The Chicago Marathon
Reflections of an insomniac marathoner
October 22, 2006
The night before the 29th
Chicago Marathon, I am sitting on a wooden bench with my brother Brian at
a restaurant called Max and Erma’s in the town of Gurnee (an hour north of
the city). Brian finds a server and drops the shocking news that we’ll
require a table of 23 while I impatiently browse through a magazine of
marathon info, waiting for Brian’s wife’s family—all 18 of them—to join us
for a 7 pm dinner. Gurnee is one giant, unimaginative chain store, and the
restaurant, situated in its garish, blinding epicenter was difficult to
locate due to the drizzling rain and homogenous landscape of retail
outlets. But the place is nevertheless a convenient spot for a family
rendez-vous—a halfway point between Chicago and Milwaukee, perfect for
those making the trip north or south in a show of pre-race support and
solidarity.
As a group of servers pushes abandoned tables together into a chain long
enough for royalty, I return to the magazine. A list of tips for a
successful marathon catches my eye. Among the suggestions: 1) eat a large
lunch and small dinner the night before the race for better sleep and to
avoid stomach trouble during the marathon. 2) Attend the pre-race expo on
Friday instead of Saturday in order to properly rest your legs the day
before the Sunday race. 3) Prior to the marathon, run the last three miles
of the course to gain a psychological advantage as you tire at the end of
the actual race. And, finally, 4) arrive at the marathon at least two
hours before start time for obvious reasons. I show the article to Brian
with a sigh: “Well, I’ll be violating every one of those.”
Of deeper concern is the fact that I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in
well over a week. Last night, the most critical as far as pre-marathon
rest is concerned, was one long, sweaty wrestling match with the bed
sheets. I awoke countless times, frustrated and angry about the vicious
psychological pattern that’s developed over the last dozen years: the
fearful prospect of unrestful sleep producing the self-fulfilling prophesy
that it will indeed be a struggle. The only positive of the weeklong
ordeal is that there’s scarcely any time left over to think about the
unknowns of the race ahead. I’m not a clock-watcher but I’m certain that I
didn’t sleep longer than an hour or two at time between anxious wakeups.
Clearly, I’m in need of a strong sedative. So I dial my father’s number in
northern Minnesota and explain my predicament. He calls in a prescription
for the sleep aid Ambien, which should render me unconscious for at least
four hours this evening.
It’s 8:30 before I finish my pasta dinner, converse with a few members of
the affable Anderson family and head back to Brian’s SUV for the drive
back to Palatine. Brage’s uncle has been gracious enough to house us for
the evening. But, unfortunately, the Chicago suburb is an hour’s drive
from the marathon start in the city center and traffic should be heavy as
the field of 40,000 runners makes its way to the starting line before 8
am. Thus, on race day, we wake up at 5:30, eat a hasty breakfast (whole
grain cereal and bagels with peanut butter are my pre-race favorites), and
make a tense drive to the train station so I can catch a 6:30 ride into
the city, roughly a mile from the starting line. Brian, Brage and family
will then drive to a downtown parking spot and meet me at a few
pre-arranged places on the course.
The pre-dawn air is much cooler than expected, so as we drive, I remove my
short-sleeve dri-lite jersey and change into a bike jersey, pin on my
marathon number, and stuff the back pockets with Gu packets, Sport Beans,
and a running cap just in case the weather changes. Then, for extra
warmth, I put on my blue, long-sleeve 2002 Seattle Marathon jersey, pull a
thin Reebok ski hat on my head and cover my hands with a dingy pair of
running socks. I hunt in vain for a stick of Body Glide in my army green
duffel bag while Andrew (13) and Myles (8), shivering in the darkness,
look on in silence—aware that I’m upset but unsure how to alter the
atmosphere. I’ve planned carefully for this race, and these stressful
last-minute changes contribute to what travel writer Edwin Dobb would call
an “ungracefully executed” approach to my destination.
In the train station parking lot, Brage offers her deodorant stick in
place of Body Glide. I spread it over my chest and on my legs where the
liner of my running shorts meets my skin—the areas most likely to chafe
during my 42-kilometer journey. Then, I hug Brage and Brian who agree to
wait in the parking lot until the train arrives.
A shivering man in running shorts on a train platform is an instant
conversation-starter—at least on the day of a marathon. There are two
other marathon participants among the small group of people staring
blankly into the darkness of the unheated waiting room, usually alert
compared to the other soon-to-be passengers shaking off sleep and apparent
boredom. We exchange a few pleasantries and then one of them, a
middle-aged man dressed in a maroon warmup suit asks a friendship-starting
question: “What time are you going for?”
“2:48 or 2:49” I reply which turns the heads of another couple standing
near the doorway, “that is, if all goes well. How about you?”
He smiles. “I’ll be happy with four hours.” Without an additional word,
the other passengers are forgotten and it’s understood that we’ll be
conversation partners for the duration of the 40-minute trip to downtown
Chicago. A light from the approaching train appears in the distance,
illuminating the tracks on the platform in front of us. The brakes hiss as
the train grinds to a halt. We board moments later, climbing a flight of
stairs to a single line of seats on the second floor. The car is
illuminated with fluorescent lights, meaning the morning’s passengers will
look like fish in an aquarium to anyone waiting in the unseasonably cold
air outside. My new friend Dave is a 50-year-old minister residing in New
York but returning to Chicago for his fourth marathon. He helps me attach
my timing chip to my right shoe as our running talk turns to desultory
discussions of travel and, eventually, a discourse on Islam.
At precisely 7:10, we exit the train and follow a trail of other runners
making their way to the starting line in Grant Park. The overcast sky is
light gray and featureless. A bank thermometer reads 39 degrees. My teeth
chatter uncontrollably. Our immediate challenges: find a suitable place to
stretch our legs and then a clean toilet for the ritual, pre-race “carbo
unloading.” Our aim is the warm interior of a luxury hotel but we arrive
at Grant Park, pushed along by the current of runners heading in the same
direction, before we find a suitable location. In a long line of porta-toilets,
Dave lays his maroon windbreaker on the damp grass and I drop into a hip
flexor stretch that resembles a yoga pose. I turn onto by back and Dave
assists me with some hamstring stretches. There are a lot of
non-participants standing around holding jackets, water bottles, and
backpacks of the runners they’re supporting. I ask a group of them for a
Sharpie, intending to write my name on my forearms. A women volunteers a
red fine-point pen instead. I form large block letters on my arms before
concluding the pen isn’t quite up to the task. It doesn’t matter because
no one’s going to see my forearms anyway: it’s far too cold and windy for
a single, short-sleeve layer. Dave and I part ways a minute later.
Remembering his four-hour marathon goal, I tell him that I will think of
him at the two-hour mark— wherever I am on the course.
I hear the tired national anthem sung as I sit in a fetid, sea-green porta
potty. Once I exit the toilet, I have about seven minutes to get to the
Competitive Start area on Columbus Drive. The first pacesetting sign I see
reads “5:00”—five hours. A few hundred feet ahead, I see another one:
“4:30.” The Competitive Start Corral, those runners who can run under
three hours, is further away than I thought. I weave past hordes of
spectators crowding the sidewalks on either side of the street. Then, in a
panic, like a passenger trying to catch a departing flight, I break into a
swift jog and finally reach the CS chute with less than three minutes
before race time. I can’t find the entrance, so I scale the fence and drop
to the blacktop, remembering with a laugh the warning that the entrance to
this area would be “strictly enforced” by the race volunteers.
I do some final calf stretches and take a mental snapshot of the throng of
people gathered all around me. As I reminded Dave minutes earlier, “this
is probably the only time I’ll ever run this course.” But I didn’t tell
him or anyone else about an unspoken promise I made to myself two days
earlier: The Chicago Marathon will be the make-or-break race of my short
marathon career. I will reach my goal of cracking 2:50 on this flat course
or I’ll abandon the enterprise altogether.
I turn around and watch thousands of runners in the Preferred Start Corral
close the gap between us and realize the race is about to start. But the
staring gun never sounds. Instead, I hear the race announcer bellow
through the PA system: “The Chicago Marathon has begun.” Huh? Did the
noise of the crowd muffle the gun? Or did I simply not hear it? I start my
watch anyway and jog approximately 20 seconds to the starting line.
Because I’m at the back of the chute, I spend the first mile weaving
through walls of slower runners, worried that I’ve created an
insurmountable time deficit due to the slow pace being set in front of me.
But at the first mile, I look up at the clock. It reads: 6:25—the exact
pace I hope to duplicate for the remaining 25.25 miles.
As we move past dizzyingly tall downtown buildings and crowds three- and
four-people deep, I watch American flags on the ends of long poles whip
wildly in the wind. I read countless hand-drawn signs waiting patiently
for the arrival of specific runners. I also notice that the top floors of
the 110-storey Sears Tower are shrouded in fog. But this race will be
remembered more by its sounds than its sights—mainly because I’m so
focused on the task at hand. There are four-piece bands littered about the
first few miles of the course pounding out ear-splitting jazz standards
through distorting speakers. I cover one ear or the other as I pass them,
depending on which side of the road they’re positioned. No doubt the
intention is to increase athletic inspiration but the effect is just the
opposite: each song played at un-listenable volumes consistently breaks my
concentration.
The course itself is nevertheless optimal for spectator viewing. Brian,
Brage, Andrew and Myles are waiting for me on LaSalle Avenue near Mile 3.
I smile and pump my fist as I pass them, knowing we’ll see each other
again at Mile 11—when I will still be feeling good. While I proceed north
to Inner Lake Shore Drive and a close brush with Lake Michigan, they’ll
walk a couple blocks west to catch me heading south on Wells Avenue.
Around Mile 6, I catch a trio of runners with a similarly smooth stride
and follow them for the first half of the race, letting them block the
fickle 20-mph wind that is swirling around us. The two men are dressed in
tank tops but don’t appear to be uncomfortable. Nevertheless, their skimpy
attire draws periodic shouts of approval from the crowd that lines the
course. The strangest thing is that these random strangers joining forces
to meet their similar marathon goals actually know each other. One man
turns to the woman next to him and introduces himself with a question:
“Did you run this race last year?”
“Yes, I did,” she answers.
“I remember running into you in virtually the same spot on the course last
year. Weird. Anyway, my name is Jim.”
“And I’m…” but a gust of wind obliterates the end of the sentence. “Nice
to meet you.”
Now that they’re acquainted, I suddenly feel like an intruder, an
uninvited guest interrupting their silent dinner party. So I ask the
nameless woman, “What time are you going for?”
“2:46,” she answers.
“That’s a little faster than I’m intending to run but I’ll try to follow
you as long as I can.”
Knowing my second rendez-vous with Brian’s family is approaching at Mile
11, I pull the Reebok hat off my sweaty scalp and replace it with a black
runner’s cap whose Gear West logo on the front looks fresh from a NASCAR
pit crew. I also take out the first Gu gel and squeeze the sticky
substance, with a viscosity similar to toothpaste, into my mouth about a
quarter mile before the water stop at Mile 8. I begin to scan the crowd
for signs of my traveling entourage. Finally, I hear Brian’s voice
shouting my name and a camera flash to my right. I turn in time to catch
Brage snapping a picture of me just as I’m passing her. I pull the Reebok
hat out of my jersey and fling it to them like a Frisbee. Myles catches it
before it hits the ground and Brage hollers four spiritually fortifying
words I’ll never forget: “We love you, Joel.” I’m feeling warm and
confident so I pull the socks off my hands and drop them on the road—which
is the only mistake I make in the whole marathon. Within minutes, my hands
redden from the wind and falling temperatures, making it difficult to grip
water cups for the last half of the race.
After I’ve made my clothing changes, the female runner turns around and
notices that the crowd of runners behind us is growing larger. She turns
to her new friends and comments, “There’s quite a group gathering behind
us,” with a hint of passive aggressive irritation in her voice due to the
lack of assistance from other runners. Her words feel like a challenge so
I decide to lead the pack for a while—like a biker taking his turn
blocking the wind for his teammates.
I cross the rust-colored Adams Street Bridge and pass the halfway point of
the race in 1:22:48, with a familiar chirp from my timing chip. I’m
slightly ahead of my intended pace but I’m feeling good and beginning to
believe I’m capable of finishing in 2:46. At that same moment, my friend
and fellow running partner, Ben, is following the race by email in
Seattle. He informs me days later that with 13 miles to go, I’m within
seconds of a friend of his—we can actually see each other—but don’t know
it because we’ve never been introduced.
At Mile 15, we head directly into the 20-mph wind for the first time. Once
my pace group begins to leave me behind, I’m left to battle the wind and
the first moments of self-doubt creeping into my brain. My calves are
beginning to tighten and I’m clearly working harder than before to
maintain the same pace. Am I slowing down? “No,” the omniscient,
uncompromising clock tells me at the next mile marker: “your ‘friends’
have just increased the pace. Relax. It’s nothing another Gu packet can’t
cure.” Is my effortless anthropomorphism of the race clock the first sign
of fatigue? Of madness? Who can tell? I squeeze another vanilla-flavored
Gu packet into my mouth and wash it down with a cup of water. Then, I have
a difficult decision to make: do I spend the energy to catch them or wait
for a slower group to overtake me?
While I’m deliberating, an insipid, offensive song by Peaches blasting
from a pair of speakers near Mile 16, shatters my concentration. (For
those who are easily offended, feel free to skip the R-rated lyrics that
follow). “Suckin’ on my titties like you wanted me/calling me all the
time/like Blondie” oozes from the sound system like the most noxious air
pollution, asphyxiating every runner in the vicinity of her whiny voice.
Who made this sonic choice? Are there children about? Is anyone paying
attention? I detested that tuneless tune the first time I heard it in
Sofia Coppola’s film Lost in Translation but it’s even more infuriating to
listen to while running a marathon. Its lowbrow rap is actually draining
my energy, and, like a tractor beam, pulling me into the sound system,
tempting me to kick one of the speakers over—anything to make it stop
immediately. “I’ll only lose a few seconds,” I tell myself as the plan
forms in my head, “and I may even draw a few cheers from the crowd.” But I
can’t do it. Once I pass the speakers, though, I’m able to refocus my
energy on the remaining 10 miles of the race.
At Mile 21, I hear the first and only spiritually uplifting song of the
race: U2’s “Pride” thundering through the street which brings a smile to
my face. The song has never sounded better after the marathon nadir of
Peaches. As I catch sight of the pace group that dropped me at mile 15, I
make a startling discovery: I feel good—with only five miles to go in the
race. My calves continue to tighten, my body is working harder to maintain
the same pace, but I’m not slowing down. The clock at mile 22 confirms it:
another 6:25 mile. “Keep it up guys,” a man shouts from the sidelines,
“you’re on 2:46 pace!” Maybe my race goal was too modest, I wonder for the
first time, because I’m moving well and it feels like there’s a lot of
gasoline left in the tank. “Keep digging” I say out loud, “you’re looking
good,” just before making startling discovery number two: positive
self-talk is only necessary when you’re falling apart. When things are
going well, you don’t need to say a thing.
Midway through mile 23, I turn left from State Street, where the wind is
still at my back, 90 degrees to 35th Street and then left again another 90
degrees to Michigan Avenue. I’ll be heading into the wind, blowing as
fiercely as ever, for the remainder of the race. I lean forward in a
feeble attempt to make myself more aerodynamic but my efforts are useless.
I feel like a sail. I’m slowing down but I don’t need the wind to remind
me. A familiar—and slightly spooky—tunnel vision has returned. I gradually
see less and less of the course until my eyes are scanning a small square
patch of road in front of me. Thus, I barely notice when Brian appears at
my side, unexpectedly at Mile 25. Now it’s his turn to shout and pump his
fist. I can barely look at him, but there’s a determination in his eyes.
He can see mine and in that moment we both know I’m about to reach my
elusive goal.
I climb the only hill of the race just before Mile 26 and make the final
turn onto Columbus Drive. The clock turns to 2:49 and I accelerate to
finish in 2:49:15—482nd place out of 33,633 participants—breaking my
previous personal best by nearly five minutes.
Once I cross the line and slow to a walk, my legs begin to wobble. A woman
immediately emerges from a line of red-jacketed race volunteers and asks
me if I’d like to go to the medical tent. I accept and she helps me to the
side of the road where more volunteers are waiting to place a shiny
finisher medal around my neck and remove the timing chip from my shoe.
In the medical tent, I’m rewarded with the generous support of trained
professionals who stretch and massage my legs. I sip some Gatorade and
leave the tent 15 minutes later, moving gingerly but much more smoothly
than I would have if I’d tried to stretch on my own. And during the whole
dizzying aftermath, I conclude that the post-race pain is worth it; I’ve
met my goal! Do Brian and Brage know this? I have no idea but I head to
the “Runner Reunite” area next to Buckingham Fountain as fast as I can to
share the happy news.
“Joel,” Brian greets me with a hug and an indelible glow in his eyes,
“what did you get?”
“2:49!” I say with a confidence that might lead passing strangers to
believe the outcome was never in doubt.
“I knew you were going to do it,” he shouts, “once you passed me at mile
25.” And then our mutual storytelling starts which is one of the best
aspects of a successful marathon: the opportunity to relive it all over
again.
My close friend Yvonne meets us five minutes later and the six of us walk
to a nearby deli for lunch, even though it will be several more hours
before my appetite returns. As we’re nearing the restaurant, I tell the
others of my pact to race the marathon distance again now that I’ve met my
goal of a sub-2:50 performance: “What do you think I can do if I manage to
get some real sleep?” Who can tell? But I feel like I’ve just broken
through a huge mental wall and I feel certain that I still have the
potential to run faster times.
Two weeks later, long after the collective exhilaration from the race has
subsided, I realize that my post-race enthusiasm may not have been shared
by all of those who made the trip from Minneapolis to watch. “Next time,”
Myles admonishes me with characteristic candor, leading me to believe he’s
seen his first and last marathon, “choose a warmer race so I don’t have to
stand outside all day in a jacket waiting for you.”
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