Twenty going on 20

On a cool Sunday morning in July we waited.  We waited along the edge of the beach where Golden Gate Park gives way to the Pacific. 

In between the Park and the water lay a path and on the path we could see a stream of people out into the vanishing point.  Not just people, RUNNERS!

It was 1993, and Adam Dawes and I had scooted out to cheer on our friend Steve Apfelberg.  A gifted athlete in high school, Steve was the brave first soul of our set to try his hand (and legs) at a marathon.  Adam and I had calculated that Steve would be reaching within a 30 minute interval, and so we gazed down the path to see the stream of participants one-by-one, like a string of ants. 

Somehow, off in the distance, we caught sight of a pair of runners.  They were not quite holding hands, but somehow tethered together by some gossamer material.  As they glided closer to us, Adam and I could better make out what was happening.  The runner on the left was exceptional.  He had made it to mile 20 running a sub 8:30/mile pace..  The runner on the right was exceptional.  He also had made it that far that fast. . . and he was blind.

We looked on, at first utterly silent in our humility.  Then we began to cheer.  When you see another human being go through something like that, you gain a sense not of guilt of sympathy, but a deep feeling of privilege to be a part of it.  That experience inspired me, and it filled me with resolve to run a marathon.

This past Sunday in Portland, I lined up on an equally cool fall morning to run my 20^th marathon.  I asked my running partner, Katie Burk, how she felt.  Being her second full marathon, Katie openly admitted to a case of nerves.  Then the gun went off, and the schmaltzy music started playing.  We started walking in downtown Portland.  We crossed the starting line (4 minutes).  We started trotting.  Then we started running..

Like past marathons with Melissa Lemberg and Forest Key, Katie and I had been faithful training companions, calling each other before 7 AM on Saturday mornings to make sure we were ready to go out and move “a few precious miles closer to the marathon start line”.  In preparation for Portland, we had completed runs of 18, 20 and 22 miles, averaging between 9:40-9:55/mile.  Katie had gotten me through a half marathon @ an average 8:41/mile pace.  Somehow, on the longer runs, I was able to coach Katie along, too.  What I lacked in short-distance speed, I made up for in longevity.

On race day, Katie and I did what I had done in my 19 previous marathons. We went out too fast.  We kept looking at our GPS watches, reminding each other to slow down.  Too much rest.  Too much Gatorade.  Too much coffee.  Too much ADRENILINE! Trying to go out slow in a marathon is like trying to avoid dipping a finger into a bowl of brownie batter.  It’s just not going to happen.

At mile 10 we saw Katie’s partner, Tessa, and Megumu.  They were all bundled up and cheering for us.  At the half-way point, we had averaged 9:24/mile.  At mile 15 Katie had some foot pain.  At mile 16, we attacked (and destroyed!) the famous St. John’s Bridge Hill.  At mile 17, I had “uncomfortable moments” sponsored by my right second toe.  At mile 21, Katie was struggling again.  Then we saw a woman holding up a sign that read “Tap into your inner Kenyan!”  We laughed.  We drank a terrible Gatorade wannabe, and then we sped up!

Right around mile 23, Katie asked me how I felt, being marathon #20 and all.  I thought about that for a few paces, and then I answered her.    Having never been a speed demon, I cannot say that reaching a certain time has been the motivation.  It gets back to what I first witnessed all those years ago in San Francisco.  To be so close to so many exceptional people at once is a privilege.  It is an executive course in the Human Spirit, and the tuition fee is simply a few hours of training.  And when I have some small role to play in moving a good friend through the pain and challenge, then I am all the more fortunate for it.

We crossed the tape in 4:11:52, averaging 9:37/mile. 

Then came the royal vestments of all marathoners, the Mylar sheet.   Then came the booty of triumph;  Redvines, bagels, hugs and kisses from Megumu, a hot shower at the hipster Ace Hotel.  And, finally, the meal of sweet victory. . .  an amazing pastrami sandwich @ Kenny and Zukes Delicatessen.   

As with all 19 marathons before, I knew #20 to be a great privilege. A highlight event that is all part of Life’s rich pageant.