Marine Corps Marathon, October 26, 2003

Buck Hales

The plans for running the Marine Corps Marathon (MCM), “the People’s Marathon” starting taking shape in July of 2002 when we were in Arlington, VA visiting my nephew Paul and his family. He had recently quit smoking and had taken up running. We had a great run early one morning and the subject of marathons came up. I mentioned that MCM was a big Clydesdale event and it sparked his interest. Last spring he committed to the idea of doing his first marathon this fall, and I confirmed my desire to do it with him—it would be exciting to do my 20^th marathon accompanying him for his first. We got into the MCM in the first round of the lottery so our fate was sealed. Paul began to diligently train, increasing his mileage, building off of his strong base. I focused on getting through Grandma’s marathon first, and noted that I had only once before signed up for a marathon prior to running the next one I was signed up for, and that was Big Sur 1999 when a stress fracture cost me my bid. Nonetheless, to get into these big marathons you have to commit half a year in advance it seems—plan accordingly and hope to toe the start line.

While Paul was building his miles preparing for his first marathon, I was struggling through triathlon season, so by the time I commenced training for the October 26^th event, it was already Labor Day weekend. I had a good fall of training, but I felt like I didn’t have enough long runs though, only one hilly 20 miler at Waterfall Glen, so I continued to train to the last week. I had enjoyed running all season essentially pain free. My old nemesis, the trigger point that accompanied my stress fracture had remained quiet, and other than tight hamstrings from track workouts, and other minor aches and pains, I felt great, and very excited about MCM. Then, with one week to go—I ran 6 miles on Saturday, and then went for a nice little 11-mile jaunt, out and back to Riverside with Steve and Ryder. We had a great run—fabulous by all accounts, and unbelievably, within just two blocks of completing the run, I felt like I had been struck by lightening in my leg. My trigger point, quiet for all these months, fired off with the sensation of a weasel ripping into the flesh of my calf. Yeow! I ran through it and finished the run in complete agony—both physically from the peroneal inflammation, and mentally, knowing I had a marathon in just one week. With in a few hours my leg was swollen, I couldn’t bend my knee and it was so sore I could barely walk, especially up or down steps. I immediately used ice, ibuprofen and beer therapy, and sat with my leg elevated. By Monday it was much improved, but still very sore. Tuesday even better—and by the time we packed up the car to drive to DC on Thursday night, it had improved to a manageable dull roar. The biggest improvement came when I followed the most excellent advise of my wife—to return to the therapy that I used during the time I was recuperating from the injury in the first place. Yes the calf stretches, the hot tub, and the yoga positions all brought mobility and relief. Still, the fear hung like a cloud over me, I was completely preoccupied all week long, knowing what lay ahead, and wondering if, when and how bad it would be when my trigger point exploded on me during the marathon. One comforting thought was that since it had already blown up before the race, I didn’t have to wait for it to happen during the run. I hoped.

Karen, Ryder, Mark Rudnicki and I drove from Chicago to Arlington over night Thursday, arriving in DC 12 hours later. We had breakfast, connected with the Paul, and then headed off on the Metro to the expo. We were all in a sort of stupor having been up all night, and the expo was bizarre. The Marine’s handed out the packets and chips with precision and efficiency, but to get our shirts we had to traverse the expo, which was crowded and jammed into the parking level of the Crystal City Hyatt. It was fun watching the Marines cheering and jeering as civilians took the chin up challenge. They were particularly rowdy when young women took to the bar.

Saturday night we gathered our gel packs, snapped our numbers to our belts, drank copious amounts of Ultima, and got psyched up for the race. Karen was amazed at how over the top we went with this. It was fun for the three of us, Mark, Paul and me to indulge in pre-event total hysteria. Daylight savings time ended which gave us an extra hour to lay awake in bed, punctuated by frequent trips to the bathroom. Hydration had been achieved. I had decided not to wear my water belt, just hook my gel pouch to my number belt. But at 4 AM I had a vision and realized that I dare not run sans water bottle, a decision that turned out to be one of the better I’ve made. At 6 AM we were all up and getting ready. It was 60 degrees and 93% humidity. Holy cats! We made it to the Metro station, open early that day for the race, and found hundreds of other marathoners, ready to go. The nearly full train arrived and carried us to Roslyn station by 7 AM. It was a good ½ mile walk to the staging area at the Iwo Jima Memorial, which was already crowded with marathoners. There were 12,000 of the 18,000 runners who were running MCM for the first time. Of these probably half were in the military. The inter-service rivalries added a great deal of intrigue, but definitely, this is the Marine’s event.

We were herded into our start corral and went off in waves, the slower runners coming last. It was 10 minutes after the gun went off before we started our run. A huge crowd and such excitement! I was so exhilarated by the cheering, the military pageantry, and the anticipation of the event. The course starts off by winding around and around the Pentagon making several hairpin loops along the Jeff Davis Memorial freeway, and up one nice little hill towards the Naval annex next to the cemetery. By the time we lost sight of the Pentagon, we were 6 miles into the race. The snipers on the bridges, and guards toting machine guns added certain flair to festivities. We were running well, about 10 minute pace and Paul and I stuck together. We lost Mark and the start. We decided not to run/walk until mile 4, then began to walk one minute per mile, at the mile marker. We soon feel into step with the 4:30 Galloway pace group, though their walk interval was out of sync with ours. Across the Francis Scott Key Bridge to Georgetown we went. It was very humid still, and rather hazy as the heat began to build. M street in Georgetown was great, a big hill, thousands of spectators, very scenic and chic—we felt great, despite the terrible condition of the road which was festooned with potholes. Suddenly Mark who was really feeling his oats leaped us upon from behind. He snapped a picture of the three of us and then ran on ahead. We saw him high five the whole crowd as he skipped along. He looked like he felt fabulous as he rounded the corner and disappeared. We stuck to our plan and soon found ourselves running up Rock Creek Parkway—a delightful slice of nature right in the very heart of our nation’s capital. I was sorry that we only ran a few miles up the canyon before turning back around. The course then ran parallel to the Potomac to the Mall. Here the crowd was fantastic. As we ran past the Lincoln Memorial, on Constitution Avenue past the reflecting pond, all the war memorials, past the Federal Reserve, the Smithsonian’s, we were doing great, running steady, feeling strong. I noticed pain in my chest area, and realized one of my nipguards had fallen off in the humidity and my nipple was bleeding. Yeow! I haven’t had that happen for years! I hoped to find some Vaseline soon. As we motored past the halfway point, suddenly the Galloway group stopped to walk. There were so many of them, probably 50 or more, they completely blocked the road. They stopped to walk, and talk, 3 and 4 abreast. It was all we could do to get around them. This happened several times, and their timing seemed to coincide with the narrowest portions of the course. After we ran past the 4:30 group that time, we stayed in front of them the rest of the race.

We saw Karen, Ryder, Joyce and Madison (Paul’s wife and daughter) at about mile 14, as we ascended the steep hill to the Capital. It was great seeing them, such a lift it delivered. Karen pointed out that I had the “11’s” but fortunately just “1” since only one nipple was bleeding. Soon I found a medic who gave me Vaseline and some tape. He suggested I put the tape on the other side as a preventative measure. Problem was the tape didn’t stick to my wet body, and it pulled nipguard #2 off. So, in about another mile, after we rounded the Capital, passed the Supreme Court, and the Hirshorn, I found some more Vaseline. This time I put extra on the bill of my hat, and this enabled me to keep the painful chaffing under control. We lost about 2 minutes during the Vaseline quest, but were still feeling strong and under control. At the Cliff Shot station Paul grabbed a handful of gel packs and immediately downed two of them. I paced my consumption. I was so glad I had my water bottle. It was hot, we were well away from water, and it was tough swallowing Succeed caps and gels without fluids. I refilled my bottle about mile 19 and it carried us to the end. I was very pleased to be able to share it with Paul.

Finally, about mile 20 the runners started to thin out a bit and we could run freely. We had walked one minute per mile from 4 to 20, and then decided to skip the walk except through water stops. It seemed so painful to walk and very difficult to get running again. I wondered if this was going to come back to haunt us in the last miles, but agreed with Paul that it felt better not to walk. So we ran on, soon to find ourselves going over the 14^th Street Bridge. This is absolutely the worst part of the course. A long hill on concrete, very exposed, no spectators, no support. Mass carnage as far as the eye could see. Runners were dropping out, stopping by the median to stretch, or bent over puking. Bicycle riding paramedics were riding up the course to stop and bag the fallen runners, inserting IVs. It was rather dispiriting to run through such desolate desperate conditions—but run we did. Paul was starting to run with his head down and slightly stooped forward. I reminded him to pick up his head and took my own advice. This seems always to help and we needed all that we could muster. We maintained a steady pace and soon found some shade and the final water stop, at mile 23 with cookies, orange slices, water. Paul felt hungry and ate a cookie. I was happy just to get a drink. The final miles were on a deserted industrial stretch of road, weeds and abandoned cars in the shadow of the Pentagon, not at all scenic, and void of spectators. Finally, about mile 24 we were at the foot of the Pentagon nearing the home stretch. In honor of Saint Stephen my running brother, I sang out, in my best voice: “I feel good, like I knew that I would yeah, I feel fine… so fine, all of the time….” This very sorry looking runner turned to me, and said in her weak appreciative voice—“you’re awesome.” It was my pleasure, I still felt great. I had started to experience some mild spasms, little tiny jolts of electricity in the peroneal region of my leg coming up to half way, but the spasms were brief and I ran through them without any real notice, just a deep awareness it was there—perhaps waiting to go off. Amazingly, running from 20 on did not bring it on, if anything, it seemed to keep the cramping at bay. I remembered to lift my knees from time to time to keep it loose, and this seemed to help.

We motored on. I started chanting “feeling good, feeling strong” as we passed hundreds of fading marathoners. We continued to run, keeping up a good strong effort even though I was really struggling. Our pace dropped from 10:45 to 12 minutes per mile for 24 and 25. Paul seemed to feel great and I hung with him as best I could. Finally, we reached the foot of the big hill to the finish line. The road went around and around winding up some 200 feet from Jeff Davis Drive to the Iwo Jima memorial. The narrow street was lined with thousands of cheering spectators. Everyone was running. Paul took off and it was all I could do to keep him in sight. My leg began to throb. Each step up hurt worse and worse as the pain began to course through me. I gritted my teeth in grim determination, pumped my arms and willed my body up the hill. Finally, we crested the hill, and I saw the finish. I hit the grass and with a mighty kick, passed a few dozen runners and crossed the finish line at 4:45. Such triumph! As soon as I stopped running the full force of the spasm assailed me and it was all I could do to keep standing. I got my medal, the silver foil blanket, and found Paul, standing, glowing, happy, excited, elated, very pleased to have finished so strong. The 4:30 pace group followed us in. The heat, hills and humidity took their toll on us all. Mark finished about 10 minutes after us. We had passed him about mile 18. He just didn’t get enough fluids on the course and had walked a great deal of the last few miles. Paul was the best trained of the three of us and had a great and triumphant race. I was lucky, I guess, that my leg held up as long as it did.

The post race scene was utter chaos. There were way too many people in such a small area. To get our gear we filed past the tables to find our stuff. The announcer was telling us that this was not a changing area, this was not a restaurant, do not eat, do not change, get your gear and leave. Yes sir! The Marine at the exit carefully checked our bag number vs. our bib and let us out. Out into a stream of humanity and into the roaring masses. The 18,000 runners and 50,000 spectators all crammed into too small of an area, made finding our families and Mark a difficult prospect. Then the long painful walk back to the train, and the huge crowd at the station and boarding the trains. Ryder fell fast asleep in my arms and I carried him down to the train, and held him until we got to the car. It was such a joy to hold my sleeping son, in diametric contrast to the desperate struggle to finish the race. No better reward than that.

Monday we retraced our steps, visited Rock Creek and Georgetown in the pouring rain. I was glad to have run in the heat and humidity than in the pouring rain. Our drive back on Tuesday was a joy. The fall foliage was at its peak color and we reveled in the glow as we sailed back to Chicago. The next day, I actually felt better than I did the Wednesday before the marathon. Rest, ice, ibuprofen and beer—great remedies worked again. Now its time to pick my next marathon—perhaps a small, cool one? My quest—to find those last few elusive miles of the marathon and make them my own.