Putting on the red PR shoes.
I’m just happy to be here.
The seeded runner gear bag check in.
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Chicago Marathon Chicago, Illinois MAMFAY Race #1 – Age = 50.03 years old Sunday, October 12, 2008 Everybody needs a hobby . . . Finally, after I don’t know how long, the great Marathon A Month For A Year adventure is underway. I’m not sure at what age I started concocting a plan of running one marathon a month for a year when I turned 50, but I do remember Renate’s initial reaction. “No. No, no. No, no, no. No way in hell.” I didn’t push the subject at the time, but I wasn’t really worried about her. I figured she’d come around to my way of thinking when the time came. And, last year, when I did six races of marathon distance or longer in the first five months of the year, the little light went on for Renate and she realized that MAMFAY wasn’t all that far-fetched. Well, it was still kind of out there, but she thought I’d be able to survive it. Plus she decided that she’d do the Disney Marathon in January as her first (only?) marathon. She’ll also do some half marathons during the year. In fact, throw in a trip to Alaska and she’s now pretty much on board with the adventure. But, when I came down with a severe case of PMS (post-marathon syndrome) following Chicago, Renate de-committed to the idea a little. As it is, she’s probably looking to schedule some work travel the weeks following my future marathons. Let’s not worry about that now. Instead, let me re-cap my day in the windy city. It’s race day . . . We’re using bonus points and staying at a nice Sheraton about three quarters of a mile from the starting area. (We even have a nice view of the Navy Pier, with it’s humongous ferris wheel, and Lake Michigan from our window.) The usual morning stuff goes well and, soon enough, we’re out the door. There are a couple of guys looking to take a cab to the start. A third guy asks if he can join in and then split the tab with them. I’m kind of amazed that they’d even be considering a ride. It’s not cold and there are no adverse weather conditions coming into play. I’m actually looking forward to the ten to fifteen minute walk to help loosen things up. As are gobs of other people. Exiting the hotel, we make the left turn onto Columbus Drive and join the early morning mass of humanity. Well, it’s not quite a mass, but there are lots of folks. Including a whole tribe of the Purple Leukemia people. We’re on the lower section of the double decked Columbus Drive and I’m amazed at the size of the roads that Chicago builds on top of each other. My friend Dave, whose company builds roads and bridges, would be in hog heaven. We come to the drawbridge section and I notice that the grated road has been carpeted. Both the north and south bound lanes. Guess they’re expecting lots and lots and lots of people to be crossing here in a little while. Renate and I, and hundreds of others, reach the starting area. I immediately feel the need to find a porta-potty. The first few I come to are locked. I’m not sure why. The next couple have no paper in them. Well, now, this is going to be more of an adventure than maybe it should be. Under the best of circumstances, on any given race morning, I’m not in a particularly good mood. Today, it seems to be a little worse than normal. I’m fairly uptight and nervous. I know my goals for the day, I’m shooting for a sub-2:45, a PR by more than a minute. The weather is not cooperating. It’s already on the warm side. My health is not cooperating, either. I’ve picked up a little bit of a bug. From all the sick XC kids I’ve been coaching? It’s really not bad, just hacking up a little bit of gook every now and then. I seem to be breathing ok. My legs feel more tired and sore than I’d like. Too many miles? Too few? Too short a taper? Too long? The normal pre-marathon doubts and worries and feelings, I’m sure. But, my legs almost feel like whatever sickness I’m carrying around is down there. Kind of a weird feeling. Well, despite all those complaints, I still have a marathon to run. I apologize to Renate for being a bit frazzled. Oh, and it’s a bit of a difficulty to find the seeded gear check. She’s certainly a saint for all she puts up with. We do find the spot where I’m supposed to turn in my gear. I find a spot at the spot, dump all the stuff out of my bag, and start up the process. Don’t think I’ll be needing the throwaway sweat pants, so back into the bag they go. Guess I’ll pass on the hat and the bandana, as well. I take off the pants I wore over to the race site. I change into my bright red racing flats. The shoes that have raced twice and PR’d twice. I’m hoping that continues. I debate with myself about the long sleeved shirt I’ve been wearing. I decide that it’s warm enough that I don’t need it so I cram that into the bag. I’m left with just my fuel flask. I take the bag over to the counter and hand it to the nice volunteer. Renate and I start the walk over to the seeded corral section. |
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Putting on the red PR shoes. |
I’m just happy to be here. |
The seeded runner gear bag check in. |
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Along the way, our picture is taken by the official photographer people. My expression didn’t change from the middle picture above, but at least Renate’s smiling face is in the official one to balance things out.
There’s still plenty of time before the race starts, but I’m not much good as company so, a kiss, an “I love you”, and I head into the top secret seeded runner staging ground while Renate heads out to get a spot to view the start. As I’m walking by them, I see that runners are starting to assume positions in the corrals. First D, then C, and B. I’m in Corral A so I continue walking. Nobody is in the corral. I don’t want to be first. (Yeah, Morgan, that’s right. I didn’t feel the need to be the first runner in my corral.) I grab a piece of sidewalk and sit down near a bunch of other A’s and just wait. And people watch. And sip my water. The sun looks like it’s going to be out in full force today. Sitting there, all comfortable and warm in just my shorts and tee even in the shade, I realize it’s not going to be the bestest of running weather. I think, briefly, of changing my goal finish time. I opt for the plan of starting out at what feels like 6:15 pace, which would get me the sub-2:45, but to not get worked up one way or the other. Runners have begun entering Corral A – to hand claps and good luck wishes from the corral guards – and I figure I can sit in there just as easily as I’m sitting out here. So, I take the next step on my journey. And I continue watching the sights. I see the 3 Hour Pace Team, complete with their big signs, take up a position right at the front of Corral A. Figuring that, based on my bib number of 928, I was about the middle of the runners assigned to Corral A, I initially plopped down in the middle of Corral A. Well, when I saw the 3 Hour Pace Team move all the way to the front, I unplopped and moved myself all the way to the front. I didn’t remember what the times were to get into Corral A, but I didn’t want to be behind a bunch of folks shooting for a 2:59 marathon. Fortunately, that collection of individuals was on the far right side of the corral, while I was on the far left edge. Rather quickly, the corral began to fill up and, though not quite as tightly packed as sardines, sitting wasn’t much of an option. Speeches and ramblings. The national anthem. The wheelchair racers take off. Five minutes later, the elite runners start their day. We – affectionately called “the masses” – are scheduled to go five minutes after the elites. The volunteers holding the rope separating Corral A from the Top 100 take their rope and scurry to the side. We all surge forward. Now, it is sardine-like and quite confining. Well, the gun, the horn, the whatever they use to start the race should fire, toot, or whatever momentarily and we’ll be off and running. It does and, truth be told, I don’t remember what the starting noise was. I punch the button on my watch and start shuffling. I don’t look to see how much time it takes to cross the start mat (turns out it was eight seconds) as I’m a bit more concerned with some flailing elbows. We’re pretty much at the corner of Columbus and Monroe Drives, heading north on Columbus for a multi-hour tour of Chicago. |
 The wheelchairs are off . . . |
 Followed by the elites . . . |
 And, finally, the masses . . . |
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Let’s go runnin’ . . .
While I’m running, I generally break the race into five mile chunks. For me, it just makes the math easier. And, while I’m writing my story, I refer to the course map to try and trigger some memories. For this race, for whatever reason, that’s not happening. Maybe if I go to Google Earth and do a flyover, the visual will help. Let me go check. Ok. That might help. It’s giving me a headache, though. The initial congestion doesn’t last for more than a few steps after the mats and I’m soon moving at a comfortable and steady pace. There is a traffic island separating northbound traffic from that going south. There is a volunteer frantically (well, not all that frantically, maybe enthusiastically is a better word) waving an orange flag. Runners obediently move right or left of the island. For those interested in my every move, I tact over to the left side. There is something called Frank Gehry’s BP Bridge, a serpentine pedestrian walkway over Columbus Drive that is packed solid with cheering spectators. I briefly wonder what the weight allowance is before trotting underneath it and them. At Randolph Street, we go underground. Well, underground is not really the correct term. How about underroad, which isn’t a word. All of a sudden, Columbus Drive has become Columbus Drive Upper and Columbus Drive Lower. We’re on the lower portion and there’s a whole nother road on top of us. Complete with side streets and stuff. (I didn’t notice if there were side streets on our level.) And big old massive steel girders holding everything up. I remembered dealing with this on our walk from the hotel to the starting line, but it’s a whole different animal while running down the middle of the road. At Wacker Drive, well, underneath Wacker Drive, we return to daylight and cross our first drawbridge of the day over the Chicago River. Earlier I mentioned that there are carpeted lanes over the metal bridge for us sensitive runners to run on. At some point of the underneath section, I’d switched over to the right lanes, the northbound part, if you will. I knew my GPS had gone batshit during the subterranean travel, but I figured it would find some satellites when we surfaced and it would return to tracking me. I wasn’t worried about pace and distance anyway. I was just looking for the big clocks at each mile marker when I was planning on hitting my lap button just so I would have lots of numbers to look at after the race. I also knew that the GPS would have other possible issues with all the tall buildings. Anyway, I notice a fellow runner glancing at his GPS and ask if it’s come back to life. He replies that it has and he’s now running at 3:15 per mile pace. Wow! We ought to be done in no time if we can keep this up. I guess I should mention that I don’t recall much in the way of spectators on the underneath section. But, they were wall to wall when we got out. Lots of yelling and cheering. I also run by the Sheraton we’re staying at. Fortunately, less than a mile into my day, I don’t have much of an urge to return to the room. I get to Grand Avenue and make my first 90 degree turn of the day, a left heading away from Lake Michigan. There are lots of people behind the barriers. Renate was planning on being somewhere near the two mile marker, so I don’t spend any time searching for her at this point. Not that I could have picked her out of the crowd. Under Michigan Avenue and the marker and the big clock appear for mile 1. I punch the button on my watch and see a six twenty something. The big clocks are worthless as they were started with the elites who began their day five minutes before the masses did. I knew it wasn’t exactly five minutes since 5 plus 6:2x didn’t add up to what I saw on the big clock which was 11:0x. Plus I wasn’t sure how long it had taken me to cross the starting mat, so I didn’t have a real good idea of what my pace was for that first mile. No real big deal. As I mentioned earlier, I was going to be paying more attention to my five mile splits, anyway. A left, a right, another left, all 90 degree corners, and I’m running down State Street, and back over the Chicago River. There’s absolutely no congestion as far as running goes. Folks are passing me, but I’m not concerned one way or the other. It’s early in the day and there’s no sense racing for position to the first 5k mat. There’s the first aid station of the day. Volunteers are shouting “Gatorade . . . Gatorade . . . Gatorade . . .” I ask for water. “Across the street,” I thought I heard one guy say. I cross the street and again ask for water. “Next tables, after the intersection,” I’m told. Ok. No problem. Except I’m now running on the left side of the street, trying to grab cups of water with my left hand. I’m not very coordinated – that’s why I’m a runner – and I screw up a few handoffs before I finally succeed in getting a cup of water. A few sips in, the rest dumped on my head. It’s already a warm day and I know it’s going to get worse. Fortunately the aid station is a long one and I’m able to go through the sip and dump process a couple more times. We cross under the el tracks. It’s either before or after the aid station. The el driver toots his horn and waves. It’s either this time under the el tracks or later in the run. Anybody get the impression that I’m not certain of where and when things happened? Well, I’m not as on top of the memories as I have been in the past. A sign of age? Too much beer? One would think my semi-vagueness with the day would make for a shorter story. One would be wrong. I’ve yet to run a race that I couldn’t embellish the story of. |
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Renate made mention that she would try and get near the two mile marker, at the corner of State Street and Jackson Boulevard. And, since there are pictures, I guess she made it there. I don’t recall hearing her cheering. I’ve punched my split button and noticed a 6:1x. Another “getting old sucks” moment as I can’t clearly read my watch. The numbers are just a bit fuzzy and out of focus.
Renate is going to make the several block trek over to the halfway point. Me? I have miles to go. A right turn onto LaSalle Street. Looking at my GPS download shows that the tall buildings were screwing up satellite reception. I was just thankful the tall buildings were providing some shade from the sun. Heading north on LaSalle, we cross over the Chicago River for the third time. I couldn’t tell you if this was another carpeted drawbridge or not. I was running steadily, but not spectacularly. Mile three is another 6:1x. I don’t feel much, one way or the other. No discomfort, but not a light on my feet feeling either. I’m working for what I’m getting, but I don’t feel I’m overexerting. It’s really a weird feeling, kind of out of it. I’m not entirely sure this is where I want to be three miles into a marathon. I haven’t totally thrown out my goal of sub-2:45, but, realistically, that may be too much of a stretch with the temps where they are, the mid-60s, and going nowhere but up. |
 On Jackson Street – 2 Miles Into The Day (I’m the gray haired guy in the yellow shirt.) |
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I’ve set up a loose target time for each 5k of 19:15. There are supposed to be timing mats at them. Plus the big clocks that I’ve already given up on. I’m hoping I can read my watch clearly enough to get a clue. Ok. Here’s the first one. 19:3x. Not real good. I know I have a few seconds of chip vs. net time, but not fifteen. Maybe it’s time to opt for a more realistic time goal of sub-2:50. I can do that with 6:25s. The question is, can I run 6:25s?
Three damn miles into the day and I’m already doing mental gyrations. Screw it, Steve. Just run. Let the day turn out how the day turns out. Get through 16 miles and figure out what’s going on at that point. And, that’s kind of my plan. I’m still loosely playing with the math for 6:15s. Five miles should be at 31:15. I’m kind of surprised to see right about 31:25. Maybe I’m actually running better than I’m feeling. I’m really only about ten seconds off my 6:15 goal. And some of those seconds are coming back with the chip adjustment. (Looking at the downloaded information and subtracting the eight seconds it took to cross the starting mat gives me splits of 6:13, 6:15, 6:18, 6:12, 6:15 for the first five miles, surprisingly consistent. That works out to 31:13 for a 6:14.6 pace, which means I’m actually a couple of seconds ahead of pace. Having the big clocks out of sync with my race had, in hindsight, a bigger affect than I thought as I was running. That, or I need to get a watch I can read.) The next math point is 10k and I’m looking for somewhere around 38:30. I’m a little bummed to see a 38:5x. How much longer do I want to hold on to the sub-2:45? I kept telling myself that I was running easily, that I had another gear to go to. I didn’t feel like I was running at my limit. It was work, but it wasn’t hard. If that makes any sense. I’d just try and continue as I was, get a ten mile time check – screw that every 5k stuff, the math was just too much work – and re-evaluate the situation. I had noticed a guy obviously pacing a gal. I’m not sure what their (her) goal is. I’m figuring it’s too early to try and get a qualifying time for the Women’s Marathon Olympic Trials for 2012. I’m not even sure what that qualifying standard is. I get the impression that they, like me, are shooting for a 2:45. That’s confirmed with I query the guy during a quiet moment of the run. I thank him and decide to sit behind them for a while and see how things go. If they (he) nail the numbers over the next couple of miles, it’ll be one less thing for me to worry about. Well, I’d still worry, but not as much. It was entertaining when we made a left hand turn, maybe onto Addison Street between miles seven and eight, and I see the pacer guy point out a spectator to the gal. She veered over and snatched a bottle of fuel and continued on her merry way. She would drink a little then hand the bottle to her pacer to carry. I was just amused, that’s all. It doesn’t take a whole lot. Speaking of amusement, and I’ll put this here though it applies to the whole day, I don’t recall there being a lot of entertainment along the course. There was the very random band or other musical noise, but not much sticks out. That, the missing music, is not a problem for me as I tend to just be peripherally aware of it, anyway. The same with all the spectators, I guess. I like the noise, I like the feeling of the loud cheers bouncing off my body. But I’m not like some of the runners who wave their arms in an effort to instigate more cheering from the spectators. Nor do I like to have any identifying words on my shirt. I don’t really like the specific cheers. For that reason, I’m not all that gung ho on having my name printed on the bib. I feel I have to acknowledge when someone calls out “Go, Steve!” If they just call out a number, well, heck, I can pretend I’ve forgotten that. I did get quite a few “Go Yellow Shirt” yells, though nobody commented on my red shoes (as they’ve done in the past). I do try to wave to those people who comment on my clothing. Anyway, back to the race . . . I plodded through neighborhoods and through business districts, on major roads and minor ones. Hitting all the aid stations with the sip and douse routine. I was going through four or five cups each time. I briefly thought about the poor souls behind me – would there be enough cups, enough water – but I didn’t waste much mental energy on them. I was in a position I hadn’t really experienced this early in a marathon before. Again, the miles were passing – 6:19, 6:10 (don’t know where that came from), 6:27, 6:22, 6:20 for six through ten – but it was kind of like I was watching it from someplace not inside myself. I wonder if the cold (or whatever I had) was clouding things up. (The second batch of five miles was covered in 31:38, 6:19.6 pace, five seconds per mile slower than miles one through five.) I could see the bigger numbers on my watch and saw a 1:03:00 right before I pushed the split button at the ten mile marker. Not the 1:02:30 I was hoping for. It was probably time to toss in the towel on the sub-2:45. But I still felt I had that extra gear and I would use it . . . when? I continue to run in my own fuzzy little world. Well, mentally, anyway. I had left the girl and her pacer behind somewhere around mile nine or ten. I just wasn’t that comfortable pacing off somebody for one thing. For another, they weren’t hitting the numbers that would be necessary for a 2:45. Maybe they were planning on a negative split, running the second half faster than the first. I just figured I’d go ahead. If they passed me later in the race, I would try and go with them. If I noticed them passing me, that is. |
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This is not Mount Desert Island, it’s not Rocket City. I’m never alone. I always have runners in view, if not right beside me. I’m not worried about going off course. I knew this would be the case with Chicago, one of the “mega-thons.” I think entries were capped at 45,000. How many brave souls actually made it to the start line I do not know. Fortunately, with the seeding process, I was able to line up at the very front of the thundering herd. And a bunch of us were all running at pretty much the same pace. Things had settled down and there wasn’t a whole lot of passing.
Well, other than us passing some of the purple clad charity walkers who started well before the gun. They weren’t too, too bad, though, a couple pairs – they most always travel in groups – seemed oblivious to the runners running around them. It did seem, though, that whenever I was leaving the group I was with to latch on to one just a little bit faster, just a little bit ahead, I would always run into a batch of headwind. It didn’t feel like the wind was an ever present thing, just when I wanted to move up a group. |
 On Adams Street – 13 Miles Into The Day (I’m still the gray haired guy in the yellow shirt.) |
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A glance at my watch while crossing the halfway mat . . . right around 1:23:00. (Official time was 1:22:41, a 6:18.7 pace.) Well, if I really had that extra gear I was going to need it to break 2:45. Chances are it was just a figment of my imagination. Maybe a little bit of a mental trick I was playing on myself. Telling myself that even though I was working hard, I really wasn’t. When the time came, I could work harder. My plan became to get though 16 and then start a little push.
One half done, one half to go . . . It seems that immediately upon crossing the halfway mat, the temp went from simmer to broil. Now, I realize I’m mixing up my cooking terms, one simmers on the stove, one broils in the oven, but y’all get the picture. While earlier, it was hot, now, it is HOT. Maybe, because of all the water I’ve poured over my head, the temperature change should be from simmer to boil. Is that better for you, dear reader? It does seem to be a bit more open, we’ve crossed the south branch of the Chicago River and are into the west side of the city and there are no tall buildings to provide some shade. There also aren’t any clouds in the sky. My 15 mile time check of 1:35:00 makes it fairly apparent that I’m not going to hit my primary goal. I’m more than a minute off target and I’ve come to the conclusion that the extra gear is not going to happen. I back track to breaking 2:50. Now, I’m happy. I’m a minute or so ahead of pace. I’m flying. Well, not really, but you get the idea. Oh, before I forget, here are my last five mile splits: 6:21, 6:23, 6:25, 6:18, 6:23 and I’m at 1:34:41. That was a 31:50 (6:22.0 pace) block of five miles which continues my slowdown. It’s kind of weird that there’s been one faster mile in the last two groups. Though the 6:18 in this batch isn’t quite as speedy as the 6:10 at mile seven. I have been running with a guy from Northwestern for a while. Lots of cheers of “Go Northwestern!” I had seen folks wearing Michigan State sweatshirts on the streets and in our hotel and it dawned on me, while I was running, why they were in town. Michigan State played Northwestern in football on Saturday. For those who care about such things, Northwestern got creamed. I just went back and looked it up. Now, back to the sights in our hotel. Which have nothing to do with this race. While we were checking in, I noticed people with name tags dangling around their necks. Some kind of convention, I was guessing. Later, waiting for an elevator to go down, there was a guy and a gal with the name tags. I asked what the convention was. The guy said, “It’s a Women For Obama Leadership Conference.” I looked at him funny and I’m running the part about “It’s a Women . . .” through my mind. The gal pipes up, “And some men, as well.” Fortunately, the elevator arrived and saved us from further discussion, because, after all, nobody ever talks in an elevator. |
 16.5 miles into the day. Running with Northwestern Guy, collecting Roadkill |
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Now, back to the guy from Northwestern. I guess it was just about the time Renate took the above picture. Northwestern guy . . . all right, I’ll look up his bib number . . . his name is Anthony, a 34 year old youngster from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Anyway, Anthony (or is it Tony?) mentions that we just have to stay on task for a little over three miles. Then we’ll be into the final 10k and it’s all a piece of cake. Well, he didn’t say that last part. I commented that, “In my mind, I’ve just started my usual ten mile loop that I run at home. When I’m done with that, I’m done.” I added, “I don’t usually run it at this pace, though.” He mentioned the adrenaline factor and that we could further feed on the energy of all the folks we would be passing. That was pretty much all we had for conversation though we ran side by side for the next few miles.
Wait, at some point, maybe 18 or 19 miles in, some spectator dude tells us we’re 232 and 233. Now, I’ve tried to count the kids running in cross country races so I can let my guys and gals know how they stand and I lose track after ten or so. How the heck can this spectator maintain focus to count all of us? And, how high did he go? Anthony and I have a brief back and forth about the count. Am I 232nd or is he? Let me jump back to the 16.5 mile photo Renate took. You’ve all noticed the piece of roadkill Anthony and I were collecting. I think there was one or two earlier, but they started to occur a bit more frequently as the miles wore on. Guys that had a long walk ahead of them. I’m pretty much just putting in the time, clicking off the miles, at this point. Running side by side with Anthony. No words being exchanged. Just the sound of our shoes pounding the pavement. Grabbing cups of water at the aid stations (which were plentiful and well stocked). Passing the random runner and, it seems, the more frequent ex-runner. Taking a little bit of their energy from them. Running over the 5k mats and listening for the reassuring beep of my timing chip. Or was that Anthony’s? The mile 20 marker is just up ahead. My watch is showing right under 2:07:00. Well, I know I don’t have a 38 minute 10k in me. The question in my mind is how far over 40 minutes will it be? I’m reasonably certain I won’t be slower than 43 minutes so I should achieve my revised goal of sub-2:50. Numerical sidebar . . . Miles 16 through 20 were 6:24, 6:24, 6:21, 6:29, 6:27 which adds up to 32:05 and is a 6:25.0 pace. I had figured that I needed to be at the 20 mile point no later than 2:05:00 into the race to have a realistic shot of breaking 2:45. The 2:06:36 I was actually at wasn’t going to cut the mustard. But . . . I decide that I feel good enough that I can push the pace a bit. And I do. Or at least I feel like I do. I’m aware that Anthony is no longer next to me. I can still hear the “Go Northwestern” cheers, but they’re a few beats behind. And, getting behinder. I must be running sub-6:20 pace. I’m fairly deflated when I see 6:2x as my split at the 21 mile marker. I really felt like I mashed the gas pedal to the floor and I got the same damn thing I was seeing for just about all of the last ten miles. The only real benefit was that I was passing folks. Quite a few of them. Including other gray haired guys who may or may not have been in my age group, the wonderful world of Grand Masters. Well, there were five more miles to travel. Let me at least do the best I could to keep my “speed” up. I’ve noticed that the aid stations seem to be occurring with more frequency. They are also handing out bananas which have absolutely no appeal to me. Really, not even on a good day. So, I continue the grabbing of water, the sipping and the dunking. And I’m just running to the next mile marker and the next 5k timing mat. At some point during this final 10k, I notice that, despite all the drinking and dousing, my clothes appear to be dry and I’m not sweating. I heard after the race that conditions went from yellow (less than ideal) to red (potentially dangerous) during the event. At what time, I don’t know. Therefore, it follows, that I don’t know where I was on the course. Anyway, I’m mildly concerned about the lack of moisture. I’m feeling fine, at least as far as I’m aware, but I vow to get totally soggy, inside and out, at all the remaining aid stations. There are spectators around, but I’m not really aware of them. That’s not a function of my hydration level. I’m pretty good about maintaining a kind of “tunnel vision” as I’m running. I see things – some of which actually stick in my mind – but there’s more that goes on that’s just on my periphery. I did notice all the drawbridges we had to run over. Maybe it was the carpets that was the sticking factor. I do remember running through some pretty nice residential neighborhoods. Where and when, I’d have to do the Google Earth thing to figure out. I continue to chase down runners, trying mightily to maintain pace. Somewhere around mile 21 or 22, I calculated that if I could just keep the miles under seven minutes, I’d finish with a sub-2:50. So, let’s just keep the last batch of miles under seven minutes. I started contemplating the finish line beer. Miles 22, 23, and 24 are all in the 6:2x window. Well, if nothing else, I’m running consistently good miles for this stage of the marathon. Two more, plus a little to go. It’s a long, straight stretch and I can see runners up ahead. I focus on another gray haired dude. I catch and pass him. He tells me to “keep it going, you can pass lots more guys.” I thank him and continue steady forward progress. The beer is getting closer. The 40k mat and the mile 25 marker – another 6:2x. Well, it’s roughly eight minutes to the end. My watch has clicked over to 2:39:xx. Since I’m not entirely sure what the xx is, I figure I’m in for a 2:47:xx finish time. No real sense in hammering the last bit. I’m not going to break 2:45. Heck, I’m not going to PR, I’m not going to break 2:46. I wonder if I have enough in me to break 2:47. I make the right turn from Michigan Avenue onto Roosevelt Road. And see this monstrous hill. Cripes. How the heck did Mount Everest get here? And what the heck country staked a big flag with the number 26 on top of the mountain? And I must be wading through deep snow since my legs aren’t moving very well. How come it’s so hot if there’s deep snow? From my Google Earth post-race flyover, I see that I’m just running over some railroad tracks. Can’t say I noticed the tracks while actually running over them. And, I don’t recall it being especially noisy with spectators. It doesn’t seem to be as big a downhill on the way down the overpass. Probably just as well. My quads are feeling the past 26 miles and a downhill wouldn’t be the easiest on them. I see the corner up ahead, the last one of the day, a final 90 degree turn. |
 26.1 miles into the day. The final stretch on Columbus Drive. |
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Then onto the wide open expanses of Columbus Drive. Just a little south of where I started the day. The width of the road nullifies the tunnel effect of the spectators. There’s noise, but it’s not overwhelming. It’s not Boylston Street in Boston. Speaking of Boston, congratulations to my older brother Jeff, who qualified for his first Boston with a 3:25:35 at the Marine Corps Marathon on October 26th.
I can see the big clock hanging at the finish line. I can’t quite read it. It won’t matter anyway, as it’s not the correct time. Still, I aim for it and run under it so it can be in my finisher picture. Then I stop. I’m done. I take a look back for Northwestern guy, for Anthony. He’s not anywhere around. Don’t know how far back he fell. I hope not too far. There are some tired congratulations exchanged amongst ourselves as we weary runners make our way through the finish chute. Collecting a medal, waving away the space blanket, grabbing a bottle of water even though I really don’t want or need it. I get my chip removed. Then, an oasis in the desert. A beer stand. There’s no particular hurry, but I hurry anyway. I get a cup and they take a picture of me. (I wonder if I can get a copy of it.) I get the impression that they don’t want me camping out here. Probably just as well. I try and find where the seeded gear check is. I pass a podiatrist tent with lots of podiatrists waiting for the walking wounded sure to appear. |
 Just A Few More Steps |
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I find the unseeded gear bags and I ask some helpful volunteer where I should be going to get my stuff. “Up a little further and to the right,” she says. Ah, there’s the sign. Not many runners around and I get my stuff with no difficulty. Renate calls out to me. “Steven!” At this point, she’s the only one who ever calls me Steven. (Sometimes I really miss my Mom. Towards the end of the race, there was a guy with "MOM" written on his right calf. I mentioned that I'm sure his Mom is proud of him. And, I thought the same about mine.)
Numerical sidebar . . . Since I started tracking such things with the Dublin Marathon back in 2001, this was my second fastest final 10k. The splits for the last 6.2 miles were 6:27, 6:26, 6:26, 6:27, 6:29, 6:30 and 1:25 (for the closing 0.2). That was a 40:10 final 10k, a 6:28.7 pace. For those that care, I did a 39:45 ending 10k at Disney in January of ’06 on the way to a then-PR of 2:46:44. Time to start the recovery process . . . I make it out of my secure seeded runner enclosure and Renate and I start walking towards the party zone and more beer. We’re along Lake Shore Drive and I’m really just looking for a place to sit down so I can change shoes. No benches anywhere. I start chatting with a fellow runner also making his way, slowly, towards the party zone. We compare finishing times, bemoaning the warm weather. I’m ok with my 2:47, he’s about the same with his 2:53. We find out we’ve both just turned 50, he did it in August and it was October for me. He mentions that there’s a good chance I’ve won the age group. I demur, graciously, figuring some old stud had to have gone sub-2:40. The obligatory “Where are you from?” query. Turns out he’s from Wilmington, Delaware and he works in West Chester, Pennsylvania. In the grand scheme of geography, right down the road from us. At this point, we exchange names. Brian recognizes mine from a local West Chester Race. I can’t say the same, but I’m not especially good at names. We’ve reached the turnoff for the party zone, Renate and I turn left while Brian continues straight, towards his hotel. |
| Steve . . . without beer and then with. | ||||
 I really need another beer . . . |
 See? Don’t I look happier now? |
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We find a bench and I remove my soggy racing shoes and socks. It’s not a PR for the red shoes, but still a good run. I forgot a change of shorts and I don’t bother changing my shirt, so we head into the party zone in search of the beer tent and my one free beer. I walk up to the counter and ask, politely, for a cup of beer, please. The “bartender” says I have to walk over to the next tent and get a ticket. Over there, I get a wristband signifying that I’m old enough to drink – funny, they didn’t ask for proof – and Renate gets one as well. I get a voucher for my one free beer. Renate has to pay for hers (and any more that I may want) and we hand the cashier guy a $10 bill for two more beer tickets.
Finally, with beers in hands, we search out a place to sit. A band is playing, and they’re pretty good. There are lots of folding chairs positioned in the “amphitheater” area, but that’s not the type of sitting I had in mind. We grab a bench at a picnic table a little bit away. It’s warm in the sun, but I’m doing pretty well. I can see and hear the band. I can see the big screen showing runners crossing the finish line. There are a fair number of shell-shocked finishers milling around, quite a few with bags of ice sitting on their heads. A few folks have the space blankets, mostly just wadded up in their hands. I’m fairly content, marathon number one for the year of being 50 is in the books. I don’t know my official finish time, my watch has 2:47:05. I find out from my sister, who’s been stalking me – I mean, following me – on-line that I’ve won my age group and my finishing time is 2:46:56. That bit of the day is pretty entertaining in it’s own right. I guess my sister, Valerie, had been sending out periodic emails to the family and Renate, using her Blackberry, was also. From the on-line tracking, Valerie was able to check out how I was doing in my age group. She sent out one note in panic . . . “hey who is [so and so] and where did he come from? He wasn't even listed in the top 20 in Steve's age group at the half point and now he's leading...” Well, I ended up beating the guy anyway, but I checked his splits after I got home and the fact that there’s nothing until the 25k says that he appeared to jump into the race after the halfway point. I passed him somewhere between the 25k and 30k timing mats. Further over analysis of the splits afterwards shows that I was in third in the M50-54 age group until the 30k mat when I had moved into second. I took over first place in the age group between 30k and 35k and held it to the end. There was another comment from my sister to Renate when six guys in my age group crossed the 40k mat before my time showed up. But, all ended up right with the world. Well, as far as I was concerned. The guy who finished second to me on the “Live Results” didn’t make it to the “Official Results” for some reason and I can’t really tell why. It appears that he has valid 5k splits, all of them. I wonder if the powers-that-be saw his bib number (which was really high) and figured he must have cheated in some way or other. That’s a shame if he’s being incorrectly penalized. Maybe some other power-that-is saw him sneak into Corral A without the correct bib and subsequently had him DQ’d. If he had actually won the AG, I think I’d be a little disappointed if I slid up into first because of his DQ. But it’s only a curiosity as I beat him by more than two minutes. Finally, after returning home, I checked and found out that Anthony had finished in 2:49:51. I hope that was a PR for him, though I have no idea. I suppose I could check out his history on MarathonGuide.com, but I don’t care that much. But I did go investigate how that paced girl did (I even found one of her MarathonFoto pictures with me in the background) and saw that she came across the line with a 3:03:04. But, all that stuff happened well after the race. To celebrate the immediate news from Valerie, I ask Renate if she wouldn’t mind going back to the beer tent for another brew. Since we’re Bank of America customers, she has a ticket for a free beer from them, so she heads over to their special tent first, eventually returning with a couple of cups of beer. The band is taking a break, it’s getting a bit warmer and I’m feeling pretty grungy. The beer goes down easily and, rather than pay $5 for another, we start the walk back to the hotel. After all, there are cold bottles of Guinness in the room refrigerator. And a shower would feel good. And the rest of the day . . . Lunch at Lizzie McNeill’s Irish Pub . . . I’m still trying to get the credit card charge fixed. The service was fine, as was the food and, especially, the Guinness, but it was not worthy of a $43 tip on a $35 bill. I did get the extra basket of chips I asked for, but I also got shat upon by a bird. Guess that’s what I get for sitting outdoors. A walk down to the Navy Pier. There were a handful of shuffling folks, but not as many as I expected. Maybe everybody was hanging around back at the party zone. We did take a ferris wheel ride, which was a major accomplishment for my afraid-of-heights wife. And there was another beer or two. A return stop at Lizzie McNeill’s to watch the second half of the Eagles game. Oh, I forgot. I actually had lunch here the day before the race. And I got the history of the Chicago flag from the bartender. |
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The white stripes represent the North, West, and South sides of the city. No East? The two blue lines represent the two branches of the Chicago River. The four six-pointed red stars (and I don’t even remember them being six-pointed when I saw the little flag at the bar) represent, from left to right, Fort Dearborn, the Great Chicago Fire, the World’s Columbian Exposition, and the Century of Progress Exposition. According to the bartender, there is talk of adding a fifth star should Chicago receive the 2016 Olympic Games.
(Here's a link to the Wikipedia entry which has a bunch more detail, including what each point of the six-pointed stars means.) |
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The easy walk back to the hotel. Packing for the early morning flight was a pain. I had to re-pack my throwaway sweats and, since I never trust the weather weenies, all the other cold weather stuff I brought. Room service for dinner . . . fish and chips . . . washed down with another Guinness. And the Phillies – Dodgers playoff game on the TV.
For what it’s worth, Illinois is my 16th state and Chicago is my 18th stand alone road marathon. (I do have the 15 Ironman marathons and the 11 long trail runs that account for some of the states.) Next up is the Richmond Marathon in Richmond, Virginia on November 15th. That won’t be a new state for me. As always, thanks to everybody for reading. I’ll see you in a few weeks. A couple of links (which are supposed to open in a new window) . . . Here's a table of the mile splits. Here’s Renate's photo album of the race on Kodak Gallery. |
 Room service fish and chips . . . A meal fit for a champ. |
| Career Road Marathons |
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Event and Year Philadelphia '94 Philadelphia '95 Philadelphia '96 Philadelphia '97 Philadelphia '98 Boston '99 New York '00 Dublin '01 Disney '03 Philadelphia '03 Boston '04 Disney '05 Marine Corps '05 Disney '06 Disney '07 MDI '07 Rocket City '07 Chicago '08 |
Chip Time 3:18:44 3:11:38 3:05:18 3:07:52 3:03:58 3:17:04 3:08:38 2:48:22 2:47:13 2:48:00 2:55:52 2:46:49 2:47:14 2:46:44 2:52:28 2:49:28 2:46:01 2:46:56 |
Average Time 3:18:44 3:15:11 3:11:53 3:10:53 3:09:30 3:10:46 3:10:27 3:07:42 3:05:25 3:03:41 3:02:58 3:01:37 3:00:31 2:59:32 2:59:04 2:58:28 2:57:44 2:57:08 |
Age 36.14 37.13 38.15 39.15 40.14 40.55 42.10 43.08 44.28 45.14 45.55 46.28 47.08 47.27 48.27 49.03 49.19 50.03 |
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Thanks, everybody, for reading. Hope you had a good time. By the way, if anybody has any comments, queries, suggestions, corrections, etc., please pass them along.
Return to Noone's Saloone & Golf Club. Originally published on November 3, 2008. |