“But I would have known.” Dick Beardsley, a runner who broke the American marathon record at the Boston marathon in 1982, was speaking at the pasta feed the night before the Yakima River Canyon Marathon. One mile from the finish line, Beardsley was running neck and neck with Alberto Salazar, the world marathon record holder. Coming into the last mile, Beardsley pulled slightly ahead, but then felt a cramp in his right leg and fell 100 meters behind Salazar. The announcers pronounced Salazar the winner and the police motorcycle escorts tightened around him, creating a blockade to keep spectators back, but also forming a blockade between Beardsley and Salazar. Beardsley looked behind him and saw that there was no one within sight. He knew he could walk the remaining distance and get 2nd place. He knew he had all the excuses he needed- no one would fault him for second place when they saw the broadcast. But deep inside himself, in the years to follow, he would know that he hadn't given his full 100% effort. And that was the person that mattered. Beardsley gave his last push and although he had to run around the police escorts, he caught up to Salazar. They crossed the finish line together, both ahead of the record time. Beardsley lost to Salazar that day, by 0.6 seconds. But he has always been able to look back knowing he gave everything he had in that race. He didn't make excuses during the race, and has never had to rely on excuses to explain his loss.
I listened intently to the story. I was struggling myself with my excuses. I had been rehearsing in my mind how to explain to the aid station, to my family, and to my friends why I had only run a few miles. I had good excuses- 6 weeks earlier, following a Saturday 14-mile run, I found myself nearly unable to walk because of pain in my left foot, and tendonitis in the calves of both my legs. For 6 weeks, I had been unable to run. I tried to run few times, but only managed to get three short runs in. I was going into this marathon with effectively no training. In addition, the arch of my left foot was still tender, and just walking still caused pain.
I knew I could use these excuses and no one would fault me for not finishing this marathon. But I also knew, deep inside, that I couldn't rely on the excuses. I had to do my best to try to run this race.
My friend Mark and I were splitting a hotel room. We awoke early, around 4:30 to get ready. We had to drive to the finish line with my car, then catch a bus up to the start line. As we dressed, we looked outside but could see only darkness. The forecast was calling for rain and clouds, with strong bursts of wind. I dressed for a cold run.
We drove the car to the finish area in Selah, and at 6:00 am caught the bus back to the starting area. We gathered with other runners at the Days Inn in Ellensburg and waited for the start time.
The sun came up and we saw a beautiful blue sky overhead. Gusts of wind would blow, but it was shaping up to be a perfect day for a run. The temperature at the start line was 46 degrees- perfect for the start of a run. I removed my cold gear and put it in a bag to pick up at the finish line.
At 7:30 the runners left the warmth of the lobby and headed out to the road and the start line. With less than 600 runners, there would only be one start group- so runners concerned with their official times lined up at the front of the group. Others filled in behind. I felt good, but wasn't sure how far my foot would let me run. I dropped to the back of the mass of people- among the 71-year old man running his 400th marathon, the 81-year old man who was the oldest runner at the race, and a few other "experienced" runners. That way if I had to drop out early, few people would see me. If I ran well, I'd be able to pass people along the way.
At 8:00, at the blast of a horn from a semi truck, the race started and the group took off. The fast runners at the start took off first, and were up and around the first corner by the time I crossed the start line, about 1 minute after the official start of the race. I started the time on my watch and started a slow run.
At the beginning of a race, it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement, the group, the adrenaline, and the pressure to perform. It’s easy to start out too strong, and find that you don’t have enough gas in the tank to complete the race. So my plan was to start out slow, see how I felt, and everything worked well I would increase my pace. Starting at the back of the pack made this strategy easy, since I couldn't get through the crowd of people ayway. I checked my watch and saw that I was barely jogging at a 12-minute pace.
As the crowd thinned out I increased my pace and by the time I hit the first quarter mile I was running at a 9-minute pace- a nice, comfortable pace for me. I passed hundreds of runners and walkers, and by the end of the first mile I was settled into the middle of a group of 4-hour marathoners.
I crossed the first mile marker and was feeling great. I could feel the soreness in my foot, but not in a painful way. I was breathing fine, my legs felt fine, and with the sun shining, it was a beautiful day for a run. We ran the first couple of miles through beautiful farms and countryside, and then entered the canyon on a nice road along the Yakima River.
I reached the 3-mile mark and still felt great. I was having a great time- as each of my running songs would come on, I’d almost start dancing, and would have done some kind of a jig if I hadn’t been so concerned about conserving energy for the long race ahead. It was the best run I’d had in months, and I was falling in love with running again.
The race continued and as the miles went by my paced increased slightly- to 8:45, 8:30, and finally to 8:15. I continued to catch up and pass other runners, but was careful not to push myself too hard- I had a long way to go, and didn’t want to pass a bunch of runners who would later pass me again.
At 6 miles I felt wonderful. I pulled out my phone to text Tammy that I was doing well – “6. Feelin great!!!” is what I sent. She didn’t know my plans or my goals. I hadn't wanted her to worry, and I didn’t want to disappoint her if I couldn’t make it. I had simply promised her to stop before I hurt myself, and to send her texts to let her know how I was doing. This was her first update.
Over the next few miles, the run got a little more tough- gusts of wind would blow through canyon, either to my back which was good, or to my face which would take away my breath. But the first half of the race was relatively flat, and I made good time. I crossed the halfway mark at 1:55:16, a personal record for my own half-marathon. My feet were starting to hurt from all of the pounding, but no more than usual during a long run. I had been able to run the entire first half, so I let myself walk for a few yards after crossing the half point. I tried to send another text to Tammy, but because of the canyon walls I didn’t have cell reception. I pictured Tammy at home worrying because she hadn’t received any further updates from me.
Our bodies are able to store energy for activities like running, in the form of glycogen. We teach the muscles in our legs to store the energy by gradually increasing the distances we run- by running 5 miles, we teach our legs to store more energy. Increase to 6, 7, 14, 18, 20 and we gradually increase the amount of energy our legs can store. Most marathon training programs build up to a 20 mile run 3 weeks before the marathon, helping our legs store enough energy to get through the 26.2 race. Because of my foot, I had to cut my training after the 14-mile run. My legs had been trained to run about 14 miles, and stored about enough energy to run that far.
I passed mile 14 feeling about the same as the first 13 miles, but then my legs startied to change. Around mile 15, my legs suddenly lost their spring- each step landed with a thud, and my calf was no help in lifting my leg for each step. I looked ahead and saw the first of two hills to climb. It wasn’t too steep, just a long rising hill that went up and through canyon beyond where I could see. I went through the water station and walked for a few hundred yards before starting to run again. My legs thudded from step to step and I checked my time- down between 10 and 11 minutes per mile. I was running slower, and with each step my body hurt more and more.
My running style favors downhill runs, and my plan on hills is to make up for slow running on the uphill side by running faster on the downhill side. But as I crested this hill, I knew I had nothing in my legs to give me extra speed coming down. I thudded, step by step, down the backside of the hill and back to the level section of the route.I hadn't been able to make up any lost time on this downhill stretch. But I was still moving forward.
Around mile 17, I had to change my strategy to more walking and less running. Running was causing my left calf to cramp. I drank more of my electrolytes, ate some of my sport beans, and hoped my body would be able to move some energy down to my legs to allow more running later.
The next few miles grew more painful with each step. As I reached each aid station, I considered quitting the race and getting a ride to the finish line. I knew that my excuses were valid- the lack of training, especially the lack of good, long runs was taking its toll on my body now. With each step, the pain in my feet was excruciating. My calf muscle kept cramping. My gut ached from eating too many Sport Beans, and I don’t think my digestive system was working to provide energy to my legs from the beans that now felt like a lump in my stomach. Almost no one knew I was running this marathon, and those that did know would easily excuse me because they knew I hadn’t been able to train.
But I knew that I had more to give. How much more, I did not know. But the words of T.S. Eliot, printed on T-shirts, signs at marathons, and running web sites came to my mind: "Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go." Here, at this marathon, I would find out how far I could go. I had not yet hit that limit, so I pressed on.
I walked to mile 21. When I was actively training for this marathon, I researched the elevation profile and saw the hill- the dam hill, as the other runners called it at mile 21, since it raised up and over the dam. My training program had included a run up the large hill by my home once a week to prepare for this hill. Now it loomed ahead, and I had nothing left in my legs to give it.
It was here that I was struck by how lonely this sport really is. As I fought my own personal battle, I was surrounded by other runners fighting their own battles. There were some who hurt worse, some who doubted more. Some who had run many more marathons than I had. But none of us had much to offer those around us. I looked at my phone and again saw that I had no cell service, so my wife still didn't know where I was or how I felt. A few people at the aid stations would give us shouts of encouragement, but now as I looked at that large hill ahead I knew I would have to climb it alone. I plodded ahead.
Eventually I crested that final hill, around mile 23. 3 more miles lay ahead, all downhill. If I were able to run at my 5k pace, I'd be done in 20 minutes. I checked my walking pace on my watch- 17 minutes per mile. At this pace, it would take me almost another hour and I'd finish in over 5 hours total. I convinced my legs to start running again, only because it was the only way to finish this ordeal sooner rather than dragging it out.
Around mile 25, the downhill ended out and the course leveled out. I forced my legs forward as we rounded the last bend and there it was- the finish line. I didn't have enough energy left to get excited about it, but I was relieved to finally see it. I pushed ahead and finished- 4:55, half an hour slower than my previous marathon, and an hour slower than my goal for this marathon. (The only age category record I beat was the female 70+ age division, whose record is 5:04).
On the one hand, I'm disappointed with my time. I'm disappointed with my lack of training, and I'm disappointed with the foot and tendon pains that led to my lack of training. I want to know how to fully train without hurting my feet. I want to show what I can do with proper training.
On the other hand, because I didn't have the proper training I experienced my outer physical, emotional, and psychological limits. I know, and can say honestly to myself and to others, that I gave it everything I had. More importantly for me, I know that when pushed that far, I can reach deep within myself to pull out that last effort, even when I'm the only person who would know otherwise.
