Marathon Madness by Bob Schwartz

Contributed By Sandy | Published: Dec 2, 2004

In looking back at the events of my first marathon, there is one word that quickly springs to mind. "Naive". That's French for "Buddy, you didn't have a clue." I'm quite amazed that all of it hasn't been obliterated from my memory.

One of my initial recollections would be my watch alarm going off promptly at 6:30 a.m. This only served to reveal the sheer depth of my ignorance. I acknowledge to having operated under the ludicrous belief I'd actually get a normal night's sleep and that an alarm would be required to wake me up. I failed to appreciate how the twin cousins of anxiety and adrenaline would pay a nocturnal visit and keep my eyes prodded wide open.

I stored up on a grand total of 46 minutes of cumulative sleep for the night. I had my race number pinned on my shirt since 2:00 a.m. and been to the bathroom 12 times since 4:00 a.m. (I wished I'd never read that last article on hydration as I tried to memorize the exact location of every available port-a-john on the course).

I passed the hours by lathering my feet in about 13 coats of Vaseline since my arrival in the hotel room. I'd also spent my last few hours there trying, unsuccessfully, to get the chorus of My Sharona stricken from the playback position of my memory bank (I shouldn't have started dial surfing on the radio at 3:00 a.m.). It's not the kind of motivating music I envisioned drawing from at mile 21.

By 7:00 a.m. I decided to leave the womb of my hotel room and television set. The preceding twelve hours of bright-eyed confinement led me to conclude that time goes by painfully slow when it's spent watching an infomercial of a combination juicer/stomach-reducer/breadmaker/pasta-maker/portable treadmill. The lack of coherent thought during this virtually sleepless night compelled me to purchase three of these all-in-one products. Go figure.

I began the ½ mile walk to the starting line all the while engaging in the profound internal debate of whether my shoe laces were too tight, singlet vs. T-shirt and whether I'd really done enough long training runs. The ever-present thoughts of Marathon Man Walking.

I placed myself near the sign that had my anticipated per mile pace. Of course I didn't have any real logical clue as to what my pace per mile should be. The combination of nerves and inadequate sleep led me to unconsciously do something I hadn't done since my high school gym class. I stretched. I tried, to no avail, to reacquaint my toes to my fingertips after a few years of distance between them. The attempted reunion stopped at my knees.

The announcer stated 5 minutes until the start and I frantically glanced at the bathroom line that revealed my turn would arrive about the time the race winner crossed the finish line. Like a puppy dog with a full bladder, I began jumping in small circles as I tried to inconspicuously glance around for the nearest large tree. Or even a fire hydrant.

The starting gun eventually went off, followed instantaneously by the cacophony of countless beeps from the timers of runner's watches. The first mile marker arrived quickly and the split time provided me with good news/bad news. Good news was I was 20 seconds ahead of my PR pace. The bad news was I was 20 seconds ahead of my PR pace. Marathon myopia had officially begun.

I tried to slow down and realized I didn't have a firm grasp on the concept of pace. I had two speeds – all out or slow shuffle. Apparently, that in the middle thing must be called proper marathon pace. I attempted to convince myself I was engaging in the racing tactic of elite runners. I was surging! Yeah right. I was clueless.

I was doing everything to completely guarantee a rendezvous with that bastion of brutality otherwise know as the wall. Negative splits were clearly a concept I hadn't grasped. More like a banana split as a relatively comfortable marathon was slipping away.

By seven miles I already found myself engaging in the mathematical Olympics of just what percentage of the 26 miles was then over. Like a runaway locomotive, I'd not yet gained the ability to slow down. I next surveyed the shoe attire of those runners surrounding me. I began to finally appreciate that my present running companions were clearly in a different league. I realized I was in the heretofore-uncharted territory (for me) of running with those in racing flats! I was a training shoe interloper racing with the serious and talented cheetahs. It was then that I decided it was imperative that I ease back on the throttle.

Like clockwork, around twenty miles, I began to feel heaviness creep into my legs as my stride became a trudge and I was, for all intent and purpose, exhausted. I don't mean tired like gee, I better slow down a little too feel better. If I'd tried to go any slower I'd be going backwards. At that juncture, the last six miles appeared tantamount to doing the Western States 100.

This is where the prior euphoria of the race was now being mixed with reality and producing the lovely feeling of panic. I suddenly concluded I was pretty much marathon illiterate. If ignorance were bliss, I should have been downright ecstatic.

But I couldn't quit. It wasn't so much about perseverance, completing a goal or fighting through adversity. Truth was there weren't any relief vehicles and my car was parked near the finishing line. The only way back was to proceed with my self-powered ambulatory mode of transportation.
I moved forward and continued with my predilection for violating all rules of successful marathon running. I ignored aid stations for fear that by stopping to drink my legs would immediately take root and I'd never move again. I plodded on.

Ultimately, I crossed the finish line in sort of a slumberous shuffle as I searched for something to hold onto. The ground quickly became the most suitable option as I simply sat down and did my best impression of a statue. I was supplied with food and drink and I actually resuscitated somewhat quickly but at that point, I considered staying awake as an accomplishment. It was shortly thereafter, that the mind warp, which besets repeat marathoners, crept into my conscience.

Apparently, in attempting to rid my body of lactic acid buildup, my short-term memory was being removed as well. I began to have strange thoughts. Visions of rhythmic running filled my head. Contemplation of my next marathon had already begun.

I was clearly afflicted with the