Light reading for insomniacs
mea...@gmail.com
half-marathon looms just 4 weeks in the future. I'll be flying to Des
Moines for this one.
I've enjoyed reading your posts, and was digging through some old
memorabilia when I came across this little screed from 14 (!) years
ago. Back in 1993 Blogs weren't really heard of, or I might have
posted this to one. As it was, I felt inspired to type this into my
old 286 computer and print it out for posterity. I don't claim to be
a writer, but I enjoyed reliving the "sense" of being a begining
marathoner. I hope you enjoy this. Fortunately, you can always just
click "next" if you don't.
Be well, and run like you stole something,
Janet
*************************************************
Honolulu Marathon, December 6th, 1993
Janet Meade
The 21st Annual Honolulu Marathon began the way all ridiculously long
runs should - in the dark. Poised for a grueling workout and
confident in the months and literally millions of miles of training -
the twenty seven thousand participants in this year's second largest
marathon started down the long road to the finish line. The fireworks
were a nice touch, but visible only to the runners lined up in the
first two blocks of tree-lined Ala Moana Boulevard.
Starting at 5:30 a.m., the race took us down King Street in the heart
of Honolulu where we were treated to the splendor of a million
Christmas lights. It was a splendid way to kick off the Christmas
season.
By the time we reached to top of Diamond Head, a cloudy day was
breaking. I said a little prayer of thanks; it seemed that it would
be the overcast day I had been hoping for. As it turned out, it would
be even more than that. The rain, light and welcomed, fell
intermittently throughout the day.
Starting downhill on the other side of Diamond Head, I caught my first
view of the throng that ran before me. It seemed to stretch out a
mile, and I knew that the multitude behind me numbered even more. It
is hard to imagine that many people all in one place. I guess those
who have attended Woodstock or a Super Bowl game might just know what
I mean.
After two hours and seven minutes, we mid-packers were passing the
half-way mark. A little ahead of schedule. That could be a problem. I
looked for my husband, that wonderful, supportive man who arose that
morning at 4:00 a.m. to travel to his pre-arranged spot on the route
to feed me. I didn't see him. I later found out, when the route passed
the same spot from the other direction, the he was there. Somehow,
after doing everything right to be sure that we met up, it went wrong,
and I ran right past him.
By mile 18 my running partner, Dave, the man who kept me on pace all
that way, fell back. I was grateful for his company and missed it
quite a lot once I ran on without him. I couldn't stay with him,
though, if I wanted to reach my goal of a four and a half-hour
marathon, and he knew that, insisting that I leave him behind.
Four and one half hours. That isn't much of a goal for what my mind
classifies as "real runners" - the kind that pay their bills and buy
groceries with their running. For me, however, that is just shy of
one and a half hours faster than last year. Four and one half hours.
That goal seemed a pipe dream only three short months ago, but there,
in the thick of the fight, I was beginning to believe that I could, as
the Nike ads say, JUST DO IT. When I reached mile 20 in three and a
half hours, I truly felt that my objective was in my grasp. Only six
miles left, I told myself. One hour's worth of work. But I had been
slowing down. I could feel it.
As anyone who has ever done something as apparently crazy as this will
tell you, the last six miles seem longer than the first 20. With each
step I swore that the mile markers were drawing farther and farther
apart. I swore, too, that I would never, never, do this to myself
again. I was thinking, "Who is the sadistic creep that keeps moving
back the finish line?" when at long last, I passed the 25 mile mark.
Only one mile to go. I could run one mile in my sleep, I told
myself. "Good", I replied, "You might just have to. I am getting
really tired".
Some claim that talking to yourself is a clear sign of insanity and
that answering back is proof. At mile 25 of a marathon, I say insanity
is a foregone conclusion.
With little more than a half-mile to go, the finish line finally came
into view. First, however, I had to run under all of the "false finish
banners". First in line is the "Picture Man" banner admonishing me to
smile. SMILE?! Is this a cruel joke? No, the real cruelty was in all
of the people who suddenly passed me with their last-minute sprints.
Marathoners shouldn't sprint. As for me, I couldn't muster so much as
a quicker hobble to try to impress the crowd lining the road.
At long last, the real finish line was at hand. What a beautiful
sight! Not quite so beautiful was the clock ticking off the seconds
beyond 4 hours 47 minutes. A bit too slow again. The disappointment
didn't last long, however. At least it was a sub-5-hour effort. Sub-5
was my "fallback" goal, the one that was, perhaps, a bit more
realistic; the one that made me feel better about a less than stellar
performance, and I was glad to embrace it.
I met my long suffering husband at the finish line and the wonderful
man hugged my sore, tired, and aromatic body and congratulated me. I
nearly wept. So what if I didn't beat my goal time. Larry loves me,
and there is always next year.
