Confessions of a Novice Runner

(Or, What Not to Do in the Preparation and Running of a Marathon.)

I HAVE ALWAYS FELT THAT BEFORE a story could properly be told, a little history about the situation would be in order. The modern-day marathon celebrates the heroic feat of a Greek messenger, Pheidippides by name, who was supposed to have run from Marathon to Athens in 490 B.C, a distance of about twenty-five miles. In this run, he announced triumph over the Persians (running information back and forth was the manner in which people reached out and touched one another before Alexander Graham Bell and AT&T). His last words before he collapsed and died was thought to have been, "Victory! Victory! Rejoice! We conquer." (When you are out of breath, one to two word sentences is about all you can muster.) Now that's what I call really hitting a wall. It's a lot more dedication to the run than I currently have. The first winner of the modern twenty-five mile Olympic marathon was, appropriately enough, Spyridon "Spyros" Louis, in 1896. He, himself, was Greek. Of course, in the first marathon, the field was a little stacked. Seventeen out of the twenty-one runners were Greek; so the odds were in their favor, so to speak.

In 1908, the marathon distance was standardized to 26.2 miles. That ".2" makes it seem so pretentious, and the reason for it makes it appear all the more so. The marathon in the standardized distance came about because the House of Windsor, during the Summer Olympics held in England of that year, simply wanted to get a glimpse of the runners without having to leave their residence. If ever there was a family prepared for TV ... I could just imagine it, "Do you want your tea and crumpets in the sitting parlor, Sir?"

"Oh, no thank-you, Jeeves. I'll have it out here on the veranda. I want to see the runners as they go by. Oh, look, good show, there goes one now."

In other words, we have to run an extra 1.2 miles because one family was too lazy to get their collective butts off of their loungers and down into the stadium. Of course, if Pheidippides had died a few miles earlier we wouldn't have had to run as far either — so there's a lot of blame to go around.

I was just a mid-range runner when I decided to run the California International Marathon held in early December. The year was 1999. Over the years of inactivity, I had ballooned up to about 250 pounds on my 6'2" frame; although people said that I carried it well. This was in 1996. I knew I needed to do something when at the age of thirty-eight, I kneeled down to empty a drain on a ventilator circuit, and then had a difficult time getting back up. "I am too young for this!" I said to myself, matter-of-factly. However, starting an exercise program working sixty hours per week, along with a twelve hour weekly commute proved difficult.

It all came to a head about a year later when my wife left me, stating I was "fat". After that, I was so restless, I could hardly sit still. I had to do something, and remembered from high school that when disappointments and hardships came my way, if I took it out on the track, or a weight room, I always felt much better.

With that in mind, on my two days off in the week, I would go twice around a two mile loop in my neighborhood, once in the morning, and once in the evening. On the last part of the run there was a really steep hill; at first, all I could do was walk up. Slowly, over time, however, I found that I could actually run the hill as well. So, wow! Improvement!

After moving from the house, I relocated closer to my place of employment. This afforded less of a commute and more time I could spend running on my days off, not being nearly as tired; although I never went past the four mile mark. At this point, I began running with a friend from work, Suzy, who took me to that fourth mile. Shortly thereafter, however, I tweaked my back; which, unbeknownst to me, was a bulging disc in the lower lumbar region. I continued to run, hoping to work the soreness out. All that did, however, was weaken the annulus — the covering of the disc — which eventually herniated. Shortly thereafter, I couldn't run at all, and could barely walk. An operation became necessary, and I underwent a discectomy — or surgery to remove the herniation.

Rehab for the first month was boring, walking a three mile route around my residence, all by myself. Then, Suzy, my running buddy, began walking with me. The first time around was so nice, finally having someone with whom to talk. The three miles went by quickly. She then asked, "Want to go again?" After completing six miles without incident, she said, "If you can do that here, you can complete my regular seven mile rural route." So we began walking the seven miles. I knew she wanted to run; and, truth be told, so did I. So, over time, I slowly began running a little, walking a lot; then closed the walking gaps with more running. Over an eight month period, I was finally able to run the whole seven miles. Not bad, considering the doctor had said after surgery that I'd never run again.

One morning, thinking my running buddy was at work, I ran the seven mile course on my own. Returning home, the phone rang, "Oh, and I was so looking forward to running this morning," she replied in frustration, after telling her that I had already been out. She had helped me so much, and had been so patient and kind with rehab, that I felt like I couldn't disappoint her. "Okay," I replied, not actually believing I was going to say this. "I'll go again."

I casually mentioned the mileage to colleagues at work the next day, and with the misplaced encouragement of these so-called "friends," they convinced me that if I could run fourteen miles, I could cover a 26.2 mile distance; and I foolishly believed them. So I set out to see if I could do just that. First I ran a successful fifteen-miler, then a thirteen; after that, a couple of more fourteens. "Sure, no problem," I thought, not knowing anything more about it than what my coworkers — who had never run one before — had told me; nor that I needed more information than that. "I could run a marathon!"

Why is it when you say you're going to do something that strenuous, the first thing people do is look at your stomach? So I still had twenty-three percent body fat; I was a Clydesdale, so what? A lot of running is in your head, right? Your mental outlook and determination. I felt like pointing to my noggin and saying, "Hello! I'm up here, not down there! Eyes up here buddy!" Now I have some idea of what women go through on a date.

After a few of the long runs, I noticed a very peculiar thing; my nipples would get very tender. Not putting two and two together, I mentioned this to one of my compadres who also ran. He told me that it was from the shirt rubbing against them; a normal thing and not to worry. Whew! That was a relief! I assumed for a moment that I was undergoing some kind of midlife change. I mean, I've heard of male menopause, but I've always thought that it was largely a myth; manifesting itself mainly with little red sports cars, or Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Someone needed to invent something to go across them for the run. It could be called the Trainer-Bra for men (or something like, "The Bro" or "Manzier", from Seinfeld).

Signing up for the early December, local marathon, and squeaking in before the November...