It's not every day that I'm standing among hundreds of scantily clad strangers at six-thirty in the morning. But then it's not every day that I run a marathon. On March 3,
1996, I did. I finished the Sutter Home Napa Valley Marathon, my first
race ever. The Napa Marathon isn't huge -- about 1,300 people started,
1,200 finished, and the atmosphere at the start line, on the Silverado
Trail in Calistoga, was friendly and relaxed. I felt like I was going out for yet another run on a weekend morning. I enjoyed talking to people at the start, learning where they were from and what their racing experience was. The morning promised great running weather: not too cold, overcast, maybe a sprinkle of rain.
Not at all an athlete growing up, I'd started running in 1987, midway through college. I appreciated getting into shape, being able to propel myself for a half-hour at a time. I continued to run on and off in the few years following. But as time passed, the off weeks and months expanded; the days of running dwindled. But hey, I lived in San Francisco. I suppose I thought I had good health by osmosis. After all, I saw people run all the time, and still thought of myself as a runner. But my body failed to manifest this delusion. In February 1995, I was visiting friends in Boston and realized, in a dash to catch the T, that I was far from in shape Way far. On the plane, coming home, I planned to start running again and thought, "Hey, I'd like to run a marathon."
When I dug the old Nikes out of the back of my closet and hit the road, I realized that I needed to be able to run ten consecutive minutes before contemplating longer distances. After a few days I could, and then began to tick off milestones: three miles, five miles, ten miles. I lost weight I hadn't realized I'd gained over the years. In June, I began to think more seriously about the marathon, dragged out old issues of Runner's World and books on running, and picked the brains of people who had actually run marathons. I chose a race in December, wrote up a training plan, and kept running. As it turned out, the December goal was premature; I wasn't ready. So I chose the Napa Marathon and kept running. The marathon motivated me to run like nothing before ever had. It made the difference four or five days a week, after work, in the rain, on weekend mornings when every fiber of my being was begging me to get another hour of sleep. I began to tell anyone who would listen that I was going to run a marathon at the beginning of March. I had the experience so often of setting goals for myself that I never met; once, just this one time, I wanted to realize my intentions. And to do something like this, something that doesn't depend on survival or common sense or immediate pleasure, I found myself making a paradoxical journey: into myself, to find out who was really in there and what she could really do, and toward others, to find the support and encouragement and comradeship that I needed to make the 26.2 miles a reality.
In March, I was ready. I knew I wouldn't be fast, but I was fairly sure I'd finish. I was a different person than I'd been a year before, winded from sprinting to catch the T. But I wasn't sure that I was a real runner. I hadn't raced before. At the starting line, I was relieved to see that many of the people looked like me, conventionally proportioned, not the sticklike runners of popular imagination. Some of the bone and muscle people there (the ones I had imagined to be the real runners) but for the most part, the group at the start line represented a wide range of human configuration.
And the runners' devotion to gadgetry differentiated them. I saw all manner of strap-on water tanks, belts with bottles, waistpacks with goo-packet energy supplements arranged like ammunition, a fine selection of Powerbar-like creations and elaborate warm-up suits. Alongside these high-style runners were those wearing Hefty bags and beat-up sneakers. I was somewhere in the middle: decent shoes, but not much else that would have rung the bells of a running gearhead. My midrace food of choice was a banana Powerbar, and my t-shirt was older than the average fifth-grader.
During the first few miles, I focused on warming up and going slowly. People chatted, greeted friends, found their pace. I made a point of noting the vineyards, thinking that later I'd be too zonked to appreciate the gorgeous Napa hills. At the first relief area, I had to wait in line for five or six minutes to avail myself of the facilities; clearly, I was hydrated enough. I kept a ten minute per mile pace for the next seven miles, pausing at the aid stations, munching on my Powerbar, watching rabbits run across the grape fields. I saw my parents during this stretch; one of the cool things about this race is that Route 29 parallels the Silverado Trail, and several cross roads connect them, allowing spectators to follow the marathon. I slowed considerably around mile twelve, bringing my pace down to something around an eleven or eleven and a half minute per mile. This wasn't particularly intentional, but I was still happy and comfortable, so I didn't worry about it. I kept drinking water and felt fine. At this point, people began to walk. The hills, medium ones, kept coming and I was glad that I live and train in San Francisco. Along with generally good weather and endless outdoor beauty, hill-preparedness is one of the high points about running here. At mile thirteen, those of us who passed the marker at the same time congratulated each other, exchanging high fives and a few elated words.
Keeping my slower pace and trying to predict when I'd be done, I felt steady energy during miles thirteen through eighteen. I knew I'd make it to the end. Few spectators appeared at this point, and the runners conversed minimally, which I enjoyed, as I am a solitary runner and rarely train with others. Sometimes, I think I run so I can be silent. But this was a lot of silence, despite my parents and other faithfuls appeared from time to time. During training runs, I wear a Walkman, and am unused to hours of footfall rhythm and muted birdsong melody. To deal with the unexpected solitude, I planned dinner menus (enjoying an extensive fried chicken fantasy), counted by threes to 1,000, did multiplication tables in my head, recalled memorized songs and poetry, and allowed my mind to be. Just be, immersed in its endorphins, for once not crying out for greater achievement. I realized, finally, that the monotony I had felt was serenity, the absence of anxiety.
At mile eighteen, I wondered if I was going to hit the wall that I'd heard so much about. Perhaps in response to this, my pace slowed to around twelve minutes a mile, though at mile twenty I had a power surge that earned me a ten minute mile. I stopped again to use the portable roadside restroom at mile twenty-two. More people slowed or walked; for the remainder of the race, I passed four or five people per mile.
The last stretch of the race, before it reaches the town of Napa proper, is a long, straight, flat stretch of about two miles. Dull, and just at the wrong time for dullness. But I kept my eyes on a grove of eucalyptus trees at the end of the road, and kept pushing along. I was fatigued, but not ready to stop running. I thought about walking, reminding myself that I could if I wanted to, but wanted to see if I could make it to the finish line by noon. I figured if I didn't stop, I'd get there that much more quickly. So I just kept running. I caught up to a man who seemed to be in his mid-fifties. We ran together for a few moments and his face contorted with the acute pain he must
have felt in each step. He saw a familiar face at a bend in the road, slowed to a shuffle, and mumbled to her, "I can't do this. My legs don't work anymore." I kept going and saw other runners pushing through similar barricades of agony. Despite this, somehow, aside the from the exhaustion, I felt terrific. As I finally neared the finish, the smiles, thumbs-ups and shouts of enthusiastic race volunteers and spectators helped immensely. I had no idea how much this was going to mean to me. Rounding the last turn, I saw the finish line. And right in front of the finish, over a dozen of my fabulous friends and my parents overwhelmed me, cheering like people
possessed. For the last mile, I had run with their faces in my mind,
hoping that I'd see them, knowing that it would mean I was done. When I
saw them, I realized that I had completed the marathon by myself, but not
alone. The advice and encouragement of friends there that day as well as
those far away mattered to me just much as running daily by myself.
And then it was over. I felt great afterward. I did not hit the
wall, so I don't know what that feels like. My finish time was just under
5:14, which is much slower than I expected, but fine nonetheless. After
the race, we ate lunch and went wine tasting. No, I didn't drink a lot,
or really remember what I tasted, but it was useful because it kept me on
my feet. And then we went home and I discovered the wonders of Ben Gay.
If you had bitten me the day after the race in a dark room, I'd have
thrown off sparks. My thighs were amazingly sore the following few days.
Going down stairs was a challenge. Other than that, the only complaint I
had was a blister on my left smallest toe. I want to run another
marathon, but not for a while. Maybe New York in November. In the
meantime, I'll just keep running.