I'm running in a marathon. I'm surrounded by a pack of runners with synchronized foot falls --it's as though we are a river of colors caught up in our own current with embankments rushing by in a blur, full of a cacophony of cheers and ringing cowbells. Within the pure moment I keep hearing music invade my senses. It presses in on me from all around and doesn't belong. Struggling to understand what is happening while paying attention to the runners around me, my world quickly fades and in a sudden vacuum it disappears. Only the music remains. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness around me, and I realize that I'm in my bed listening to a remix of Lisztomania by Phoenix that I have set for my alarm. It takes several moments for the fog of deep sleep to dissipate, leaving me saddened that the marathon in which I was running was a dream. Still hearing the echo of small blue cowbells rung by spectators, my only comfort is knowing that it'll soon be time for me to truly awake and get ready for an early morning run.
It is October 12th, 2013, and I'm at McCormick Place in Chicago, Illinois at the 2013 Bank of America Chicago Marathon Expo with my good friend and Chicago Marathon veteran Elizabeth Schroeder. We've just journeyed from atop the parking garage through a behemoth of a building. Even walking at an exuberant pace, it takes us quite some time to find the expo hall. Granted, with every opportunity to take an elevator, we choose the stairs, because we're Corn Fed Spartans. Every moment holds the opportunity for a workout, right?
It is October 12th, 2013, and I'm at McCormick Place in Chicago, Illinois at the 2013 Bank of America Chicago Marathon Expo with my good friend and Chicago Marathon veteran Elizabeth Schroeder. We've just journeyed from atop the parking garage through a behemoth of a building. Even walking at an exuberant pace, it takes us quite some time to find the expo hall. Granted, with every opportunity to take an elevator, we choose the stairs, because we're Corn Fed Spartans. Every moment holds the opportunity for a workout, right?
Eventually after following the greater concentrated stream of dry fit and neon we enter into a bustling hive of activity that is the expo. Aisle upon aisle of banner capped vendor booths seem almost unapproachable amid the constant traffic of hunters and gatherers hauling their bounty in expo bags. Brightly colored corporate castles crowned with high tech product displays are adorned with the unmistakable logos of the giants like Nike, Brooks, New Balance, and Asics. After several minutes of walking aimlessly around Elizabeth remembers that Scott Jurek is supposed to be at the Brooks kiosk. We quickly find the back of the line, and I hold the place while she runs off to find something for him to sign as she regretfully left her copy of "Born to Run" at home. She returns with the official marathon poster, a breathtaking image of the Chicago skyline with a bit of poetic verse in large white font, and we soon find ourselves face to face with the legendary running phenom. Even larger than life in person, Scott heartily greets us and happily signs the poster for Elizabeth. After a brief exchange of encouraging words, he takes several photographs with us, and as we walk away it hits me that in a once in a lifetime moment I have just stood next to running royalty.
It is May of 2012. I have just ran my first 5K, eeking in at just under 23 minutes, two weeks after completing my first Spartan Race, and about a month and half after going on my first run. I am proud to finally be running in actual running shoes, when my good friend Dustin Vinson suggests running without shoes. He has just read a book called "Born to Run" by a runner named Scott Jurek that he has downloaded to his iPhone. I am more fascinated by his purchase and download experience with his phone, but he won't stop talking about Jurek's experiences as a runner. I am new to the sport, so I refocus and listen to his stories as we're both standing in the parking lot behind the restaurant where we work. That same evening he convinces me to sign up for the Bernheim Trail Half Marathon, my very first half. A couple weeks later after a phone argument with my ex wife I run over 13 miles for the first time in my life. I finish after dark in 2:13. I'm not sure where that time even stacks up in the running world. I wonder if Scott Jurek remembers his first 13 mile run. I wonder if he ever ran when he was angry...
Elizabeth finds the Chicago Monster Half Marathon booth and settles in at the mammoth task of collecting race packets for her and about a dozen other friends for the following weekend. The race will take place one day after she will run a 50 mile trail run. In constant admiration, I am not shy to ask her questions about her choice in gear, supplements, and training. As she meticulously works from a checklist, I wander around the expo looking at all of the vendor's offerings. Shoes, compression wear, ear buds, head gear, energy drinks, gels, bars, all-weather gear, medal displays, socks, tank-tops, tees, even skin cream --if you can think of it, it's here...and all with hefty price tags. After Elizabeth finishes her duties, we take a large box of collected race packets and shirts back to her car, then we briskly make the trek back to the expo hall. There is still too much to see and there is still much time before the expo closes. With no more obligations or celebrity autographs to collect (we had missed Hal Higdon) we work our way back and forth down each aisle, chatting with vendors and collecting free swag --brochures, magnets, and of course the official small blue cowbells with the Chicago Marathon logo that we will ring during the race the next day. We even manage to score free washing machine cleaning tablets with accompanying head bands. The tablets I can use, while the headbands will make my children happy. Finally to my delight, we refuel at an oasis that is Connie's Pizza; I am in carb heaven with no concern as to how the rest of the evening will play out.
I'm at home yesterday feeling a rare head cold coming on. I felt it in my throat after I had awakened from a long night of bartending and having drinks later with two of my best friends from work. I am exhausted on my day off from running and working out. I know I need to spend the day resting if I am to wake early and run the next morning. After I go out for Chinese take-out I decide to settle into the couch and watch a movie that Elizabeth gave to me during my trip to Chicago called "The Spirit of the Marathon" while I mindlessly eat my house fried rice. Knowing the effect that the Chicago Marathon had on me, I am little surprised that I keep getting emotional at every turn during the movie that follows five different runners of different ages and running abilities training for the 2005 Chicago Marathon. I quickly inhale my dinner, because weeping over a box of Chinese take-out doesn't make for the most enjoyable eating experience. I find myself on my feet near the end of the film as the elites are nearing the finish line. I wonder to myself, was Daniel Njenga one of the Kenyan racers that I saw at the Chicago Marathon only three weeks ago? Was this individual one of the super humans that I witnessed flying in front of me with my very own eyes? I finish the movie, even watching all of the DVD extras and decide to call it a night. I figure that even though it's only 9:30 p.m. I need to get as much sleep as possible. After closing down the house and getting ready for bed, I ring my small blue cowbell from the marathon. It has become my ritual to remind myself of my ultimate goal for the coming year. My thoughts are all over the place, thinking about the upcoming Carolinas Spartan Beast, different people coming and going in my life, and the movie I've just watched. Finally, after tossing and turning for over an hour I enter into a restless sleep.
I have just finished the Bernheim Trail Half Marathon. I finished in a strong surge at the end, because that seems to be what all of the runners do in the articles that I have read in Runner's World. Finish strong! Finish strong! Even though I got lost and ended up running 14.5 miles, I am proud of my 2:53 time. I change out of my compression long sleeve top and into a t-shirt, donning athletic pants over my shorts. I walk barefoot through the grass back to the small festival area and eat several freshly grilled hamburgers while waiting for my friend Phillip North to cross the finish line. I even indulge in a Sprite. I am most eagerly awaiting any sign of Dustin as he decided to run the full trail marathon. Dustin has only recently ran the Nashville Rock and Roll marathon and talks about running a 50K ultra marathon in the coming weeks to qualify for something he calls a Marathon Maniac. For the first time I consider that we are becoming part of something bigger than ourselves...a sport much different than any that I've ever known. I reflect on the shouts of encouragement and congratulations after I crossed the finish line only minutes before. Rather than think about what I have just accomplished, I consider my own self doubts...could I have run the full trail marathon with Dustin? Shouldn't I be capable of 26.2 miles? Did Scott Jurek ever have these doubts, or did he just go out and run for miles right out of the gate?
Elizabeth and I sit at a McDonald's on the corner of Wells Street and North Avenue before daybreak on Sunday morning, October 13th. In an hour's time the 2013 Bank of America Chicago Marathon will begin. It's an incredible morning in the mid-40's with only a slight breeze. There is a chance it will get into the mid-60's...in other words: a perfect day to run. We have already made a couple trips back and forth from her car, because we had forgotten a couple things, including the sign she made to hold that says, "In my mind, you're a Kenyan." As I am enjoying my first hot kiss of caffeine goodness, Elizabeth is busy texting her friend Andé about where we parked the car and where we are going to meet to watch the marathon. There is talk about first watching at Mile 5 and then cutting several blocks to the west to watch at Mile 10. A brief time later we take off to go meet Andé and her boyfriend Rick who have actually found a place to park not too far from our own on Euginie Street. Andé says they would rather watch from Mile 10 on Sedgwick, because that is where the sister marathon group from Osaka, Japan will be setting up a ceremonial drum line. We meet them and are quickly introduced to the Osaka group who gives us all ceremonial head bands to wear. Anxiety is in the air as Elizabeth, Andé, and Rick all talk about their fellow running group friends from Kankakee who are running in the marathon, some of which are first timers. The greater excitement is about twin brothers, one of whom is shooting for a PR, well into sub-3 hour territory. I begin to think about what time I would try for in a marathon. I remember that Dustin's first marathon goal was to run it in under 5 hours. Surely, I could do that, right? Maybe even shoot for four hours? Someone then shouts that the marathon is under way. There are cheers all around, and we know that even 10 miles from the starting line it won't be long until we see our first athletes. And very soon indeed, they do appear...
It's April 26th, 2013, a little over five months before the Chicago Marathon. Dustin, Brice Lazaro, and I are participating the evening before our second Indiana Spartan Sprint in what is called the Hurricane Heat. It seems as though four out of every five runners around us are wearing similar red and black jerseys, and hailing themselves as the Corn Fed Spartans. We are told to split into teams of fifteen, and failure to do so quickly will result in a penalty of multiple burpees. We find ourselves the only non-Corn Feds on our team. For the next five hours of pain and misery we are adopted into the Corn Fed family. After it is all over, while everyone changes out of their cold muddy clothes in the parking lot, we exchange hugs and handshakes, are given t-shirts and wristbands, and look forward to running the next day with other Corn Feds. Three months later the same smiles greet me and three other friends from southern Illinois as we run the Super Spartan in Joliet, IL. More friends are made and through participating through the Corn Fed facebook group, I eventually make friends with a runner named Elizabeth Schroeder. She tells me that she has friends running in the Chicago Marathon in October, and I should possibly consider coming up and joining in supporting them. The Chicago Marathon; it's not so foreign to me...but I don't know what to expect. I once witnessed the start of the marathon while standing above the runners on a bridge about six years ago when I was married, and we took a vacation weekend in early October to visit in Chicago. My brother also once trained for the marathon, but was a DNF, while his then fiance went on to finish. I also had tracked a friend last year as she ran the marathon. A trip to Chicago to support other runners while I finally get to see this marathon first hand? Why not?
The first athletes to appear are the wheelchair racers. I honestly have not considered them. The first group that we see coming down Sedgwick are being escorted by police officers on motorcycles. Flashing blue lights from the cycles start sending waves of cheers rolling down the street toward us. The Osaka group begins pounding madly on their drums. We begin shouting, shaking our small blue cowbells. The racers fly past us in a blur, shoulder muscles rippling, arms pumping up and down, propelling them quickly out of view. The feeling of energy passes like unrestrained electricity throughout all of the spectators. Then another group flies by us, and then another. Andé and Elizabeth start receiving automatic texts alerting them of their friends' progress along the course. Quick estimation is done and we know that very soon the elites will be passing by.
Within a short time someone shouts, "Here they come!"
Another quick shout of, "The Kenyans are coming!"
A short convoy of official marathon vehicles passes by, soon followed by another police escort, and then we see them. It is the most magical thing I have ever seen in my entire life outside of the birth of my children. The elite runners seem other worldly...running in a tight group, all in the same stride, feet seemingly not touching the ground. They are so beautiful. They are like something out of another time and place...some other world. This is a purity that I am too impure to even witness. All I can do is stand, ringing my small blue cowbell, yelling at the top of my lungs as though I'm at a rock concert thinking that the sheer force of my own lungs will bring the beleaguered rockers out for another encore. And in a matter of seconds...the elite male runners are gone.
Very soon another elite group passes us, and then another police escort for the elite female runners who are no less magical as they streak past us. Another wave of awe passes over us as we collectively realize what we are actually witnessing: super beings that are part of a sport that embraces even us mere mortals. Then before we know it, wave after wave of runners start flying past us. 45,000 runners of all shapes, ages, nationalities, and sizes. Some in compression gear, some in only running shorts; some in tank tops, some in hooded sweat shirts; some in creative costumes, others in modest unmarked clothing. Most runners have their names printed in some fashion above their bib numbers, so we can cheer them on, and cheer them on we do --with as much conviction and passion as we can muster for the next six hours. I am slowly aware that I am wearing a blister into my right forefinger from ringing my small blue cowbell. The Osaka group never stops beating the drums. Elizabeth never puts down her sign. All of us never stop shouting. The runners never stop coming.
My eyes pop open. My alarm hasn't gone off, but maybe it's close to being 5:30 a.m. when I'm set to wake and go for my run. I know it will be cold out so I've already set aside all of my cold weather gear, so I can dress quickly and get out the door. I roll over and check the time on my phone. In a glimpse I'm instantly irritated at my internal clock --it's only 12:30 a.m. Most evenings I go to bed around this time. I readjust in my bed, hoping that I've found just the right position to fall back asleep. I start to think about the movie I watched earlier in the evening. I think about the weeks and weeks of training that the runners all went through. I think about the training Elizabeth was doing leading up to her 50 mile trail run. The small doubts she had about finishing, but the determination and self-affirmation she displayed in the days leading up to her successful finish of both the ultra and subsequent half marathon. I think about my goals for 2014...possibly two Spartan Trifectas...several marathons...and ultimately running the Chicago Marathon. I fall back asleep as I am pondering the latter.
The four of us decide to leave the Osaka base camp and catch a cab to find a new spot somewhere near the end of the marathon route. Andé, Elizabeth, and I squeeze into the backseat, while Rick takes front passenger to discuss the best options with the cab driver as most of the roads are closed and a direct route is rather difficult. After about ten minutes of driving, we disembark fairly close to Mile 25. We see a small gap in the spectators across Michigan Avenue and quickly dash through a break in the runners to claim our spot. We start to see some of the same runners from Mile 10, but now obviously in different spirits. Some seem energized to be so close to the finish line while others seem to be on the verge of breaking down emotionally and physically after all they have put their bodies through. They know how close they are to the finish which should be their lighthouse, but it is the crushing weight of the thought of the cumulative miles that has become their albatross. Even the spectators around us seem exhausted. Once again we take up our cheers of people's printed names as they run in front of us. It becomes a natural act to search out a collection of names as they are far off, so we can recite them in a litany of rousing encouragement. We scream and ring our small blue cowbells. Elizabeth holds up her sign high into the air which now has one of the letters scribbled in ball point pen as the original has taken up permanent residence on Sedgwick. Our enthusiasm is only briefly halted when an angry spectator challenges Elizabeth for her spot where she is cheering. After conveying several negative comments he pushes past her which triggers the inner Spartan in Rick. Before Rick can do anything that might be interpreted by some as undue force, Andé intervenes and in a no less intimidating presence manages to get the guy to submit and calm down. Where he finally goes we fail to notice, or rather fail to care. The only thing that matters is playing our small role in motivating the constant flow of runners pounding their way toward the finish line.
The frequency of marathoners actually still running begins to wane while the majority of runners passing us have compromised with their fatigued bodies and are walking. In the midst of all of this one lone wheelchair racer appears out of nowhere. I had forgotten all about them. Surely they had all passed before we arrived on Michigan Avenue? He is obviously struggling. Every bit of strength seems to have been long since spent in the previous miles and by sheer determination alone is he still pushing toward the finish line. A knot instantly forms in my throat and tears well in my eyes. Is this man any less of a super being as I thought of the elite runners? Does he have any less drive than when Scott Jurek runs a 250 mile ultra marathon? Does he have any less strength and spirit than what we boast about at our Spartan races? Then I turn to see Elizabeth, and she is standing there crying, still holding her sign. "In my mind, you're a Kenyan." In that brief moment I am ashamed for any pride that I've ever had as a runner. In so many profane words I curse myself and walk away from my friends to follow this profound athlete as he makes his way painfully down Michigan Avenue toward the 25 mile marker. He is still almost a mile from the turn onto Roosevelt Avenue that will lead up to a harsh uphill battle to the finish line in Grant Park. The number on his wheelchair says 229. As I walk I intermittently start up the chant among other spectators, "Two-Two-Nine! Two-Two-Nine!" I shout anything encouraging that I can. I'm not sure if he can even hear me, and I wonder if he can, or...would he have me not cheer at all? Is it really just a distraction? After all of these miles what is he feeling? Would he rather the world be silent around him, or are our cheers driving him toward his goal? Are we spectators there for the racers, or for our own gratification? Are we the lighthouse or the albatross?
Very soon I cannot travel any further down Michigan Avenue due to the sidewalk on our side of the street being closed to pedestrian traffic. If I have encouraged Two-Twenty-Nine at all, I'll never know. He slowly disappears from my sight, and I can only pray that he finishes. I decide that it doesn't matter if he heard me at all. I have been fortunate enough to be graced with his spirit and determination. I know I will think of him if ever I am at my own breaking point in the future...during a race or not. I jog the three quarters of a mile back to where my friends are still standing. Several of their friends that they have been waiting for pass by. There is a frenzy of hugs and tears as they are about to realize the end of their amazing journey. The end of the marathon's 26.2 miles is very near.
We break back across to the other side of the road and pass through the long shadows of the afternoon to work our way toward Grant Park. Everywhere we walk thermal-blanketed marathoners adorned with finisher's medals cross our paths. Young and old, shivering and tired with steeled looks of pride in their eyes, they bustle on their way to some one or some place. Their race is done. We pass through a security check point and into the marathon festival area where prerecorded instructions are being heralded to the finishers over the public address system about the 27th Mile Post-Race Party where "runners can collect a free cup of Goose Island Three-One-Two Wheat Ale if you're over twenty-one." Elizabeth and Andé spot their friends as Rick and I walk behind them discussing the upcoming Spartan Beast in South Carolina. He teases me because I and my small group of friends will be flying down while he and Andé suffer the long trip from northern Illinois by car. Introductions are made between strangers and congratulatory hugs are exchanged between friends. The tear-streaked faces are host to nothing but smiles, and jokes are made about the mythical free beer and if it really exists. Some of them talk of going to eat in the city while our group decides to say goodbye to the victorious marathoners and make our way back to Michigan Avenue in search of a cab. The shadows are growing longer, and well over six hours after the start of the marathon, runners are still making their way across the finish line in Grant Park.
We find where we parked Elizabeth's car on Euginie. We're thankful that it's still there and quickly set off to leave the city to rejoin Andé and Rick, along with Elizabeth's son back in Kankakee for dinner before I eventually hit the road for my four hour drive back to southern Illinois. We are exhausted and conversation is brief during our short commute. I have time to reflect upon all that I have witnessed --all that I thought I knew about running; why I do it and why others do it. I think about my friends with whom I shared this experience. When will I see them again? Will I ever race a marathon with them? Will I in fact have the opportunity to race the Chicago Marathon with them next year? All of these thoughts and more run through my mind. I think of Elizabeth's upcoming ultra trail marathon. I think of my friends back home. I think of my children. I think of the movies that Elizabeth has given me. One is called "The Spirit of the Marathon." I hope that I can watch it soon.
I finally roll out of bed. I turn the lights on and do some quick simple stretches and push-ups to wake myself up. I suddenly remember that I had been dreaming about running a marathon. Like every dream, as soon as I start recall the details, the memory of it quickly turns into a fog and blows away. I don't think any of my friends were with me, nor anyone recognizable. Was I truly by myself? No. I was with other runners. We all ran together as one. We were the elite runners. We were the wheelchair racers. We were the spirit of the marathon. I think all of this as I put on my running gear. Before I walk out the door I read the lines on the poster I have that now hangs over my bed. Mine is the one without Scott Jurek's signature, but every day I read the poetic lines:
It is May of 2012. I have just ran my first 5K, eeking in at just under 23 minutes, two weeks after completing my first Spartan Race, and about a month and half after going on my first run. I am proud to finally be running in actual running shoes, when my good friend Dustin Vinson suggests running without shoes. He has just read a book called "Born to Run" by a runner named Scott Jurek that he has downloaded to his iPhone. I am more fascinated by his purchase and download experience with his phone, but he won't stop talking about Jurek's experiences as a runner. I am new to the sport, so I refocus and listen to his stories as we're both standing in the parking lot behind the restaurant where we work. That same evening he convinces me to sign up for the Bernheim Trail Half Marathon, my very first half. A couple weeks later after a phone argument with my ex wife I run over 13 miles for the first time in my life. I finish after dark in 2:13. I'm not sure where that time even stacks up in the running world. I wonder if Scott Jurek remembers his first 13 mile run. I wonder if he ever ran when he was angry...
Elizabeth finds the Chicago Monster Half Marathon booth and settles in at the mammoth task of collecting race packets for her and about a dozen other friends for the following weekend. The race will take place one day after she will run a 50 mile trail run. In constant admiration, I am not shy to ask her questions about her choice in gear, supplements, and training. As she meticulously works from a checklist, I wander around the expo looking at all of the vendor's offerings. Shoes, compression wear, ear buds, head gear, energy drinks, gels, bars, all-weather gear, medal displays, socks, tank-tops, tees, even skin cream --if you can think of it, it's here...and all with hefty price tags. After Elizabeth finishes her duties, we take a large box of collected race packets and shirts back to her car, then we briskly make the trek back to the expo hall. There is still too much to see and there is still much time before the expo closes. With no more obligations or celebrity autographs to collect (we had missed Hal Higdon) we work our way back and forth down each aisle, chatting with vendors and collecting free swag --brochures, magnets, and of course the official small blue cowbells with the Chicago Marathon logo that we will ring during the race the next day. We even manage to score free washing machine cleaning tablets with accompanying head bands. The tablets I can use, while the headbands will make my children happy. Finally to my delight, we refuel at an oasis that is Connie's Pizza; I am in carb heaven with no concern as to how the rest of the evening will play out.
I'm at home yesterday feeling a rare head cold coming on. I felt it in my throat after I had awakened from a long night of bartending and having drinks later with two of my best friends from work. I am exhausted on my day off from running and working out. I know I need to spend the day resting if I am to wake early and run the next morning. After I go out for Chinese take-out I decide to settle into the couch and watch a movie that Elizabeth gave to me during my trip to Chicago called "The Spirit of the Marathon" while I mindlessly eat my house fried rice. Knowing the effect that the Chicago Marathon had on me, I am little surprised that I keep getting emotional at every turn during the movie that follows five different runners of different ages and running abilities training for the 2005 Chicago Marathon. I quickly inhale my dinner, because weeping over a box of Chinese take-out doesn't make for the most enjoyable eating experience. I find myself on my feet near the end of the film as the elites are nearing the finish line. I wonder to myself, was Daniel Njenga one of the Kenyan racers that I saw at the Chicago Marathon only three weeks ago? Was this individual one of the super humans that I witnessed flying in front of me with my very own eyes? I finish the movie, even watching all of the DVD extras and decide to call it a night. I figure that even though it's only 9:30 p.m. I need to get as much sleep as possible. After closing down the house and getting ready for bed, I ring my small blue cowbell from the marathon. It has become my ritual to remind myself of my ultimate goal for the coming year. My thoughts are all over the place, thinking about the upcoming Carolinas Spartan Beast, different people coming and going in my life, and the movie I've just watched. Finally, after tossing and turning for over an hour I enter into a restless sleep.
I have just finished the Bernheim Trail Half Marathon. I finished in a strong surge at the end, because that seems to be what all of the runners do in the articles that I have read in Runner's World. Finish strong! Finish strong! Even though I got lost and ended up running 14.5 miles, I am proud of my 2:53 time. I change out of my compression long sleeve top and into a t-shirt, donning athletic pants over my shorts. I walk barefoot through the grass back to the small festival area and eat several freshly grilled hamburgers while waiting for my friend Phillip North to cross the finish line. I even indulge in a Sprite. I am most eagerly awaiting any sign of Dustin as he decided to run the full trail marathon. Dustin has only recently ran the Nashville Rock and Roll marathon and talks about running a 50K ultra marathon in the coming weeks to qualify for something he calls a Marathon Maniac. For the first time I consider that we are becoming part of something bigger than ourselves...a sport much different than any that I've ever known. I reflect on the shouts of encouragement and congratulations after I crossed the finish line only minutes before. Rather than think about what I have just accomplished, I consider my own self doubts...could I have run the full trail marathon with Dustin? Shouldn't I be capable of 26.2 miles? Did Scott Jurek ever have these doubts, or did he just go out and run for miles right out of the gate?
Elizabeth and I sit at a McDonald's on the corner of Wells Street and North Avenue before daybreak on Sunday morning, October 13th. In an hour's time the 2013 Bank of America Chicago Marathon will begin. It's an incredible morning in the mid-40's with only a slight breeze. There is a chance it will get into the mid-60's...in other words: a perfect day to run. We have already made a couple trips back and forth from her car, because we had forgotten a couple things, including the sign she made to hold that says, "In my mind, you're a Kenyan." As I am enjoying my first hot kiss of caffeine goodness, Elizabeth is busy texting her friend Andé about where we parked the car and where we are going to meet to watch the marathon. There is talk about first watching at Mile 5 and then cutting several blocks to the west to watch at Mile 10. A brief time later we take off to go meet Andé and her boyfriend Rick who have actually found a place to park not too far from our own on Euginie Street. Andé says they would rather watch from Mile 10 on Sedgwick, because that is where the sister marathon group from Osaka, Japan will be setting up a ceremonial drum line. We meet them and are quickly introduced to the Osaka group who gives us all ceremonial head bands to wear. Anxiety is in the air as Elizabeth, Andé, and Rick all talk about their fellow running group friends from Kankakee who are running in the marathon, some of which are first timers. The greater excitement is about twin brothers, one of whom is shooting for a PR, well into sub-3 hour territory. I begin to think about what time I would try for in a marathon. I remember that Dustin's first marathon goal was to run it in under 5 hours. Surely, I could do that, right? Maybe even shoot for four hours? Someone then shouts that the marathon is under way. There are cheers all around, and we know that even 10 miles from the starting line it won't be long until we see our first athletes. And very soon indeed, they do appear...
It's April 26th, 2013, a little over five months before the Chicago Marathon. Dustin, Brice Lazaro, and I are participating the evening before our second Indiana Spartan Sprint in what is called the Hurricane Heat. It seems as though four out of every five runners around us are wearing similar red and black jerseys, and hailing themselves as the Corn Fed Spartans. We are told to split into teams of fifteen, and failure to do so quickly will result in a penalty of multiple burpees. We find ourselves the only non-Corn Feds on our team. For the next five hours of pain and misery we are adopted into the Corn Fed family. After it is all over, while everyone changes out of their cold muddy clothes in the parking lot, we exchange hugs and handshakes, are given t-shirts and wristbands, and look forward to running the next day with other Corn Feds. Three months later the same smiles greet me and three other friends from southern Illinois as we run the Super Spartan in Joliet, IL. More friends are made and through participating through the Corn Fed facebook group, I eventually make friends with a runner named Elizabeth Schroeder. She tells me that she has friends running in the Chicago Marathon in October, and I should possibly consider coming up and joining in supporting them. The Chicago Marathon; it's not so foreign to me...but I don't know what to expect. I once witnessed the start of the marathon while standing above the runners on a bridge about six years ago when I was married, and we took a vacation weekend in early October to visit in Chicago. My brother also once trained for the marathon, but was a DNF, while his then fiance went on to finish. I also had tracked a friend last year as she ran the marathon. A trip to Chicago to support other runners while I finally get to see this marathon first hand? Why not?
The first athletes to appear are the wheelchair racers. I honestly have not considered them. The first group that we see coming down Sedgwick are being escorted by police officers on motorcycles. Flashing blue lights from the cycles start sending waves of cheers rolling down the street toward us. The Osaka group begins pounding madly on their drums. We begin shouting, shaking our small blue cowbells. The racers fly past us in a blur, shoulder muscles rippling, arms pumping up and down, propelling them quickly out of view. The feeling of energy passes like unrestrained electricity throughout all of the spectators. Then another group flies by us, and then another. Andé and Elizabeth start receiving automatic texts alerting them of their friends' progress along the course. Quick estimation is done and we know that very soon the elites will be passing by.
Within a short time someone shouts, "Here they come!"
Another quick shout of, "The Kenyans are coming!"
A short convoy of official marathon vehicles passes by, soon followed by another police escort, and then we see them. It is the most magical thing I have ever seen in my entire life outside of the birth of my children. The elite runners seem other worldly...running in a tight group, all in the same stride, feet seemingly not touching the ground. They are so beautiful. They are like something out of another time and place...some other world. This is a purity that I am too impure to even witness. All I can do is stand, ringing my small blue cowbell, yelling at the top of my lungs as though I'm at a rock concert thinking that the sheer force of my own lungs will bring the beleaguered rockers out for another encore. And in a matter of seconds...the elite male runners are gone.
My eyes pop open. My alarm hasn't gone off, but maybe it's close to being 5:30 a.m. when I'm set to wake and go for my run. I know it will be cold out so I've already set aside all of my cold weather gear, so I can dress quickly and get out the door. I roll over and check the time on my phone. In a glimpse I'm instantly irritated at my internal clock --it's only 12:30 a.m. Most evenings I go to bed around this time. I readjust in my bed, hoping that I've found just the right position to fall back asleep. I start to think about the movie I watched earlier in the evening. I think about the weeks and weeks of training that the runners all went through. I think about the training Elizabeth was doing leading up to her 50 mile trail run. The small doubts she had about finishing, but the determination and self-affirmation she displayed in the days leading up to her successful finish of both the ultra and subsequent half marathon. I think about my goals for 2014...possibly two Spartan Trifectas...several marathons...and ultimately running the Chicago Marathon. I fall back asleep as I am pondering the latter.
The four of us decide to leave the Osaka base camp and catch a cab to find a new spot somewhere near the end of the marathon route. Andé, Elizabeth, and I squeeze into the backseat, while Rick takes front passenger to discuss the best options with the cab driver as most of the roads are closed and a direct route is rather difficult. After about ten minutes of driving, we disembark fairly close to Mile 25. We see a small gap in the spectators across Michigan Avenue and quickly dash through a break in the runners to claim our spot. We start to see some of the same runners from Mile 10, but now obviously in different spirits. Some seem energized to be so close to the finish line while others seem to be on the verge of breaking down emotionally and physically after all they have put their bodies through. They know how close they are to the finish which should be their lighthouse, but it is the crushing weight of the thought of the cumulative miles that has become their albatross. Even the spectators around us seem exhausted. Once again we take up our cheers of people's printed names as they run in front of us. It becomes a natural act to search out a collection of names as they are far off, so we can recite them in a litany of rousing encouragement. We scream and ring our small blue cowbells. Elizabeth holds up her sign high into the air which now has one of the letters scribbled in ball point pen as the original has taken up permanent residence on Sedgwick. Our enthusiasm is only briefly halted when an angry spectator challenges Elizabeth for her spot where she is cheering. After conveying several negative comments he pushes past her which triggers the inner Spartan in Rick. Before Rick can do anything that might be interpreted by some as undue force, Andé intervenes and in a no less intimidating presence manages to get the guy to submit and calm down. Where he finally goes we fail to notice, or rather fail to care. The only thing that matters is playing our small role in motivating the constant flow of runners pounding their way toward the finish line.
The frequency of marathoners actually still running begins to wane while the majority of runners passing us have compromised with their fatigued bodies and are walking. In the midst of all of this one lone wheelchair racer appears out of nowhere. I had forgotten all about them. Surely they had all passed before we arrived on Michigan Avenue? He is obviously struggling. Every bit of strength seems to have been long since spent in the previous miles and by sheer determination alone is he still pushing toward the finish line. A knot instantly forms in my throat and tears well in my eyes. Is this man any less of a super being as I thought of the elite runners? Does he have any less drive than when Scott Jurek runs a 250 mile ultra marathon? Does he have any less strength and spirit than what we boast about at our Spartan races? Then I turn to see Elizabeth, and she is standing there crying, still holding her sign. "In my mind, you're a Kenyan." In that brief moment I am ashamed for any pride that I've ever had as a runner. In so many profane words I curse myself and walk away from my friends to follow this profound athlete as he makes his way painfully down Michigan Avenue toward the 25 mile marker. He is still almost a mile from the turn onto Roosevelt Avenue that will lead up to a harsh uphill battle to the finish line in Grant Park. The number on his wheelchair says 229. As I walk I intermittently start up the chant among other spectators, "Two-Two-Nine! Two-Two-Nine!" I shout anything encouraging that I can. I'm not sure if he can even hear me, and I wonder if he can, or...would he have me not cheer at all? Is it really just a distraction? After all of these miles what is he feeling? Would he rather the world be silent around him, or are our cheers driving him toward his goal? Are we spectators there for the racers, or for our own gratification? Are we the lighthouse or the albatross?
Very soon I cannot travel any further down Michigan Avenue due to the sidewalk on our side of the street being closed to pedestrian traffic. If I have encouraged Two-Twenty-Nine at all, I'll never know. He slowly disappears from my sight, and I can only pray that he finishes. I decide that it doesn't matter if he heard me at all. I have been fortunate enough to be graced with his spirit and determination. I know I will think of him if ever I am at my own breaking point in the future...during a race or not. I jog the three quarters of a mile back to where my friends are still standing. Several of their friends that they have been waiting for pass by. There is a frenzy of hugs and tears as they are about to realize the end of their amazing journey. The end of the marathon's 26.2 miles is very near.
We break back across to the other side of the road and pass through the long shadows of the afternoon to work our way toward Grant Park. Everywhere we walk thermal-blanketed marathoners adorned with finisher's medals cross our paths. Young and old, shivering and tired with steeled looks of pride in their eyes, they bustle on their way to some one or some place. Their race is done. We pass through a security check point and into the marathon festival area where prerecorded instructions are being heralded to the finishers over the public address system about the 27th Mile Post-Race Party where "runners can collect a free cup of Goose Island Three-One-Two Wheat Ale if you're over twenty-one." Elizabeth and Andé spot their friends as Rick and I walk behind them discussing the upcoming Spartan Beast in South Carolina. He teases me because I and my small group of friends will be flying down while he and Andé suffer the long trip from northern Illinois by car. Introductions are made between strangers and congratulatory hugs are exchanged between friends. The tear-streaked faces are host to nothing but smiles, and jokes are made about the mythical free beer and if it really exists. Some of them talk of going to eat in the city while our group decides to say goodbye to the victorious marathoners and make our way back to Michigan Avenue in search of a cab. The shadows are growing longer, and well over six hours after the start of the marathon, runners are still making their way across the finish line in Grant Park.
We find where we parked Elizabeth's car on Euginie. We're thankful that it's still there and quickly set off to leave the city to rejoin Andé and Rick, along with Elizabeth's son back in Kankakee for dinner before I eventually hit the road for my four hour drive back to southern Illinois. We are exhausted and conversation is brief during our short commute. I have time to reflect upon all that I have witnessed --all that I thought I knew about running; why I do it and why others do it. I think about my friends with whom I shared this experience. When will I see them again? Will I ever race a marathon with them? Will I in fact have the opportunity to race the Chicago Marathon with them next year? All of these thoughts and more run through my mind. I think of Elizabeth's upcoming ultra trail marathon. I think of my friends back home. I think of my children. I think of the movies that Elizabeth has given me. One is called "The Spirit of the Marathon." I hope that I can watch it soon.
I finally roll out of bed. I turn the lights on and do some quick simple stretches and push-ups to wake myself up. I suddenly remember that I had been dreaming about running a marathon. Like every dream, as soon as I start recall the details, the memory of it quickly turns into a fog and blows away. I don't think any of my friends were with me, nor anyone recognizable. Was I truly by myself? No. I was with other runners. We all ran together as one. We were the elite runners. We were the wheelchair racers. We were the spirit of the marathon. I think all of this as I put on my running gear. Before I walk out the door I read the lines on the poster I have that now hangs over my bed. Mine is the one without Scott Jurek's signature, but every day I read the poetic lines:
Before it all sank in at the finish.
Before rallying in Pilsen,
Cramping up in Old Town,
And flying through Streeterville.
Before the goose bumps in Grant Park,
And the butterflies at dawn.
There was a will that found a way
Through 29 neighborhoods,
And connected with the heart
Of a city.
I ring the small blue cowbell I keep on my dresser, and I walk out of my small house to go find myself.
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