Breathing easier after surviving the ultimate test
Originally published 2001-05-01
in the Oklahoman Online
By George Schroeder Staff Writer
The course-mapper must have had a wicked sense of humor. Veteran marathoners call the distance after the 20th-mile marker "the graveyard." It's where a pleasant Sunday run sometimes becomes a torturous death march. Where conversation drops off, replaced by labored breathing. Sunday afternoon, that was my heavy breathing. And there, off to the right, was Rose Hill Burial Park. That's when I began to understand why they call it the marathon.
In the space of a few hundred yards, my goal changed from finishing in less than four hours to finishing. Yes, I finished. I've got the IV scar to prove it. Four hours and 24 minutes after I started the Oklahoma City Memorial Marathon, I limped into the intersection of Fifth and Broadway, the 742nd finisher of 1,890. The test of endurance wasn't over. There was a little matter of dehydration.
And almost immediately upon finishing, I began running into the question: Will I run another marathon? We'll answer that later. Sunday afternoon, the more pertinent question was: Will I run again?
A TREASURED HABIT
Not so long ago, I wouldn't have been facing either question. I'd never run, other than at high school coaches' insistence, until a vacation almost two years ago. In the smothering, August heat of south Mississippi, I discovered running was ... enjoyable? Strangely, yes. Eventually, it became a treasured habit.
And when I learned last fall of the Oklahoma City Memorial Marathon, something clicked. I continued running 25-30 miles a week. Checked several training programs, settled on one and followed it, albeit haphazardly.
Finally, Sunday arrived. There was no way I would not finish. Not after I volunteered to report on the experience for today's paper. And not after the encouragement I'd received from friends and colleagues. Here's a sample. Last week, executive sports editor Bob Colon sent an e-mail with this subject line: "It'll never happen in OKC." Enclosed was the following item he'd pulled off the news wire: "LONDON (AP) ” A British runner died after collapsing during last weekend's London Marathon, the seventh fatality since the race began in 1981. The man was in his early 30s..." Thanks, Bob.
When the race started, I settled into a comfortable, nine-minute-mile pace that felt like a crawl. I was following the advice of several seasoned marathoners. Don't go out too fast. Keep it slow. That way, you'll have something left for the end. I wanted to finish in about four hours, maybe a little under. Nine-minute miles would achieve that. So I kept it slow and easy, which allowed me to appreciate the scenery and beautiful morning.
As the course wound through neighborhoods, residents sat in their driveways and encouraged the runners. At several points, bands played. Nice touch: the trumpeter who played the theme to "Chariots of Fire." Overheard along Mile 7: "I'm running again next week, the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati." My thought: What kind of nut?
A few hundred yards later, from the same conversation: "I met a guy who ran a marathon yesterday, then flew here last night to run today." My thought: What kind of nut?
Still, I thought, running one marathon isn't so bad. The good run continued for several more miles. We headed north to Britton Road, west to Lake Hefner and then southeast along Grand Boulevard.
The only discordant note came near the halfway point, from the motorist who insisted on replaying one phrase from "American Pie" on his car stereo: "This will be the day that I die..." I laughed it off. This felt too good.
Along the way, I took advantage of the many aid stations, which featured water and Ultima, a sports drink that's supposed to replace depleted electrolytes. I made sure to drink a cup of each at every station, and the run continued like a pleasant Sunday drive.
A FIGHT TO THE FINISH
Then came Mile Marker 20. Something changed. A south wind picked up. The temperature seemed to rise. The scenery was forgotten. I started picking landmarks along Classen Boulevard. Make it that far, then ... I left that thought unfinished. Where's the next mile marker?
Is that a twinge in my calf? I stopped and walked for a while, then broke into a slow jog, much slower than my earlier pace.
Passed Mile 21 near 50th Street. Told myself I'd take it easy and then pick it up in the last three miles. Four hours was still doable. The "magic of race day," as veteran running writer Joe Henderson called it, would carry me to the finish.
Another twinge. A cramp. Time to walk. It was like that for most of the rest of the way. The run became a slow jog. And the last couple of miles featured more walking than jogging.
PAIN AND GAIN
No matter how the race has gone, everyone runs across the finish line. Cheering fans line the road. A guy calls your name on the public address system. Adrenaline takes over. With the end in sight, I jogged down Broadway. With about 150 yards to go, both calves cramped. I stopped in the middle of the street, massaged the muscles and then limped the final few feet, crossing the finish line in a gait that could be called running only by the most charitable definition. Someone draped a medal over my head. I drank some more Ultima, grabbed a couple of water bottles and bananas and sat down, ready to recover. Didn't happen. Instead, about halfway through the second bottle of water, I became nauseous.
That led to a trip to the medical tent, where a doctor took one look and plopped a gallon jug of Ultima in front of me. "This is yours," he said. "Drink it." Someone else punched an IV into my right arm. I spent the next hour watching as other runners wobbled into the tent. Some were carried. It was a fraternity of dried salt. Met a guy from California who was trying to run a marathon in every state. Sunday marked his fifth state. Just the other side of him, lying on a stretcher: That guy who ran two marathons in two days.
Two one-liter bags of saline solution and countless cups of Ultima later, I was free to go. I walked on screaming muscles to my truck and headed home, thinking: What kind of nut?
But that was Sunday. Monday morning, I began kicking myself for missing the goal. Began thinking of the things I could have done better, or differently. Train harder. On race day, drink even more water. Those screaming muscles were still barking. But hey, it wasn't so bad. I finished” what?” 742nd of 1,890. I finished. Will I run again? Yes. Friday, maybe Saturday. Will I run another marathon? Ask me in a month.
George Schroeder has been a runner for two years. This is his account of his first marathon, the Oklahoma City Memorial Marathon, which was run Sunday.
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