Grandma’s Marathon: June 21, 1997
Buck Hales

Out on Old Highway 61, hugging the Lake Superior coast—a good place to run. Mile 12 in Grandma’s marathon, I can hear the penny whistle and twanging guitar voice of Bob Dylan imagining him on this very road. Running with 7,000 other intrepid souls and me. At that moment I felt this incredible sense of joy, assailed by the beauty of the course and in harmony with the rhythm of my footfall. I felt like shouting out "this is fun!" but wisely conserved my energy. That was right before I bonked at mile 15. Inland away from the lake breeze, the hot sun blazing down on the open road, rolling hills and few spectators—I really started to struggle. I hung on for 4 miles, taking water, ice and Reloads, but suddenly pondering the enormity of this undertaking—actually running 26 miles? Good Lord I must be nuts! Out there on Desolation road (it was a very Bob Dylan sort of experience). I bemoaned my lack of preparation, only managing two 20-mile runs during the very busy spring. I tried to focus on my stride and breathing but struggled with concentration.

Then we left old Highway 61 and entered the outskirts of Duluth. Encouraged by the crowd and supportive spectators, I got my second wind. There was incredible support. Water at every mile, music, shade and being crowded closer to other runners really picked me up. When I hit the 20mile mark I had a total body rush and complete emotional discharge, with tears of joy and excitement streaming down my cheeks. I knew I would finish running at that moment. I had an epiphany! I knew that if I could do this I could do anything-- I experienced a sense of total empowerment. Then I had an out of body experience examining my reaction and concluding that I was experiencing endorphin induced narcosis. I remembered why I like to run marathons. The music in my head changed. I heard the chorus from Weather Report Suite, the bass and tympani thundering as Bob Weir shouted "I am—I am!" I recalled seeing the Grateful Dead at Red Rocks sitting poncho clad in the pouring rain watching incredible majestic lightening striking the horizon beyond the lights of Denver the air electric with the vibrating percussion booming off of the rocks. The music of the road came to me through the soles of my feet and lifted my spirit to the clear blue sky. Another total body rush and tearful ecstasy. Indeed, running a marathon is an emotional experience.

However blissful I might have felt between 19 and 21, by mile 22 I had resigned myself to steady plodding and preservation. The water stops came sooner and the crowd support was better, but the heat and hills had taken their toll. Many runners fell by the wayside. Some 500 were treated for heat exhaustion. Steve had to rescue a fallen killer bee, vomiting from dehydration, deserted by her college chums. She had only taken water—neglecting electrolytes, and was too naïve to realize the danger she was in. Steve’s heroic act cost him 12 minutes, a purely unselfish act. Another reason we run marathons. The esprit de corps and sense of camaraderie is unsurpassed. I ran from water stop to water stop with the same group of runners for miles and was encouraged by their company. At last we approached to fabled Lemon Drop hill which looks like a mountain from half a mile back, but is actually nothing more than a highway overpass. I attacked the hill and passed dozens of runners who had succumbed to the popular myth that running up hills was hard. Hills are our friends! Remembering that and using them as a change of pace to relieve the fatigue in the muscles, is a great psychological boost—because you get to run down the other side. As I ran past the walkers I heard myself chanting "uh huh huh huh huh" in the voice of Pepe le Pew. One of them shouted, "go for it". I broke away from the group and heard a live blues band jamming down playing the Chicago blues. The women at the waterstop were dancing and cheering I started skipping along buoyed by gravity and boogied through the stop.

The last 2 miles were torture. The brick road and low downtown buildings made it seem like I was running in an oven. I felt a blister growing larger under the ball of my left foot and was so grateful I only had a wee bit further to go. As I struggled along two UMD students noticed the Grateful Dead patch on my singlette and screamed joyfully at me with their fists clenched in the air. My new special power shirt kicked in when I really needed it. The end is in sight and you can hear the roar of the crowd, but you still have over a mile to go. The serpentine last stretch seemed interminable to me. I was so hot and my feet felt as though they would explode in my shoes, but I trudged on. Finally, we made the last hairpin turn and the finish banner was in sight. I kicked. After I ran a quarter of a block I realized I had much further to go than I expected, but tried to hang on. I must have been delirious by then because when I got about 50 yards from the chute I broke into a full out sprint. The Bucky Burst. This is such a classy event. The finish line marshal saw me approach he moved several people out of my way so I could sprint across the line. With both arms raised high I ran under the tape at 4:18:03. This was my 5^th fastest (4^th slowest) marathon and the one I feel the best about. All things considered, it was a wonderful experience. When they slipped the medal around my neck I knew I deserved this one. Instead of elation, though, I felt faint. My legs went rubber and my vision tunneled. Two kindly folks steadied me and guided me to the restorative waters.

I shuffled to the T-shirt line (you have to finish to get a Grandma’s shirt) and collected my shirt and was staggering around in the hot sun when I ran into Steve. He was in some serious pain and not feeling too happy about his 4:39. I felt proud of his effort for him, finishing under great adversity as he had. We found Tom and learned of his 3:47. Steve’s son had set the new Beatty family record. I think Steve felt pretty happy by then. We parted company and I connected with George and Joan. While the heat tested Steve and me, Joan seemed to have flourished in it. She finished at 3:39 and looked great--fresh and ready to run another one. Those hills in Philadelphia gave her some excellent training miles—about 60 a week! And she had six 20-mile runs under her belt. I promised myself to get six 20-milers in before Twin Cities. Ya, you betcha, I got to go back to Minnesota and run another marathon. Joan was right; it is just like Fargo.