First Place Desire In The Backwards Marathon

I did it. Crossing the finish line sometime around one o’clock in the afternoon, completing twenty-six point two miles: my first marathon. The sense of accomplishment is indescribable, the array of emotions you go thru over the course of the race, it’s all something I’ve never felt during any other competition, and it’s something I don’t think you can understand until you’ve done it yourself.

However, I didn’t feel as good as I hoped during my marathon. As I stated in my previous post, I felt so ready for this, spending four months preparing, but there are a few factors which I feel inhibited me a bit making me do as well as I hoped.

My typical pre-race routine consists of stretching and meditating while listening to music blasting through my headphones, mentally preparing and getting myself pumped. (I’ve found artists like Rage and Rise Against and Strike Anywhere, bands of a political nature, get me the most energized.) This did not happen.

I had to make a mile trek to the starting line due to the massive back up on the 101/110 freeways trying to get to Dodger Stadium. I missed the start of the race while I was stuck waiting in line for my pre-race constitutional. I had to fight through the runners who had already begun because the first mile of the race was around the stadium and the startling line was in the center of the loop. As expected, my heart-raced, pumping adrenaline through the miles of my mile veins, a feeling I am rather familiar with from my time as a collegiate varsity rower. However, not being able to relax at the starting line before the race messed me up mentally a bit.

Since it was my first marathon, the training regimen was new to me, and I think I tapered a little too much before race day. I felt amazing when my long runs reached distances of up to twenty miles, but because my last week of training never broke the four-mile barrier, I think I lost my distance running edge.

I had to maintain my cool for the first five miles, which I spent fighting through the sixteen-minute pacers, to get to a place where I could get into a rhythm. The field didn’t really open up until about halfway though the course, somewhere around Hollywood and Highland.

My exhaustion kicked in around mile seven or eight, much earlier than I expected and way too early for the amount of training I did. Also, the important night sleep, two days prior to take off, didn’t really go so well and I didn’t sleep well or long enough.

Holy shit did I hit the wall. I was warned the hardest couple of miles usually pop up around the twenty-mile marker. For me it was mile twenty-one: The VA hospital. I needed to stop to use the rest room, and after I couldn’t move again. My knees locked and didn’t want to bend. I had to walk like a quarter mile to get the joints moving again. The fight to get my momentum back was brutal, climbing slowly up hill; the only thoughts in my head were, “Fuck this. I’m never doing this again. This is a once and done deal for me. I’ll finish this, but never again.” I felt like I was running though mud. I wanted to stop and walk and sit and crash right there on the road. I battled my way through mile twenty-two and twenty-three up hill on San Vicente. Our names were on our bibs, so people seeing the dismay on my face, screamed my name and supported me up the last incline.

Then something happened. Mile twenty-four. I was exhausted, beaten up, but not beaten. I made a promise to myself passing under the mile-marker I was going to finish strong, running across the finish line. I don’t know where it came from, but I must have had a secret stash of adrenaline, because my body kicked into gear. I practically sprinted those last two point two miles. I can’t believe my legs carried me the way they did.

After way over four hours of running, with sweat streaming down my face, a look of pure fatigue, my legs burning with lactic acid, and a fist in the air, I crossed the finish line.

I ran passed all six points: Dodger Stadium, City Hall, The Walk of Fame, The Sunset Strip, Rodeo Drive, and the Santa Monica Pier.

I ran from the stadium to the sea.

I ran across the entire city of Los Angeles.

I am still in awe of what I did last weekend. It’s pretty unbelievable and I actually did it. I ran a fucking marathon. The athletes who run them for serious competition, my hat is off to you (the men’s winner did it in a time of like two hours and five minutes which is stupid fast). Anyone who finishes a marathon deserves my upmost respect. It’s an amazing accomplishment, and it takes more dedication and heart than I ever thought possible. I am very proud of myself for going through all of the training and finishing the race. It’s something I never thought I would do, or could ever do.

And, goddamnit it, I want to run another one.

I have worked and will keep working... To keep the tradition of my one true motive in life... Music…

Prequel To The Sequel

The modern marathon commemorates the soldier Pheidippides running from a battlefield at the site of the town of Marathon, Greece, to Athens in 490 B.C., bringing news of a Greek victory over the Persians. Legend has stated Pheidippides delivered the momentous message "Niki!" (Victory), and then collapsed and died.

During the first Olympic games in 1896, athletes invoked the legend of Pheidippides by completing a 24.85-mile (40,000 meter) run from Marathon Bridge to Olympic stadium in Athens. At the 1908 Olympic Games in London, the marathon distance was changed to 26.2 miles to cover the ground from Windsor Castle to White City Stadium, with the 2.2 miles added on so the race could finish in front of royal family's viewing box. Over the next sixteen years, over extremely heated discussions, the 26.2-mile distance was established as the official marathon distance at the 1924 Olympics in Paris.

This coming Sunday, thanks to my dear, dear friend, Bridget Blitsch, I will be invoking Pheidippides spirit and running in my first marathon.

Let me expound. Four months ago, during my involuntary hiatus from the TV business, Bridget had begun to train for the 2010 Honda sponsored Los Angeles Marathon. Over very few Facebook conversations and threatening text messages, Bridget convinced me to sign up and run along side her during this test of both mental and physical stability. Mind you, she has since (due to work her busy work schedule) withdrawn from the race and I am now running solo, with twenty-five thousand other people.

The last week of November I took my first steps toward completely this life-changing milestone. Training began rather well, however the future of my training was very uncertain. I had only recently begun to run again after about six months on the injured list with a bruised ligament in my right leg. My legs felt strong, but to be safe, I told people, “I plan on running, as long as my leg holds out.”

December arrived and workouts began to grow in length and difficulty. I began planning my trip home for the holidays and preparing for the eight days I would be outside running in the blistering cold of the Pennsylvania winter. I would have to be outside for five of the days I was home, and only one of those days would leave me in the cold for more than an hour. I could handle that. Easy. No problem. That was until I received a call from Joe Capital V to work on his new pilot for Spike TV with Bam and Dunn. Score!! Hiatus over. SHIT! Where’s that calendar? My eight days of training now extended to eight weeks.

I became nervous, recalling the winters from my youth, walking around in the cold for five minutes here or ten there, and thought there was no way in hell I would make it two months, six days a week out in frigid temperature of New York City. I was having second thoughts about the race, my job being first priority. If I couldn’t fit the training in due to long work hours, or sub-zero temperatures, then fuck it, I’m out. Thankfully (read: sarcasm), and I wish I could remember who said it, someone threw the ol’ Dodgeball reference at me: “Well, I mean, if Lance Armstrong could overcome cancer and win seven Tour’s, you should be able to invoke his spirit and make it eight weeks in the cold.” Goddamn it, I was in.

I went at it full force. Every weeknight, no matter how cold, I ran around Brooklyn. Every weekend, no matter how much the wind burned against my face, I crossed the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan. No matter how much snow, I walked the mile to the YMCA to do my secondary workouts. I felt stronger and more excited the faster I got, the longer I could run, and the closer I got to my goal.

I spoke to a lot people during my training and they all had awesome stories to tell me. A woman from Canada recalled the twenty-two mile marker of her first marathon when she came upon a woman, straining to make it that last four miles. Her husband, on a bicycle, beside her, cheered her on, “You’re doing great honey. You look beautiful. You look amazing.” The woman was deliriously exhausted already, so much so, she failed to realize she shit herself (that’s right folks, apparently it’s a common happening) and continued to run the race covered in her own excrement.

My dad regaled me with a story from Idaho of an ex-marathoner who ran a race with a number of pros. A fellow runner was hired to sprint ahead of the pack early on in the race, to make sure the professionals didn’t take the race lightly, much like a fake rabbit in dog racing. The normal job of the “rabbit” is to keep the pros on their toes (I rhymed, damnit) and die off somewhere around midpoint. Well apparently, the professionals, knowing about the hired gun, decided to take it easy and wait for him to quit. He never did. He sprinted the entire length of the course, winning the prize money, and embarrassing the professional runners.

Now here I am, five days out. How do I feel? Physically, I feel sluggish, but it might be due to the fact I’m tapering for race day. The longest stretch I am running this week is four miles (today) and my last workout is Thursday. Despite this, mentally I think I am ready.

Two weekends ago was my longest and most difficult workout. The one where all my training my meant to culminate: I had to run twenty miles; from my front door, to the Manhattan Beach pier and back. The previous weekend I ran eighteen and felt completely exhausted and defeated by the time I finished. This particular Saturday I was ready. I started slow, but after about four miles, I thought to myself, “The slower I run, the longer this is going to take to finish. I wonder if I begin running at pace now how long I can hold out before I die? It’s worth trying, and if I die, I die. At least I know. Funny thing. I didn’t die. I ran the next fourteen and some odd miles at my race day pace, and held it. Well, that is, until the last mile and a half or so the clouds bowled in, hiding the beautiful sun I had leading me, and began to pour. And by pour I mean dump, like monsoon rain. And there I was, so close to the end, worn out, and some how I had it in me to SPRINT the remaining mileage. I don’t know where it came from, but it was there.

Okay, let ask myself again: So do I think I’m ready? Hell yeh! It was a long four months, but an awesome four months. I’ve never felt this healthy or ready for a race in a long time. This is the going to probably be the hardest thing I have ever done. I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little nervous, but I know I’m prepared. I got my two rest days planned out with meals and massages. I’ve done the workouts, I’ve logged the miles, I’ve eaten healthy (you heard me), and drank a shit ton of beer (wait). I’m so ready.

Sunday March 21, 2010 is race day. Twenty-six point two miles.

I’ll see you at the finish line.

This homestretch… I've saved my last breath… I push full throttle, no rest till nothing's left…