, crossing the bridge, before I finally could settle into my planned
race pace. The faster runners, male and
female, are encouraged to move up near the front at the start, and the rest of
us are encouraged not to do that.
One of the stand-out experiences for me was running
across the 59th Street Bridge, also known as the Queensboro Bridge,
at around mile 15. By that time the
runners are strung out single file, and they have laid a red carpet all the way
across the bridge to protect us from the grating that can trip us up and cut us
open if we fall. It becomes eerily quiet
after running through the hordes of spectators.
All of a sudden you are alone with your thoughts and the sound of your
own breathing and footfall. On the
downside of the bridge I thought I heard a faint, high-pitched buzzing that
grew louder and louder. I finally
recognized it as the cheering of the crowd. Unbeknownst to me, the point where we come off the bridge and on to 5th
Avenue (I think it is) is a very popular spot to watch and cheer on the
runners. I felt like an Olympic
marathoner must feel entering the stadium near the lead at the end of the
race. That experience alone was worth
all the hours and miles of training, all the injuries and recoveries, all the
soreness and blisters over the years.
I had flown out to JFK a week before the marathon and
spent a few days with Mom and Harry in Vermont, then Mom drove me down to
Manhattan to pick up my race packet, then out to Aunt Dot’s, where I stayed for
the last few days before the marathon. I
think Uncle Harold drove me into the city and dropped me off the day before the
marathon. A running buddy, Lee Max, had
a business trip that included a hotel for me to stay at. In Vermont I did about a one hour run through
the fall foliage that Vermont is famous for.
(The New York City Marathon is generally the first Sunday in
November. This year it was the last
Sunday in October, because it fell so close to month end.) On Long Island I did a 30-40 minute run from
one end of the woods we used to play in to the other, and back. I was shocked at how small the little park
was. As a kid, although I got to know
every inch of it, the woods seemed huge and full of adventure.
The other special treat that week was seeing good old
Dennis Donovan. I was 41, so he would
have been around 43. He had married and
I think had calmed down considerably.
I’m not sure if it was then or on an earlier occasion that he said he
had stopped drinking because he couldn’t afford the medical bills anymore. It seems he all too often got into a barroom
brawl when he drank and ended up needing medical attention. I doubt his abstinence was a long-term thing,
but I’m not sure. That may have been the
last time I saw Dennis.
In my first ten years or so of running, say 1978 to 1988,
it seemed like I knew virtually all of the runners in my area, which primarily
included South San Jose and Los Gatos.
There just were not that many of us, and we were always spotting each
other on the trail, or hearing about the exploits or injuries of runners we
knew. There were just a few running
groups or clubs: Quicksilver, West Valley, Los Gatos, etc. Every Saturday and Sunday morning I would
meet a group in the Castillero parking lot, and we would head off into the
Quicksilver Park. I spent many a happy
hour listening to and sharing stories with my fellow runners. One subject that came up a lot was: “Why do
we love running?” We really had no
consensus answer, but my favorite response was the guy who said, “Over the
years I have chased and been chased by thousands of panting women!” Good answer!
I was always relatively slower than others on the up
hills and relatively faster than others on the down hills. The lead group would stop every half hour or
so, and wait for slower runners to catch up.
We would give them a few seconds to catch their collective breaths then
shove off again. As a consequence, those
who needed the most rest got the least, and those who needed the least rest got
the most. In my prime I would be around
mid-pack, and get some rest while waiting for the back of the pack to join us. I recall feeling superior to the laggards that
took a little longer to reach our stopping point, yet I marveled at how the top
runners would be so kind and encouraging to me and the others. I had to learn to respect and appreciate all of the runners, not just the ones
who were faster than me. I’m ashamed to
admit that I had to learn that by having it demonstrated to me; that it didn’t
come naturally to me. Maybe it is
related to my tendency, discussed elsewhere, to not ask people how their
weekend was or how their vacation was…because I really wasn’t interested…not
recognizing that it is a common courtesy that everyone deserves.
But to continue: on the down hills I generally kept up
with the lead pack. They could pull away
if they wanted to, but it was not a race.
There was not a lot of training benefit to racing down hill, but there
was more of a risk of injury. A lot of
runners are tentative on the down hills, for fear of twisting an ankle or
something. With my wide feet, sturdy
ankles, and tree trunk legs, I had a lot of confidence about opening up my
stride on the downhill, and letting momentum take over.
As my belly got bigger I used to say that the same thing
that slowed me down on the up hills sped me up on the down hills. I said I would throw my belly out in front of
me on the downhill and then have to run fast to keep up with it. These days there are actually casual walkers
who take the up hills faster than I can jog them. Really!
I will see a lone person or small group up the hill ahead of me, and
find that I am not closing the distance gap at all. I will catch them on the downhill,
however. There is a long hill in the
Quicksilver Park that I used to take me less than 4 minutes to run up. Now it takes me 5 minutes to run down! I’m not exaggerating! I would guess that if we chose 100 runners at
random and we all started off together on a group training run (not a race), I
would beat maybe one or two uphill (or maybe none), but I probably would beat
25 or so on the downhill. Back in the day,
I would have beaten maybe 50% on the uphill and 90% on the downhill (again, not
racing, but on a training run. In a
race, I would beat maybe 75% downhill).
I just mention all this because it is weird and I have never known why
it is so.
For much of my running career I was fearless running downhill,
but a couple of things happened. In my
mid-50s I ran a 25K (about 15 miles) hilly race over rough terrain up near Lake
Tahoe, at elevation around 6,200 feet at the start in Squaw Valley, climbing to
maybe 9,000 feet to reach the Rubicon Trail, then trending downward to the
finish near Donner Lake. I had read that
to minimize the negative effect of the altitude, a runner should either stay at
altitude for 2-3 weeks prior to the race, or run the race less than 24 hours
after arriving from the low lands (SF Bay Area, in my case). I did the latter. The race director’s website had also advised
to carry water and an electrolyte drink and to wear a hat.
I’ve never known whether it was the elevation or the
extra weight I was not accustomed to carrying – camel back, water belt, etc,
but I fell four times during that 25K, twice pretty hard. The first time was about an hour into the
run, as we finally got a break from the uphill climb. I relaxed, recovered and I guess started to
lengthen my stride and make up for lost time.
All of a sudden, to my complete surprise, I was face down on the
ground. It happened so fast, I couldn’t
believe it. No stumbling or wobbling or
anything; no thought of “Oh, I’m going to fall,” or anything. Just running along and all of a sudden BAM! I
am on the ground, astonished, realizing that I hit hard, and mentally taking
inventory of what hurts and how badly. Well,
that was the beginning of a series of astonishing falls. I picked myself up and carefully began
running, this time more slowly and cautiously.
But not being accustomed to paying such close attention, my mind
wandered; I guess I resumed normal racing speed and form, and BAM! It happened
again. I couldn’t believe it.
Sandy, Amy and Jimmy were waiting for me at the Donner
finish and were growing increasingly concerned as the time got to be way past
the finish time that I had guessed. I
was doing hilly half marathons (13.1 miles) in about 2 hours, so I think I told
them to look for me at around 3 hours.
If I recall, it was more like 3 ½ hours.
I had a bloody knee and a dirty shirt for my troubles, so they knew
before I told them that the race was somewhat calamitous. This was before Brianna was born (2001);
maybe before Amy and Jimmy were married (1998).
Anyway, I was in my mid fifties.
From that time on I lost some confidence in my downhill running ability,
becoming more conscious and cautious.
The last time I ran the half marathon race in
Nicene-Marks state park, I remember that I had finished the climb to the turnaround
point and was heading back down when a studly-looking guy in his 40s, no shirt
on, came flying past me, bounding down the trail, leaping over rocks and roots
and ruts, and was soon out of sight ahead of me. I think he was perhaps leading the full
marathon, which had started a half hour before us and went further up through
the park before turning around at the halfway point of that course. (The marathon and half marathon races shared
the same start and finish line, but they started ahead of us, and the fastest
of the marathoners finished before the slowest of the half marathoners.) I was never as good a runner as that guy, but
it brought back memories of how I used to be fearless about opening up my stride
and making up time on the downhill. I
had a moment of self-discovery when I asked myself if I wanted to emulate that
fellow and pick up the pace. The answer
was, “No,” those days were over.
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