I'M AN OVERWORKED college English teacher with weak knees, a bad back, 20 extra pounds, poor circulation, questionable nutritional habits, and I smoke a pack a day. One might reasonably ask, Mike, why enter a marathon? Do you have a death wish?
No, I run for the glory—and the official T-shirt.
That's the short answer as to why I signed up for last year's event, but the long ordeal it entailed may be instructive to those running—or at least watching—this year's race (to be held Sun., Nov. 25).
So what inspired me?
IN 490 B.C., a Greek soldier ran from Marathon to Athens (about 25 miles) to bring news of the Athenian victory over the Persians. After delivering his report to the king, the soldier died and instantly became a posthumous hero. I didn't mind the hero part, but the dying part concerned me, especially in view of my nicotine addiction and the Seattle Marathon's affiliation with the American Lung Association. This paradox was brought to my attention with considerable zeal by my English 151 class, which I suspect was secretly conducting a betting pool on the mile marker where I'd collapse and die.
As if 25 miles weren't long enough, another mile and 385 yards got tacked on at London's 1908 Olympic Games because the king's punk kids couldn't go outside to view the race. To accommodate the royal brats, the start and finish lines were extended so those delicate, inbred kings-and-queens-to-be could watch from the convenience of their own palace. (I knew I'd be thinking about these Windsor rug rats if and when I made it to the 25-mile mark.)
A marathon demands copious preparation. In 1999, I ran the half-marathon (13.1 miles) and in my demographic—male, age 40-44—I'm proud to say I placed 147th out of 152 runners with an official time of 2:35:49. The way I looked at it, there were five guys out there that I thoroughly smoked, and I planned to engage in some serious trash talk if I saw any of those losers in the '00 marathon.
To back up those boasts, I trained four months for the big event: five to 10 miles a day, over 10 miles on most Sundays, and an inordinate amount of time at my chiropractor's office. Did I eat any special food? To me, all food is special.
As for clothing, no athletic endeavor in modern America is worth the effort unless you can spend hundreds of dollars on equipment. Thank God my mother wasn't alive to see me forking over $100 for tennis shoes. Then there was the special headband, socks, radio headphones (to fight possible boredom), running tights, running jacket, and microfiber running shirt. Because wet, sweaty clothes have a tendency to rub your chest raw, on race day I would wear athletic tape in places people usually don't wear athletic tape. My biggest concern, however, was inclement weather. Any severe rain, wind, or cold, and I'd be doomed.
RACE DAY
7:45 a.m. I'm doomed. The severe rain, wind, and cold are a serious concern, and the tape on my chest is already driving me crazy. I feel like the world's worst stripper. I eat a protein bar and my wife kisses me good-bye. She agrees to meet me with a dry shirt at the 13-mile marker. I wear my special St. Louis Cardinals hat for good luck and wave to the cat hiding under the table. He's already made it clear he does not condone running unless being chased.
8:05 a.m. One last cigarette. Even the cat recognizes the firing squad symbolism. Runner 297 reporting for duty, sir.
8:15 a.m. I walk down the wet pavement of Fifth Avenue to the Seattle Center where prehistoric-sized birds circle the treetops. They're either the largest crows I've ever seen or some rare breed of Northwestern turkey vulture. They seem to be meticulously scrutinizing the weaker runners; one stares menacingly in my direction.
I stretch my legs and check out the roughly 9,000 people (participating in three events), some of them wearing black plastic garbage bags to protect them from the wind, though most are outfitted in brilliant neon colors, fancy gloves, and looks of valiant determination. One guy's wearing an Uncle Sam outfit. Another's pushing one of those high-tech aerodynamic baby strollers. Do they realize this is 26.2 miles?
The weather, which has been dry all month, has decided to create a misty light rain, but it's not as bad as earlier this morning. I meander toward the back of the pack so as to not get stampeded and subsequently cursed by legitimate competitors actually trying to win this thing (a lesson learned from nearly being trampled last year). As I scan the crowd, it's painfully obvious that I am, clearly, the fattest person here.
Mile 1: The gun sounds and the race begins. A colorful human caterpillar wiggles and sloshes its way forward upon thousands of pumping legs. There's tremendous electricity and energy in the air, and I'm not referring to the mood of the participants. Lightning crackles behind the skyscrapers downtown. I stay in the back of the pack. It rains harder and my right shoe becomes untied. I bend over to tie it and by the time I finish, I am literally in last place. Fortunately, I'm more or less incognito because no one can see my bib number. I only brought two safety pins to attach it to my shirt, so it keeps flapping up in my face.
